The Rose of Singapore (33 page)

“Maybe he'll come quietly,” said Corporal Jones hopefully.

The two looked at one another. Both knew Charlie Brown well, or did they? If he could kill out of hand, just like that, he could kill again thought Corporal Symes, shrugging as they both edged forward.

As if in deep meditation, Corporal Charlie Brown was looking down at those around him, expressionlessly.

“Careful, you two,” warned the fire section sergeant. “He's dangerous.”

“I don't think he'd use his revolver on us, Sarge,” said Corporal Ben Jones. “Anyway, I think it's empty. Unless he reloaded it after he left the signals section, he's fired the last round.”

“Don't be too sure.”

“I'll chance it. Wait! What's he doing now? Oh, my God!”

“Christ! He must have a round left!”

Corporal Brown was slowly lifting the revolver, higher and higher until the muzzle rested upon the bridge of his nose.

“Stop, Charlie! Don't do it!” screamed a horrified Corporal Ben Jones, and he began racing towards the hillock.

“Oh, fuck it!” shouted Symes, and following Jones, he too ran towards Charlie, bounding forward and ignoring the thorny bushes in his path. The two were on their way up the hillock and only a few feet from the corporal and his dog.

Both men saw Corporal Brown gazing for moments at them as if in puzzlement. He then lifted his revolver a fraction above and between his eyes, squeezed the trigger and dropped lifeless, his last round spent.

Too late, the men reached him, much too late.

Whimpering in grief, the faithful Wicked Witch positioned herself over the fallen body of her master and would not allow anyone to touch him. The commanding officer of the RAF military police shot her.

Peter Saunders was puzzled when the bus he was returning to camp on was stopped by RAF police at a barrier erected on the road near Changi Gaol. Being the only European on the bus, the police took one look at him, then waved the bus on. Peter didn't know that at that very moment his friend Charlie Brown was being tracked in the nearby swamps.

He arrived back at the camp much earlier than usual, having previously agreed with Sergeant Muldoon, who was taking the day off, that he would work both the early and late shift. Shortly after arriving at the sergeants' mess kitchen, he heard with dismay the news of what had happened that night at the signals section hut. Minutes later he was informed that Corporal Charlie Brown was dead.

At first Peter could not believe that Charlie, his friend who only yesterday had complained of a headache, and who was counting the days to going home, was dead. Stunned and depressed, he worked that day with a heavy heart, because Charlie Brown had been one of the best.

Several days later, Peter learned that after intensive care at Changi Hospital, both the Malay driver and the signal section operator survived their injuries, though the latter was medically discharged from the RAF due to brain damage.

19

Whistling happily to himself, LAC Peter Saunders reached the sergeants' mess kitchen at eleven o'clock in the morning on 1 April 1953 only to be confronted at the office doorway by a grim-faced Sergeant Muldoon.

“G'morning, Sarge. What's up?” Peter asked.

“Jeez, Pete, have I got bad news for you,” the sergeant answered. “Bad news for me, too.”

“Bad news! What do you mean?” asked Peter.

“Have you looked at the noticeboard lately, like in the last day or so?”

“No. Should I?”

“You haven't been keeping up with SROs? You haven't read them recently?”

“No, not for months. Not since I began working here. Why?”

“You best go and read them,” said the sergeant, his face uncommonly solemn. “They've got you down for a posting to Negombo.”

“What!” exclaimed Peter, aghast.

“I'm just as shocked as you, Pete. Thinking a mistake may have been made, I checked with Movements. They've got you down to be posted to Negombo next Thursday. That's the RAF station north of Colombo, the capital of Ceylon.”

Completely taken aback and confused by this dreaded news, Peter could only mutter, “Yeah, I know where Negombo is. But I can't believe they'd do this to me.”

“Well, check for yourself,” said the sergeant. “Take a look at the lobby noticeboard.”

“I will,” said Peter dejectedly. Hurrying from the office, he passed through the kitchen without noticing the Chinese cooks and other kitchen staff preparing tiffin, and on through the dining room where white-coated Chinese waiters were laying the tables, until he reached the double-doored main entrance to the mess and lobby where the four-foot-square noticeboard was attached to the wall for all to see.

With pounding heart, his confused thoughts for the most part was on how to break the awful news to Rose. They just can't do this to me, he kept saying to himself. Why do they want to send me to Negombo when there's a shortage of cooks here at Changi? Quickly he scanned the many notices tacked to the board, seeing on it the usual roster of duty senior NCOs, guard and fire picket rosters, minutes of the last messing committee meeting, and a leaflet asking for volunteers to play RAF Seletar at cricket. Actually, the cricket match had already been played the previous Saturday, with Changi losing dismally, but the leaflet had not been removed from the board. The normal sheets of Standing Station Orders were also on the board, but Peter could find nothing relating to postings. Puzzled, he stood back and again studied every item on the board. No, there was definitely nothing on it that related to postings, for anyone to anywhere.

Totally perplexed, Peter returned to the kitchen office to find Sergeant Muldoon seated at the office desk awaiting him, a surprisingly different expression on his face from when Peter had seen him just moments ago. Then, he had seemed troubled by the news, but now his eyes were sparkling mischievously.

Puzzled by the change in the sergeant's expression, Peter said to him, “I couldn't find anything on the board to do with postings. What's going on, Sarge?”

“I didn't expect for one moment that you would,” replied an amused Sergeant Muldoon. “I thought I'd give you a bit of a scare.”

“A bit of a scare?”

“Yeah, a scare,” said the sergeant, chuckling. “Do you know what day it is today, Pete? It's April Fool's Day. April Fool, Pete. I really gotcha, didn't I?” whereupon the sergeant burst into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Sarge, that was not bloody-well funny. Not funny at all.”

“You should have seen your face,” hooted the sergeant.” I thought you were about to crap your pants.”

Like a suddenly deflated balloon, Peter relaxed and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Well, it wasn't funny,” he said, nettled at having had such an upsetting joke played on him.

The sergeant's laughter subsided as he soberly said, “Well, I won't be able to play that one on you this time next year, Pete. Neither of us will be here. God only knows where we'll be.”

“You're right, Sarge,” Peter agreed. “And there's one thing that's certain, I'm not looking forward to leaving here.” Shaking his head sadly, he said, “I truly believe that I would've sat down and cried if I'd really been posted away from Singapore.”

“It's surprising what a bit of skirt can do,” said the sergeant, chuckling. “Anyway, changing the subject, I want you to check the rations and then write in the book the menus for the next three days. I've not had time. I've been down at the catering office most of the morning talking to the old man.”

“About anything important?”

“Mainly about you. The catering officer said he's pleased with your progress here. He'd like you and a couple of the other LAC cooks to have a shot at getting your SAC. It would be a feather in his cap if at least a few of the cooks at Changi passed the SAC trade tests and got promoted.”

“What about the ten-week catering course that's been talked about for so long, the one I'm supposed to go on?”

“For the time being it's been scrubbed. Instead, you'll be taking the practical test for your SAC over at the aircrew mess five weeks from now. There'll also be a written and oral test.”

“Crikey! Do you think I'll pass? What sort of menu will I be required to cook?”

“It's here,” said the sergeant, tapping on a sheet of paper lying on the desk. “The catering officer made it out, but I've altered it somewhat to include a couple of your favourite dishes, those you've prepared and cooked a few times since working here. Take a look,” he said, handing Peter the sheet of paper on which the menu was written.

After studying the menu, Peter began reading it aloud and at the same time discussing the various dishes with the sergeant. “Consommé julienne. That's easy enough,” he said.

“But everything's from scratch, remember, and must be as per the RAF manual of cookery, the AP87,” said the sergeant. “Do you have an AP87?”

“I have one in the billet.”

“Good. You're going to need it.”

Peter shrugged and carried on reading the menu, “Fillet de sole au gratin.”

“You can substitute any similar fish if you wish,” said the sergeant. “Halibut, even cod if there's nothing else.”

“OK. That sounds all right. I'm not so sure about the main dish though, chicken fricassée à la minute. I would have preferred a lamb dish, like à la Nivernaise.”

“Well, there's still plenty of time to change the menu. You can manage the Vichy carrots and Duchess potatoes. Those are easy enough.”

“Sure, there's no problem with those. And tarte aux apricots. I suppose that's just an apricot flan.”

“Yep, that's right,” said the sergeant. “There again you may substitute some other fruit, perhaps tinned peaches or pears if there's no apricots. The menu's simple enough, right?”

“Yes, Sarge, no problem.”

“OK. However, you must remember to read up on your AP87. Really study it. Every question in the written exam will have its answer in that book, and there will be one hundred questions. Anyway, Pete, I've got to be going. I'll see you at noon tomorrow, and then you can take a couple of days off and work the weekend. Is that OK with you?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Sarge.” Momentarily dwelling on how he would spend those two whole days and three whole nights with Rose, he suddenly remembered that in the walk-in refrigerator there was a plump hen sitting in a baking pan, ready for the oven.

“Hey! Sarge! There's a fresh chicken in the refrigerator,” he shouted after the sergeant who was already on his bike and showing off the yellow and purple socks he was wearing as he pedalled out through the kitchen doorway. “It's just waiting for you to take home for Mrs Muldoon to cook for your dinner,” shouted Peter.

“You can't catch me with that one, Pete,” Sergeant Muldoon shouted over his shoulder. “One April Fool is enough for this morning.” He was disappearing out of the courtyard as Peter shouted as loudly as he could, “Wait! I'm not kidding, Sarge.”

The note of urgency in Peter's voice prompted the sergeant to stop, turn around, and return to the kitchen and watch as Peter opened the walk-in refrigerator, stepped inside and promptly emerged carrying a baking tray containing the fat hen ready for the oven. “This bird was running around the kitchen yesterday on the end of a piece of string,” Peter said. “Charlie chopped its head off and Kah Seng plucked and cleaned it for you. That's how fresh it is.”

The sergeant, dismounting from his bike, said, “Boy'o! It's been months since the wife and I had a fresh chicken.” Taking the tray from Peter, he eyed the bird suspiciously. “Where'd you get it?” he asked.

Peter smiled but made no reply.

“Well?”

“Ask no questions and you'll be told no lies, Sarge. Just take it home and enjoy it.”

Peter thought it best not to mention the deal he had made with the pigswill man who owned a pig and chicken farm near Changi Gaol. Two ten-pound tins of dehydrated vegetables for one plump fresh hen seemed to him a reasonable trade, especially as there were at least another thirty tins of the stuff cluttering up the vegetable room. God knows how long they had been there. There were many more there now than when he began work at the sergeants' mess and weekly, when the ration truck arrived, one, two, and sometimes three or even more were added. With considerable imagination and ingenuity he had tried numerous recipes to make use of the dried confetti-like cabbage, the strips of carrot, the mixed vegetables, and potato strips and potato powder. He had make bubble and squeak with the cabbage and potato, potato pancakes, Duchess and creamed potatoes, and toppings for cottage and shepherd's pie. Delicious fish cakes had been made with tinned herrings and potato powder and a whole variety of soups and various other dishes created out of dried vegetables. But, regardless of whatever form of disguise the dehydrated vegetables were presented to the dining mess-members, they were neither well received nor enjoyed, the proof being that almost all that had been served ended up in the swill-bin for the Chinese farmer to cart away daily. So, had thought Peter, why bother wasting time and energy cooking the stuff. It was far easier and certainly more convenient for the swill-man to tote the stuff in its dry state to his farm via his three-wheeled bike than when it was cooked and swollen heavy with water. At the farm the owner himself could reconstitute and cook the quantity needed to feed his pigs and chickens without waste. The Chinese farmer, delighted with the idea, had kept his promise of delivering to Peter fresh eggs, live chicken and fresh portions of pork in exchange for the huge square tins of dried vegetables. Most of the fresh goodies found their way to Rose's home, where she promptly made them into delicious Chinese dinners for them both to enjoy.

Thus far, during the past six weeks, Peter had rid the vegetable room of almost two dozen tins of various dehydrated vegetables but the supply was constantly being replenished.