Henry was on watch when he spotted a Japanese vessel. It was early evening, and the sun was dipping towards the western horizon.
‘Enemy craft!’ Henry bellowed. The rest of the section sprang to their positions. Tom grabbed his rifle and peered out through the slit in the pillbox. It was not what he had expected. What he saw was a battered old ferry, listing slightly to one side, lumbering past at a few knots. It was towing a flotilla of ungainly small vessels. They looked like-flat bottomed barges.
‘Landing craft,’ whispered the Bull, his rifle cocked and ready to fire through the slit. ‘They’re going to try to come up the river and land.’
He waited until the craft was exactly parallel with the pill box then gave the order.
‘Fire!’
The entire section opened fire on the vessel simultaneously. There was a lot of shouting and screaming on board as the fire was returned by machine guns on the deck. It was the first experience Tom had of being fired at directly. Bullets pinged off the pill box. As soon as he had finished firing, he ducked beneath the slit to reload. One of the men next to him was shot in the eye. Blood spurted in every direction, spattering Tom’s face and uniform. Tom watched aghast as the man fell screaming to the floor, both hands clamped over his eye.
‘Concentrate, Ellis, or you’ll be next. Keep your bloody head down, boy!’ shouted the sergeant. So Tom ducked, reloaded, then aimed and fired.
The old boat lumbered on, moving towards the mouth of the river. Through the slit they could see bodies slumped dead or injured on the deck. Someone from the next section started throwing hand grenades. A couple of them hit the landing craft, causing them to buckle and list and eventually dip beneath the water. A great cheer went up from the British and Indian lines as this happened.
Then, from far away, they heard the familiar drone of aircraft. Within seconds the planes were upon them, diving low and firing directly at the pill-boxes. Tom and the others carried on shooting at the vessel. Tom was focused on this moment; firing and surviving, that was all he could think about. It was as if nothing else existed. The pillbox was full of acrid smoke from the guns, and Tom’s eyes were smarting, but he kept firing, his jaw rigid with concentration. The planes went over again and again, gunning straight at the slit. Each time they came near, Tom crouched down to avoid the bullets, but as one aircraft passed, machine guns clattering, he heard a squeal of pain next to him. Henry was squirming on the floor of the pillbox, shouting. He had been hit in the head, his skull shattered on one side.
Tom looked down and saw his friend laying there, blood and soft tissue oozing from the wound on his head. He felt vomit rise to his mouth and his knees went weak and almost gave way.
‘Keep at it, Ellis,’ shouted the Bull. ‘He’s gone. There’s nothing you can do. The medics will take him out. Don’t worry.’
Henry’s limbs were twitching now, but he had stopped shouting. All that came from his lips was a thin moan. Two medical volunteers rushed in with a stretcher and heaved Henry on to it. Tom turned back to his gun, but the image of Henry’s shattered skull kept coming back to him. After about an hour of constant bombardment the Japanese vessel gave up trying to get into the mouth of the river and turned round to go back up the coast. A great cheer went up as the Volunteers sensed victory. When the boat was a safe distance away they came out of their pill-boxes and ditches and watched it make its clumsy progress northwards along the shore. There was an atmosphere of celebration. Men hung about on the beach to watch and jeer, but Tom just sat on the sand, his head in his hands. He was thinking of Henry, his cheerful unassuming friendship, and the kindness he had shown Tom over the past years. He could not find it in him to celebrate with the others.
21
Tom was awoken from his reverie by the corrugated iron cover being ripped from above him and the shocking glare of the sun hitting him like a physical blow. Then two pairs of rough hands reached into the pit and dragged him upwards. He looked up bewildered. The blank closed faces of the two Japanese guards gave away nothing. They didn’t meet his eye. Behind them he could hear the Ripper’s voice jabbering away at them.
Were they taking him to his death? Racked with pain and fever, he would almost welcome a bullet now, to put an end to it all. He felt less than human, stinking and filthy, stuck to his clothes with his own excrement and vomit.
The guards dragged him out and tried to stand him up. When they left him on his feet he immediately collapsed to the ground. His legs, weakened by days of stooping and crouching and staying in the same position, refused to hold his body weight.
The Ripper shrieked something to the guards, and they left him there, sprawled on the dirt beside the stinking hole, his cheek pressed into the rough soil. He closed his eyes to blot out the savage glare of the sun. He did not know how long he’d been lying there when he heard footsteps. He opened his eyes to see two of the medical orderlies from the hospital hut kneeling beside him. One of them was slapping his cheek.
‘Are you still with us, mate?’ he was asking tentatively.
Tom opened his mouth and
