In
a crazy world when it is kill or be killed
Do you take a walk down the dark side?
Or
play it safe
for
a future that might not happen for you?
In 1944, a world was at war. Any battle zone can be an awful place. The
jungles of
No army commanders fancied fighting in such hostile conditions and both
the Japanese and the Allies were no exceptions though fight they did.
More troops died of disease than in battle. It was the doctors and
nurses of the medical services that picked up the pieces.
This is a story about dedication, the hand of fate, the struggle to win
through at any cost and the mix of emotions that close comradeship engenders.
My characters are normal people placed in a harrowing environment; not
of their choosing. This mix of identities attempt to make the best out of a very
lousy job.
Together they succeeded though at a terrible cost for some. For those
that survived the experience nothing would ever be the same again.
The Japanese were making another push somewhere. Some idiot man decided
the allies needed theatre nurses closer to the front and got the paperwork
wrong.
Sandy McCulloch, a redheaded Australian correspondent, marooned in
A bossy transport officer shooed the females into a truck. A misspelt
name and a smudge of ink completed the shambles.
"Good day I'm
"Crikey an Ava Gardner look alike," Sister Bertha Briggs
replied.
"Not quite darlin, too tall and my butt is bigger. Shove over a
little will you?”
A dusty ride and a succession of extra bruises found them in the wrong
place eleven hours later.
A colonel from the Indian medical Service welcomed the Nursing Sisters
and their Australian cuckoo as he might a plague of mosquitoes. “Goodness
gracious, what are you doing here?”
“Sir, this chitty reads Arakan." Sister Emma Walker, the eldest
sister, pointed to the smudged writing. “At the
"Can’t you see it is a mistake? The chitty clearly means
“I’m sorry Sir, we are obeying orders. You seem to be stuck with
us."
“Not damned likely sister.”
“Sir, does swearing ever solve anything?”
The Anglo-Indian’ nose became a darker shade of purple. “White
women in the forward areas are the very devil. It unsettles the soldiers."
“We are nurses. We are not easily shocked.”
“That’s not the point, Sister. I shall have to allocate a tent and
where do you expect to err, you know?"
Emma glanced towards the latrines. It was poor timing. An Indian sepoy
dropped his trousers then lathered his behind. The Colonel stifled another
groan. “See what we’re up against, Sister."
“The wall?"
The Colonel ignored her attempt at levity. “The Fifth Indian Division
is on the move. You’ll leave first thing in the morning."
Emma decided this was not the time to mention Military Nurses travelled
first class.
The orders were clear and made out for eight. The resident officer had
transferred Sandy, the Australian correspondent, to the Indian Military Nursing
Service with the imprint of a rubber stamp.
"Well don't blame me, I'm a Yank remember."
Imphael and Kohima, the linchpins of allied aggression in the Burmese
theatre of operations, were under attack. The 5th Indian division was to fly out
to reinforce the beleaguered garrisons.
The same three-ton truck that they had endured for mile after mile
welcomed them back with a puff of dark smoke from the exhaust.
“Not that again; do you think if I say I have the curse they’ll let
me go into sickbay?”
“I don’t think so Bee. You tried that in
The eight females endured another hundred miles, crossed two rivers, to
find themselves marooned on a dust bowl of an airstrip.
A cough and whirl of a propeller, followed by a second sequence as the
other engine roared into life, highlighted another day’s action.
Georgina Goulding pointed towards the airplane and dust cloud.
“Croydon aerodrome was never like this though there is a certain rustic
splendor; don't you think?”
“I ain’t got a clue? You are the one that ate with the silver
spoon. The nearest I came to an airplane, before the war, was at the
pictures." Her birth certificate read, Bertha Briggs. Bee wanted no
reminding of a World War One German Gun, so preferred her nickname.
A transport officer, stymied by the sheer volume of traffic, allotted
them a store’s tent alongside a cookhouse. One day had become a torrid three.
A consuming whiff of aviation fuel mingled with the dust. It dried out
the back of the throat to make a cough almost dangerous.
It was not hard to think the worst; not hard to let your spirits drop
in such an awful environment. The waft from the latrines pervaded the nostrils
with every hint of a welcoming breeze even if the aroma of sweat stained bodies
had desensitized their sense buds.
To keep any modicum of female allure should have been impossible.
Outnumbered a thousand to one focused the mind. It had to be a hormonal thing
that brought out the worst and the best. A whistle or a joke allowed sexual
awareness to blossom. The need to mother them was part of their calling, the
desire to mate a primeval instinct.
“Anyone got any lotion? I swear this elastic is cutting me in
half.” Bee undid her slacks and pulled down her underwear to expose a nasty
red blotch around a very slim waist.
“Oh you poor dear that looks painful,” Emma said.
“What we need is a bath. I’m itching all over."
“Shush
“Tell em to form an orderly line. Blimey Em that feels better than
any boy,” Bee replied.
The giggles from the other girls eased the tension.
The sepoys’ fascination with white girls and the smell of curry and
hot tea was enough to test the patience of a saint.
“I’m sick of being ogled if I hear the rattle of another mess tin
I’ll go berserk.” Emma waylaid a Subedar-Major on his way to supervise the
chow line. A guilty smile confirmed the medical officer that provided the tent
had flown.
Emma gritted her teeth. ”That settles it. We’ll go to Imphael, even
If I have to give an officer a blowjob to find us a berth.”
This outburst brought a shocked silence. Mary thought she had misheard.
Bee was surprised Em even knew the word,
“What? Oh that. Well I have heard the word and the answer is no. At
least we would be in the system. I will not stay and boil another day. This is
hotter than
"I'll come along if you'll let me? An interview with some of the
boys on the Front Line will go down well in Aus."
"What are you doing here anyway?" Mary Macmillan asked
"Jimmy, he's my cameraman and I send articles back to the Ministry
of Information in
Mary gasped at the revelation, wiped her brow, and stared. She knew
about such problems but was never so open about boys’ ailments. Nurses never
alluded to sexual behavior above a whisper.
An American C47 transport plane, diverted from flying the hump of the
“Look she’s crossing their precious ruddy runway. The flyboys will
be cross.” Mary pointed at the distant figure in a cloud of dust.
“Emma can do it, if anyone can. Those East Coast Americans are
awfully pushy,”
Major Robert Eastlake had arrived with four soldiers, so heavily armed
they looked like bandits rather than regulars. The three officers and two
non-coms wore the faded Royal Engineers insignia. The Major was the typical
Public school type that swept opposition aside with a superior demeanor. For a
nursing sister life was different.
Emma did not enjoy pleading her case to a stranger, especially a guy
but needs must. She marched across the dust-baked ground then saluted.
“Permission to speak, Sir?”
Perspiration glistened on the sister’s forehead. The sweat stains on
a sodden blouse allowed the indentation of the nipples to stir the imagination.
The cold stare could not hide the female vulnerability. “Well what is it,
Sister? It is a dangerous crossing a busy runway.”
Emma ignored the condescending male attitude and tried her best to be
polite. “Our posting was wrong Sir, some idiot guy as usual. A medical officer
dispatched us into this hellhole and another placed us alongside a bread oven.
We've been simmering for days. The transport officer blathers about priorities
and has done nothing. Surely nurses will be required if there is a battle?”
Robert smiled at the sister’s feeble attempt to keep a blossoming
temper in check. “The battle has started madam; yes nurses are essential. How
many are with you?”
“Eight including myself, Sir.”
“I’ll see what can be done; wait here.”
Emma forced herself to remain silent. It was not an easy option a
nursing sister enjoyed having the last word.
Robert marched towards the air traffic controller. The controller
glanced at the dust-encrusted body then gave a knowing stare. Emma suspected the
guys had shared a disparaging sexual remark. Sometimes pretending to be the
weaker sex brought rewards. A girl in a man’s world must play their silly
games. The lean forward was pure provocation. Her newly exposed whiter cleavage
glistened with perspiration as she blew the flyboy a kiss.
The Flying Officer smiled back. Emma groaned at the ease of
manipulation. It was easy-peasy men were such simple creatures.
Robert returned and spoilt Emma's feeling of superiority. He pointed as
a teacher might to a dolt of a student. “The Dakota with the cartoon of the
Wicked Witch painted on its side; can you see it?”
“I’ve seen a Gooney Bird before; we make them.”
“Make them do you?” Robert answered, not having a clue what the
sister was talking about. “You did that artistic impression on the side?”
Emma gave a less than amused frown. It had to be the airplane
displaying the sauciest cartoon that was impossible to miss at the best of
times.
Robert Eastlake, in spite of misgivings, gave Emma a charming smile
that had bowled over most of the eligible ladies from
It was a pleasant smile. There was a tell-tale glint in the eyes. The
bloke might be almost human if he had bothered to shave. More than a hint of
stubble lined his chin.
“Take off at eleven hundred. Arrive late and they will leave without
you. Do you understand sister?”
Emma did not approve of his bossy attitude so made a final act of
defiance by not saluting. The rude, kind, man was about to call her bluff.
Instead thinking better of it the major turned and marched away.
Another battlewagon roared past as Emma cast a wary eye down the dusty
airstrip before sprinting across. Bee was chatting up a havildar in broad
daylight. She threatened Bee with death and destruction if the others were not
on parade in minutes. She was the eldest someone had to take charge.
They all arrived except Sandy and Vanya. “Well, where are they?”
“
“Oh the poor dear,
The other girls nodded in understanding.
“Fall in on
“Cheer up Em they’re only boys. Wouldn't mind an injection from
that one; doesn't that tall officer remind you of Rudolf Valentino?” Bee
whispered far too loudly.
The other girls sneaked a peek. The tall Anglo-Indian captain waved.
“Squad halt; behave yourselves and no flirting, remember we're meant
to behave like ladies. Dismiss.”
“Em stop worrying, you’re worse than matron. Have a little fun
you're a long time dead,” Bee urged.
“Never give them an inch and you'll not be disappoint—.”
“I'm rarely disappointed with my gentlemen,”
"I do try," Mary said. "They are just not
interested."
"Can we forget our love lives, for just one minute, and get on the
thing." Emma ordered.
“All aboard that are coming aboard.” The American co-pilot
exclaimed as his curly head emerged from the side hatch. A murmur followed.
“Don’t waste time guys. Get the dames aboard smartish. The Witch is
behaving. Let’s not upset her by making those engines overheat."
The girls clambered inside as more willing hands helped the pretty
cargo aboard. More than one giggle carried above the background noise.
Idiot girls, she had told them not to give encouragement. Men were
after one thing and that meant trouble if her experience was the norm. Would
they listen, hell no.
Emma remained outside hoping the last two girls would arrive on time.
Sandy and Vanya came in sight, running at a fast trot. The Major beat them by a
short head.
“That’s all I needed, a bout of the squirts, to complete a perfect
day.”
Emma tried to pass off the Aussie outburst as though the Major was
either deaf or senile. “Alas a little stomach upset Sir.”
Emma had enough practice looking at disapproving males to last a
lifetime or thought she had. The major was rather dishy in that unshaved sort of
Clarke Gable mode.
“The last things I need are sick women. If anyone is going to be
poorly, I’ll have her pushed out without a parachute. See that Jeep? She's
been left behind because of you."
A spoilt child deprived of a toy. It was pathetic. Major Eastlake was a
weak, opinionated, English public school boy who thought everyone mere minions
beneath him. Emma hated men like those, that she had married one provided a very
mixed message.
Robert Eastlake almost gave Emma a friendly hand to help her inside
then remembered her demeanor and refrained instantly. He preferred women who
knew their place in the scheme of things. Females with too much responsibility
became bossy like his nanny.
Emma took a welcoming hand to enter the world of aviation. She had over
stretched. The top button of her blouse came undone. What could she do? Hands
were essential to get inside the thing.
“Welcome Ma’am; great to have a lady aboard.” The American
co-pilot remarked as he helped her inside.
It came as a pleasant change hearing a friendly accent. “Hi there
Captain.
“Right first time Sis; why have you been there?”
“Yep might say so; lived in the Village during my student days."
“And you a Limey?”
“Jeez not for real; stateside lass me, adopted by the Brits for the
duration. I married one of their little boy wonders hence the wrong
uniform."
“Can we get a move on please sister? There is a war on,” Robert
ordered. The Yank had to be from an Eastern state possibly
Emma silenced moved deeper into the hold. It was like an Aladdin’s
cave. There were crates, ammo boxes, and kitbags stacked high to the roof
secured by a myriad of ropes and strapping resembling a spider's web. The small
clutch of humans, jammed in between this other cargo, resembled sardines packed
tight into a tin. Vanya waved and pointed to the few inches of vacant box
seating along the side of the fuselage.
Robert squeezed in beside a blond nurse. The feeling of elation was
heaven sent. His cadre had endured the unthinkable and the prospect of proper
leave loomed large. Somebody else could accept the bloody responsibility. It was
time for some light relief. He winked at Bee and held her astonished stare by
glancing at her beautiful blue eyes. Each thought the other was drop dead
gorgeous.
There was a look of trepidation, tempered with anticipation, on many of
the female faces. This was the first time in a flying machine. Emma refused to
let her apprehension show. The index finger and thumb closed the top button of
the sodden garment. There was no point giving the little darlings fresh ideas.
"Does it have to be this noisy?"
“Who cares?” Vanya shouted. The look on her beautiful oriental
features said different.
The Witch moved forward with the speed of a greyhound released from a
trap. The momentum forced Emma against the fuselage. The cotton holding the
button gave up the strain. The projectile shot upwards, hit a crate then landed
limply on the crotch of the Eurasian.
“Damn and blast." Emma said as Laurel and Hardy’s `another
fine mess’ came to mind. This buffeting reminded her of a camel at a fast
trot. The last painful incident when sampling a mode of transport was hard to
forget. Everyone said flying was dangerous. This might not be a good idea.
Georgina Iscoyd glanced across the packed hold. The memories of flying
with Imperial Airways before the war made a vivid contrast. Daddy had been on
the board of the company; making it VIP travels with a large V. Today it was
third class travel with a small three.
In spite of everything, Lady Georgina Iscoyd, the Countess of Over, forced a wry smile. Matron would have a fit if she knew they were in an airplane over a warzone
Emma Walker closed her eyes, unused to
throbbing engines, sleep refused to come. Her mind drifted back to thoughts of
yesteryear.
The fascination for the majesty of the Raj had been a childhood
obsession. On qualifying as a nurse, her paternal grandparents provided a ticket
to
The poverty, the heat, and the crowds could be awful. The vistas, the
grandeur, and vitality of the subcontinent swept aside negative vibes. She
reveled in the jewel of the
A month later in October 1936, Emma met Richard at a ball who seemed to
fit her image of the conquering hero.
Richard Gates came out to
The lifestyle, with servants answering to her every whim, coupled with
luxurious dinner parties and the lively social whirl seduced Emma into believing
life had a rose-tinted glow. Richard found her employment in a select
Sanatorium, in the foothills.
On
Promotions came regularly for Richard. His increasing influence
highlighted a blinding arrogance. Emma became little more than a chattel the
pretty hostess to show off to the elite, the sex object for his occasional
amusement.
The wife of a government official had a set of rules and standards to
obey. It was true there was the luxury of a fine luncheon or a chance to dance
the night away in the prescience of the Viceroy but these were difficult times.
The Indians were pressing for home rule.
In
It was not just the heat that palled or the dust that sucked the
lifeblood from her veins. The entire rigidity of British conventions and
formality stifled freedom. One must not upset ones superior. One must not become
too friendly with one’s servants or the trades people. One must keep a wary
eye on the Eurasians, and whilst one tolerated even admired the higher class
Indian, one must forever be on one’s guard.
A little solace with other wives and acquaintances at the club was not
a cure. Anything but mild flirtations were not acceptable. The ostracism when
things got out of hand, in such a sphere of indulgence, could be dire. Emma was
from Puritan stock. She had made the bed she must lie in it.
It had been a Thursday. Doris, one of the usual four for tennis, cried
off with a tummy bug. Richard’s Daimler stood resplendent on the forecourt.
“The Sahib is home early?”
Malan, the houseboy, looked at the stairs then gave a nervous shudder.
“Err, the Sahib is upstairs memsahib.”
“Perhaps Mistress you’d like a Gin Sling on the Veranda?” Wafin
the bearer tried to distract her.
“No I’ll surprise him.”
A passage and a communal bathroom separated her boudoir from the master
bedroom. Emma removed her tennis clothes, gave her short curly dark hair a quick
comb, and then decided to welcome Richard home with open arms.
In panic, Emma pulled the negligee closed and starred open mouthed.
Richard had the gall to pull back the sheet, exposing both, and inviting her to
join them.
Those words still rankled. "Afternoon me dear, it’s time those
Puritan ideals learnt in the backwoods of
Emma had never imagined such practices. Revulsion and shock showed on
every outraged feature. Richard’s displeasure was apparent by the intolerant
cruel stare usually reserved for the lower orders.
Emma might have tolerated a native mistress, never a boy. The culprit
was a lieutenant, fresh out from
It might have been the glass of Port or a returned smile from across
the dining table that provided the encouragement. The guests had gone. The
flimsy bolt failed to halt Richard entering her boudoir uninvited.
There was a certain thrill in having a nightdress torn away. The cruel
smile and look of disdain became confirmation enough, before Richard tossed her
face down across the bed. This was never desire, more a warped method to
discipline one of his minions. His hand grabbed for a better hold as Emma turned
to face her attacker.
It was more of a knee jerk reaction than a blatant attack. Richard let
out a ghoulish scream, grabbed his testicles then dropped onto his knees. Emma
let fly with a clenched fist and connected on the chin. The cry of agony alerted
the household.
Emma held a sheet to her chest; to protect what modesty remained, and
pointed at the floor. She ignored her bleeding knuckles. “Err the Sahib has
fallen and knocked himself out. Please take him into his room.”
The more she thought about the insult; and with the servants fussing
over their master like mother hens, the more furious she became. How could
Richard be so vindictive as to take her submission for granted? A wife was not a
slave to a husband’s horny whim.
A sidearm did not hold the fear it might for an English girl. Emma,
though not proficient, understood how a revolver worked. In the sober light of
dawn, Richard came awake when his Webley pistol pressed hard onto his stomach.
The sound of gunfire echoed about the house.
“Try that again sunshine and I'll not miss."
The servants arrived and discovered the Master had wet himself.
“Get her away from me.”
“Enough of this nonsense Richard you are leaving. Wafin pack the
Sahib’s overnight bag. The Master can sleep in the Mess with his boyfriend.”
The gossip made Emma a femme fatale. The outside world suspected the
marriage was dead. Rumor was one thing and there had been plenty. Both
understood the standoff could never last, and then came relief when they
declared war elsewhere.
The early weeks of war in
In 1940, during the retreat to
The months of idleness focused the mind. There was a hint of guilt that
an underlying weakness, on her part, might have poisoned the marriage. Perhaps
she has expected too much of an older man? Perhaps her attention seeking had
driven Richard into another’s arms?
In retrospect, the marriage had been a sham a career move on his part,
a blind infatuation on hers.
The formal telegram brought a tear of relief. Missing presumed dead did
not draw a proper line in the sand. Emma could not go home until things became
definite yet an officer's widow held status. There was a greater freedom of
movement, a chance to do her thing.
A husband’s former exalted position and her qualifications brought
admission into Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Corps. She reverted to the maiden
name of
The timing was exemplary. The Japanese bombed
The disasters of the retreat from
A yawn brought reality. They were in a battlewagon, over the jungle, in
a war zone. The gaze settled on the handsome Eurasian, holding her shirt button
like a war trophy. She gave the captain an encouraging smile. They would be
dead, in a second, if a Japanese Zero found them. Richard must be dead, not a
word since the formal telegram of July 1940. It was time to get a life.
Captain Henry Majander smiled at the eldest sister. It was pleasant
gazing at a white Memsahib, even if covered in the dust and dirt of her travels.
The sister had a nice smile and her figure beneath the array of starch, could
have possibilities.
Henry had known from early days his place in the scheme of things. He
was not quite pukka. It had been impossible to discover the whole truth. Which
parent had first enticed the other to cross the threshold frowned on by both
societies. Mixed marriages were never encouraged.
Banadur, his father, was a high caste Indian that had qualified against
the odds to become a gifted civil engineer. In
The
The cousins grew up sharing a love of country and Empire. The family
shipped Rob off, at twelve, to the mother country, for the traditional public
school education.
When Henry’s turn came, there had been glances at his dark features,
jet-black hair, and foreign name. A careful path followed through a first term,
by the next, Henry was more than capable of forging a position.
Intelligent and good at team sports, the Eurasian emulated his cousin
by becoming head boy. It was a rare and exemplary achievement. Henry returned
home, in the October of 1940, the epitome of the true English Gentlemen.
Many of the Empire's elite held a deep distrust of the Japanese
military. Henry assisted Robert in the clandestine areas of government using the
family business as cover. It was a countdown to conflict.
On
On the twelfth, thanks to experience in the cadet corps at
By the January of 1942, things fell apart. The cousins blew up the
family’s tin mine and destroyed the rubber plantations of their friends. They
learnt a new trade of jungle warfare during those endless months of retreat
through upper
A happy time in an Indian haven had not lasted long. Robert led a
column, deep into
Lady luck might fortune the brave though it was idiotic to tempt fate.
The tall Eurasian glanced at a moist palm. The involuntary movement of the
fingers might be slight but it was there. Not quite the full shakes but the
signs had been growing. A staff job was on offer from General Bill Slim. With
his commitments, as they said `he’d done his bit’ it was almost rubber
stamped. Captain Majander, MC, determined to accept the red tabs of a brigade
major the minute they landed.
Henry, a light sleeper, noticed the vibration as the Dakota reduced
altitude. It was time for a little light relief. He had always been a sucker for
those with the milky white complexions that only managed a mottled glow after
hours in the sun. They in their turn always fell for the British charm bedecked
in the darker facade of the orient. Henry was adept at most things, with English
Roses he was in his element.
Chapter
4.The
The Witch was flying on a level heading. Chuck Morison, the colonel of
the wing, nodded to his co-pilot Lucky Levy he had the column.
Captain Dave, Lucky, Levy was Jewish and proud of it. His mind turned
to thoughts of stateside when it should have been on Japanese perils closer to
home.
Two teenagers had met on the ship that sailed from
Free from the hell of the pogroms, Dave's parents believed they had
achieved the American dream.
Dave was the fourth child, born in the later weeks of 1918 on the
eleventh day of the eleventh month, the day war ended. The family joke was
Dave's birth on such a day was lucky, and the name stuck.
Lucky's parents ran a delicatessen. Two elder brothers and a sister
assisted with the family business. None had put pressure on Lucky to do the
same. He won a scholarship to attend
Work as an extra at the studios, to supplement meager resources before
graduation, led after qualification to his becoming a backroom boy at Columbia
Pictures with the ambition to direct.
The Japanese bombed `Pearl’ and changed his plans forever. Somehow,
against his better judgment, with twelve other idiots from the back office, he
enlisted.
Chief Cohen,
The joys of boot camp brought a rude awakening. The life of the foot
soldier was not for him. Having to kill someone at close quarters did not seem
kosher. Lucky wangled a transfer, into the Army Air Corps, as a trainee flyer.
Pilots were the newest idols. Everyone knew how the system worked;
return a hero and a bright future in the city of dreams became a reality. A few
missions over
The Pacific was the Navy’s preserve, with all that ocean. What had
they done but sent Lucky to
The Limeys were in another mess in
The C47, Dakota, was a pilot’s airplane, strong, reliable, and easy
to fly. It was a gem of aviation but not the Witch. Of all the planes in South
East Asia Command, the Witch was renowned as the worst. Constantly weary
mechanics had rebuilt her after one prang followed another.
Problems persisted ailerons seized up, tires burst on landing, fuel
lines became blocked, or dark black smoke oozed from her exhausts to alert Tojos’
boys when the blessed bird was in flight. A piston had gone through the block in
Some guy lost throttle power on one of those temporary strips in
southern
Since that auspicious day, the Witch became the mount of the latest boy
wonder out from Stateside. Other ships went down or blew up; the Witch always
limped home.
The guys in the wing had become fond of the paragon with the proviso
someone else took her in hand.
Chuck decided to show the guys of his wing what would happen when an
experienced pilot flew the bird. They had buzzed over Jap territory for most of
the week without a single puff of black smoke. Lucky did not trust the thing and
neither did
Losing altitude, Lucky turned onto the heading for the approach onto
the Imphael plain. The Witch never even shuddered when she took the hit.