Small Island by Andrea Levy
So the war was over! A day’s holiday from duty with three days’ beer ration. Maxi, after several beers, gathered everyone round to show them his peace-time plans for the rabbit farm. Painted it on an old parachute slung from a tree. Two bunnies, a cage and several leaping pounds signs. ‘One male and one female, that’s all you need,’ he yelled, ‘because you know what they breed like?’
‘Rabbits!’ came the drunken response.
Maxi led the whole camp practically in a rousing chorus of ‘Run Rabbit Run’. Said it was to be the company song. Grabbed me next. ‘And Pop here is Chief Bunny.’ Got everyone laughing. ‘But there’s rabbit pie for you all when we get home,’ he shouted. Couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t taking this whole rabbit-farm venture seriously enough. He flung his arms round my neck, hugged me to him for quite a while before I realised he was heavy – a dead weight. It took three of us to get him on to his charpoy. But no matter how sore the head, every one of us on our RSU – probably every chap in the whole of SEAC – joyously wrote a letter home to our loved ones that night. War over, I’ll be home by Christmas, it said. Believed it too.
Then we got the order to move. Everyone cheered. Only to find we were moving nearer to Burma. Going the wrong way, the chaps shouted. We were worried we weren’t getting out but were on our way to Rangoon. Top brass insisted POWs should get home first. Nobody disagreed. They’d died once already those prisoners. They’d been turned round at the pearly gates by St Peter – might look dead but still too warm to come in. They came through the camp on their way to Bombay. I gave one of them my chocolate ration. Chindit. He’d flown a glider behind the Jap lines. Been in their hands for nearly two years. His bones jangled inside his skin like coins in a bag. Could almost see the squares of chocolate passing down him. Had to watch as he clutched his stomach. He spewed brown liquid back up. Too rich for him. The poor chap cried – openly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘what a waste.’ Every man was happy to stand aside to let these flimsy scraps of Englishmen get home. What race of people could watch flesh wither on a man until he was no more than a framework? Left me proud to belong to a civilisation where even the most aggrieved was held back from raising a hand to our Japanese prisoners.
But word was, some men were getting their demob quicker than others. Particular skills, you see. Needed for post-war rebuilding back in Blighty. Britain required a new backbone. Men to reconstruct the ravaged land back into something worthy of the British Empire. Evidently there was a list the top brass had drawn up. At first, every airman on our RSU puffed out his chest waiting for that call. Nobody had actually seen this demob priority list but soon everyone began muttering about it. Reports said they had sent home a ballet dancer. A chap had heard it on another unit. A ballet dancer rushed back to England. Perhaps he had to dance on Hitler’s grave, a joker wondered. Maxi knew of a theology student who had been urgently delivered back to his mother in Purley. A bell-ringer. That got everyone tutting. This list worked its way under the skin of nearly every man left out there. Some young goofy idiot, who’d not been out long and spent all that time on mess fatigues, got sent straight back. I asked him what he did in Blighty. He told me he was a plumber’s mate. A plumber’s mate was deemed more important than chaps who could rebuild a fallen Liberator, piece by piece. Absurd. That had me muttering along with the rest. The mechanics, the teachers, the clerks who were all left out here sat brooding on their worth to a country they loved. Wondering what sort of Britain was being built without us. Forgotten war, forgotten army, forgotten again. Everyone agreed: surely every man out here had earned his say.
Of course, it was the Communists who started it. Uncle Joe Stalin’s friends. Wanted everyone in our RSU to down tools. Stop refuelling kites, unloading, servicing, that sort of thing, until we were all promised early demob. I’d wanted nothing to do with those hotheads. Those men who’d cheered the Labour Party victory back home. Ungratefully booting out Churchill after he’d won us the war. They couldn’t wait to get back to England, those Communists. Thought there was a new order waiting for them. ‘Now things will be different,’ spoken with every gesture, every look. Eyeing up Squadron Leader Howarth at Christmas while he (traditionally) served us rankers our meal. Thinking all officer class would be serving them soon. Then moaning about the CO after he’d left. ‘Off back to his bearers and whisky,’ they’d say, ‘and we’re here with just a beer.’ Even the chaps who should’ve known better began agreeing with these rabble-rousers.
‘Got to do something about this business, Pop,’ Maxi said. He wanted me to join in. I told him I had no intention of ending my service days in prison. Think of his sons back in Brighton, I cautioned.
The germ of a rumour about a strike spread to all the RAF out there. Soon everyone had caught it, everyone was dragged in – part of a team, you see. Top brass were jumpy. Squadron Leader Howarth stood on an ammo box, flanked by two Military Police, demanding silence. He called the strike a mutiny, then read out the Riot Act to the circle of disbelieving aircraftmen. Ordered us all to return to duty with immediate effect. Unfortunately the poor CO was the only person in the unit who didn’t know that his two Military Police guards were traitors. Part of the strike plot. He looked as dismayed as a lost child when one of Uncle Joe’s boys began to laugh.
The silly strike lasted no more than a few hours. No one had the stomach for it. Time enough for a game of cards, a letter home or for those chocolate-drop troops from West Africa to beat our lot at football in their bare feet. But still the troublemakers, the ringleaders, strutted around camp like they’d won us a victory. Top brass were listening now, they said. Boasted about some MP that was coming out from Blighty just to hear our grievances. It had all been worthwhile, they told everyone. Groups home were to be speeded up, all thanks to them. Toasted it in beer – the better this, the better that. Believed it too, for a while. Before, that was, they sent us all to Calcutta.
Thirty-eight
Bernard
It was usually a treat to get a few days in Calcutta. Off to the Bristol for a welcome sleep in a bed with cotton sheets. Always Laidlaw’s for a meal. Its best china (after wretched tin cups) tinkling with civilisation. A touch of shopping, perhaps – the Army and Navy or even Hogg Market. A film at the Globe or the Regal. A cold beer for some at the Nip Inn. For those who could, a dance at Firpos. Or just lazing around on the maidan, like young chaps, watching girls glide by.
But this trip to Cal was to be more memorable than most.
The men looked puzzled as we RAF tradesmen were issued with a rifle each. ‘Fix bayonets,’ NCO barked. What about ammo? we all wanted to know. ‘No ammo,’ he told us. Herded us on to trucks. Told us to stand in straight rows. Then we were driven off through the streets.
The carcasses of shops came first. Burnt out. Smouldering. Flurries of ash blowing like tropical snow. Goods everywhere. Items that should have been inside strewn down the street. Looted. Picked over for value, then tossed away. But not a native in sight. Not even a begging child was left on the road. Even those who’d never been in Calcutta knew that was an eerie spectacle for India.
More than one man gasped at the scene before us in the next street. Same burnt shops and flurries of ash. But among this were the corpses of the dead. They lay down every road we travelled. Some might have been taken for bundles of rags. Or discarded rubbish. Others were unmistakable. Caught in a silly pose. An arm up, a leg raised. Most carried a look of astonishment. Mouths agape. But all stiff with sudden death. The chaps looked to one another. ‘Fucking hell,’ more than one muttered. This was as savage as anything witnessed during the war. Faces blanched and eyes squeezed shut over some of the sights. Feral dogs worrying at the bloody clothing of the dead. Mouths smeared with blood like a baby’s with chocolate. Gangs of vultures (death’s lackeys) hunching together to squabble over the flesh. Yanking at sinews. Pecking at eyes.
I’ve no idea what started it. But nothing to do with us, we all silently agreed. The natives rioting. Bloody coolies at each othe
The stench was as sharp as toothache. No up-wind or downwind. There was no direction that gave relief. Fearful to breathe it into a living lung. Some chaps tore cloth from an old shirt to put over their noses and mouths. Sucking at the perfume of an erk’s sweat instead. The NCO soon made them take the masks off. ‘Get those off your faces. You look like bloody bandits,’ he said.
Many of us lost our footing as the truck’s wheels wobbled. We stopped. The driver looked behind, out of his window. He’d rolled over a body. An arm was still caught under a wheel. ‘You and you, pick that up.’The NCO ordered two men to pick up the body we’d just run over. One of them (troublemaker, Pierpoint, or Spike to his friends), standing square, just looked at this NCO. He put his hand out to his friend to stop him obeying the command.
‘Come on, pick it up, you two,’ the NCO repeated, then moved off. Pierpoint wiped sweat from the back of his neck. His friend watched him, confused. The NCO turned back to them. ‘Pick it up,’ he yelled.
‘Why?’ Pierpoint said.
A few gasps popped in the air. The NCO was as startled as most of the men.
‘What, Airman?’
‘Why, Sergeant?’
‘Because it’s an order.’ The NCO was sweating so much he looked as if he had been varnished. ‘Pick it up.’
Pierpoint flung his arms wide. ‘There’s hundreds of bodies – why are we picking up this one?’
Many thought he had a point.
‘Are you addressing me, Airman?’
‘Sorry. Sergeant. What is special about this one . . . Sergeant?’
‘Name, Airman?’ There was no reply.
‘Name,’ he yelled into his face.
‘Pierpoint, Sergeant.’
‘Well, Pierpoint, I can put you on relief duty. You could spend the day with the wogs picking them all up if you want. Now, get down and pick this one up.’ He lifted up some sacking and threw it at Pierpoint to wrap the body. But Pierpoint just let it drop to his feet. Then stopped his friend bending down to pick up the fallen cloth.
Maxi whispered, ‘Jesus, this is trouble.’
The NCO, blood-vessel red, swallowed hard. ‘Are you disobeying an order?’
His answer was delivered military style. Loud. Decisive. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Right. You’re on a charge. Both of you,’ the NCO said.
Pierpoint shrugged. His hapless accomplice was astonished.
‘Take those guns off them. Tie their hands. You’re both on a charge for refusing an order.’
Pierpoint looked relieved. He sat down where he’d stood on the truck floor, his silly friend now joining him with a defiant swagger. There was nothing to tie their hands with, but both obliged their chums by pressing their wrists together in a phantom bind.
Everyone knew what was coming next. Every gaze dropped to the floor to avoid the sergeant’s eyes. I felt him pointing to me and Maxi through the top of my head.
‘Come on, you two. Pick it up on the double.’
Maxi threw me a look. Is it worth it? Should we do it? he wanted to know. He knew my answer. We could be going home soon. And an order is an order.
‘Hindu or Muslim?’ some joker shouted from the truck. How are we supposed to tell the difference? How those coolies recognised one another as an enemy was a mystery to all. After two years in India, they still all looked the same to me. Apart from those Sikhs, that is, with their headscarves.
The body was warm. It gave Maxi a fright. ‘Is he still alive?’ he whispered. The throat was slit. Neck open in a scabby second grin. Stiff as an ironing-board. Stench thick enough to chew. The truck had cracked its arm into zigzagging pieces. An ear was dangling. Came off in my hand. I held it in my palm. Flimsy as a flap of leather from a shoe. ‘Just chuck it, Pop,’ Maxi shouted.
I turned away from the truck. Had to vomit.
‘You all right?’ Maxi said. I waved him away. Didn’t need to be seen.
Maxi started covering the body. Tucking the sacking under like bedtime. Ready to lift. Suddenly there was gunfire. ‘Come on, you two,’ the NCO shouted.
Maxi lifted his end. Couldn’t get mine. Wretched dhoti on the corpse was still caught under the wheels. ‘It’s stuck,’ I shouted. Maxi dropped his end, which landed on the ground with an almighty thump.
‘Leave it,’ the NCO said. ‘Get back on, now.’The truck started lurching off. Pulled up by the others, we climbed back just in time. Silly, but in the end the body was left where it had fallen.
They came running down the street. Gushing towards us like a flash flood. This horde of men. Jumping out from shabby windows and doorways. Down the alleys between the flimsy buildings that looked to be made of cardboard. Turned over a rickshaw. Tipped up a stall. Spilled the fruit. Pulverised it underfoot. All brandished something – a fist, a stick, the blink of a blade. Loud as a football crowd. Unstoppable. Rushing our lone truck. The NCO yelled for us all to ‘Stay calm! Stay calm!’ I hadn’t fixed my bayonet yet. Hands quivering, I dropped it. Scrabbling round. Maxi found it and handed it to me. I dropped it again. Hundreds of scruffy black-eyed coolies – maybe thousands – coming for us. We started lunging out with our bayonets. All yelling something. Get back. Fuck off. The NCO shouted, ‘Hold your line. Stay calm.’ My mechanic’s fingers – used to tinkering with kites – were trembling. Pulling on the trigger of the rifle. But no ammunition. Not a bullet between us.
‘Bang, bang,’ a young chap shouted. Desperate but not forlorn.
They surrounded us like water. Bobbing black faces at every side. But, strangely, once they were upon us they quietened. Crowding round the truck as if not knowing what to do. ‘Look fierce,’ the NCO whispered loudly. A chap fainted. Unsteadied several as he fell; he was left where he landed. There was a standoff – us looking at them, them looking at us. Seemed like hours. But it could only have been seconds. Slowly the truck began to rock. We started to lose our footing, grabbing the sides of the truck and each other.
Maxi’s hand was squeezing my shoulder. I clutched a bunch of someone’s shirt. Everyone splayed their legs ready to stand firm. Jabbing bayonets out of the side of the truck. The NCO shouted, ‘Hold on. Grab something.’
Maxi yelled, ‘It’s a hundred to one here. What do we do, Sarge?’ Everyone knew that if the truck went over we’d be spilled under the feet of this rabble and pounded to paste for the vultures. The NCO was banging the side of the truck with his rifle butt, aiming for the black hands and fingers that rocked us. Everyone joined in. Even Pierpoint was on his feet, hanging over the side, lashing out with his fists. His hapless friend was holding his legs. But we were being tossed around like a boat in a storm.
Suddenly there was gunfire. A police truck came round the corner and fired several rounds of bullets into the air. Our truck steadied in a cloud of dust. The rabble scattered like rodents, scurrying off down side-streets. Back through the windows and the doors. Chased by the ping of real gunfire. One dropped over here, another couple over there, tripping, grabbing at a wound, while some of the fallen were hurriedly pulled away. Chaps cheered, watching them go down. Slapping to the ground like a duck shoot at a fair.
‘Wait a minute. Were they Hindu or Muslim?’ one joker asked.
Breathing relief, quite a few yelled back, ‘Who the bloody hell cares?’
Thirty-nine
Bernard
Thousands were killed in Calcutta. Men, women, children, even suckling babies, it didn’t matter who. They called it a riot. Those of us who’d been there in the thick of battle with these blood-thirsty little men knew it was more than that. Muslims butchering Hindus. Hindus massacring Muslims. And who knows what side the Sikhs were on? Rumour said the wounded were too many to be counted, the dead too many to be buried. They were figh
But everyone was riled after that turn of duty in Calcutta. Some more than others. Mutterings. Huddles of men. The talk? The stifling hot journey. The train rushing us through to get there but spending the trek back idling away in sidings. The heat. The overcrowding. Too many erks bunked up together in the museum for four days. Only let out in official convoys with no ammo. The endless parades through the streets. The orders to look fierce. The rumours that the fish we were offered to eat came from the Hooghly river, where many of the rancid rotting bodies of the dead were found. The days of nothing to eat but boiled eggs. (Not easily forgotten, the sulphurous burps of hundreds of BORs.) Then there was Pierpoint and his chum, taken off to await court-martial for disobeying that hasty order.
There was to be a meeting in our basha after khanna. Maxi and a couple of others had suggested it. Wanted to discuss the business of Pierpoint and the charge. I couldn’t understand why Maxi wanted to get involved. He was usually more sensible than most. He’d be going home soon, back to Brighton to order a pint in a pub. Pierpoint and his antics would be a bad memory.
‘We can’t see them on a charge for what happened in Calcutta,’ he told me.
‘Why, in heaven’s name, not? An order is an order, surely.’
‘Jesus, don’t get on your high horse, Pop. Just stay away if you want.’
There was no love lost between me and Pierpoint. Spike to his friends, Johnny to his mother. We’d shared a basha once. Made my life very difficult. I was older, you see, than most of the men. Tried to keep my head down. Had a job to do. Just quietly get on with it. Considered myself a civilising influence. But it was hard when all around me were young men like Johnny Pierpoint. He was a lanky chap. Arms as long as an ape’s and an eye that winked (without warning) every so often.