Quartered Safe Out Here. George Fraser MacDonald
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not in the field, where the system worked well enough, although I sometimes wondered what would happen if a Gurkha or Baluch patrol hit the wire when Grandarse was on guard.
My own stags were marred by only one alarm. It was after a two-day duffy to the south, when we had bumped Jap in numbers, and there had been enemy activity elsewhere on the perimeter for some days previously, so I was more on edge than usual. It was the cold watch, four to six, and I was shivering as I lay alone* on the bunker-side, scanning the shadowy open ground and envying the section in their blankets ten yards to my rear. Once or twice I’d thought I’d heard something apart from the usual night-sounds; there was a little wind playing across the earth, rustling the fronds in the distant wood, just the thing to mask stealthy movement. I peered across the bunker’s top, wishing there was a moon; the sky hadn’t begun to lighten, and ten yards away the landscape was just a blur; a Jap fighting patrol could get to within a stone’s throw undetected, if they were quiet enough … was there something out there, beyond the shadows, or was it just my imagination? The dark seemed thicker in that direction … and then I froze at a sudden faint noise, as though a boot had been dragged across the ground, the sound cut off almost as soon as it had started.
There was a dull thumping, too – but that was me, pressed against the bunker, with my heart moving into fourth. I eased my safety-catch forward and laid a sweating finger along the trigger guard. There had been a sound … there it was again … a soft, irregular scrape, as though someone were moving an inch at a time. It was closer now, not more than a couple of yards away … now it had stopped, to be replaced by something that brought the hairs upright on my skull – the sound of breathing. That put it beyond doubt: someone – and it could only be a Jap – was in the little area of dead ground which I couldn’t see beyond the bunker.
At least it wasn’t hard to do the right thing – lie dead still, and with extreme care ease my rifle forward just a little, finger on the trigger, eyes fixed on the dark curve of the bunker top … but, dammit, that was useless! If he wanted to get inside the perimeter, and why the hell else should he have crawled so close? – he’d come round one side of the bunker … or the other. Which way? I must ease myself down from the bunker-side, and back until I could cover either side – but movement meant noise … should I shout the alarm? I hadn’t seen anything … but he was there, and if I yelled, the section would be on their feet, and he’d get somebody for certain … but if I lay doggo, waiting for him to move – and without warning a hideous white face shot into view over the bunker top, glared into mine from not a yard away, and vanished!
For an instant I was paralysed, thank God, or I’d have fired from pure reflex action – and that would have been deplorable, and threepence wasted. For before I could move, let alone shout, a large pale-coloured pi-dog trotted out from beyond the bunker, snuffled at the wire apron, took a discontented look at me, and mooched off into the gloom. The false alarm can never be as bad as the real thing, but it can set the adrenalin pumping just as fast. Watching the brute disappear I reflected that to the fatal perils of enemy rifles, bayonets, artillery, grenades, mortars, punjis, malaria, dysentery, and poisoned wells, I would have to add another – heart failure.*
This was an ever-present risk on that other form of stag, the o.p., or observation post, which consisted of two men well outside the wire, lying up in any convenient concealment with a Verey pistol. The procedure was simple: you lay doggo from some time after dusk until dawn to give early warning of any enemy fighting patrol advancing to the perimeter, which was done by letting them go past and then firing the Verey. After which it was advisable to leave the o.p. at speed, since the firing of the flare was a certain giveaway of your position; what happened next depended on the circumstances, as Sergeant Hutton explained:
“Git back in the perimeter if ye can, but if Jap’s at the wire keep clear, or ye’ll git thassel shot be soom booger or other. If ye lie off somewheres ye might git a Jap on ’is way yam, but don’t git thassel killed. Yer oot theer to watch; that’s yer furst job. Dee w’at Nick does an’ ye’ll not be far wrang.”
After which Nixon and I slipped out in the dark and made our way cautiously to a fold in the ground about a hundred yards out which Hutton had marked the previous day. The grove which lay on the section’s right front was now behind us, invisible until the moon came up, and even then only a vague blur, for it was a murky night. We lay in silence, listening to the “up-you” birds giving their midnight chorus, shifting only a little now and then to avoid cramp; my chief worry, since we were lying prone, was that I would drop off to sleep, so I kept a piece of stick upright beneath my chin so that it would prick me if I nodded. I needn’t have troubled; knowing what we were there for, and that there was an outside chance that Jap would turn up, was quite enough to keep me wide awake.
I have said that sitting tight in the dark was my unfavourite occupation, and that is partly because, aside from straining your eyes into blackness and listening, there is nothing to do but think. No doubt it was our exposed position and my morbid imagination that turned my mind to the possibility of being taken prisoner, on which we had been lectured by a lean and rather wild-looking Highland officer at Ranchi. He spoke with authority, having escaped from the Japs himself, and discussed his subject with an enthusiasm that prompted Forster to observe, sotto voce, that this ’un was jungle-happy. I doubted it; he talked too much sense, with a flippancy deliberately calculated not to create alarm and despondency. Having shown us escape kit (with which we, at least, were never issued) like tiny flexible files sewn into seams of clothing, and the magnetic fly-button which, detached and balanced on a point, indicated north (“An’ Ah can joost see mesel’, wid Japanni wallahs efter us, pullin’ me bloody fly-buttons off an’ balancin’ them on me knob,” muttered Grandarse), he went on to remind us of survival and path-finding techniques, but what stayed in the mind was his advice on dealing with captors:
“You can expect ’em to be pretty rough. They’re evil little sods, and couldn’t care less about the Geneva Convention, so there’s a chance they’ll beat you up – not just for information, but for spite. You know the drill: give ’em rank, name, and number, nothing more. Don’t lie to them. Keep your head up and look ’em in the eye. If it’s an officer or someone who speaks English, tell ’em they’re losing face by ill-treating a prisoner; it’s been known to work. But first and foremost – escape! Don’t be daft about it; wait for an even chance, and go! And keep going! You know how to look after yourselves. Don’t trust the Burmese unless you must; they’re mostly friendly, but they’re scared stiff of Jap, so watch it.” The last thing he’d said was: “Whether you escape or not, don’t give up. Remember they’re a shower of sub-human apes, and you’re better men than they’ll ever be.”
He was describing, absolutely accurately, an enemy well outside civilisation, but nothing we hadn’t know since the fall of Hong Kong and Singapore. Like everyone else, I suppose, I wondered how I would be if they got hold of me, which isn’t a happy thought in an o.p. at four in the morning … and Nick stirred beside me and asked in a whisper what time it was.
I had only to glance at the luminous dial of my watch to send my thoughts off at another tangent: breakfast at home, with my parents presenting the watch on my eighteenth birthday: there was the old, stiffly-laundered tablecloth bearing in its centre the faint embossed legend “Chicago Athletic Club” – not pinched by an itinerant relative, I may say, but a flawed item bought by my thrifty grandmother from the Paisley mill – and the triangles of toast in the rack, the monthly jar of marmalade with the golliwog label, the damp strong smell of the tea-cosy when my mother lifted it from the pot, the curious wartime breakfast of scrambled powdered egg and “Ulster fry” (one of Spam’s poor relations), my father glancing through his Glasgow Herald before checking his battered leather prescription book and hurrying off to his round of visits and morning surgery, the little electric fire making its occasional sparks … and in the darkness a few yards away a shadow was moving, and it wasn’t a pi-dog this time; it was small and stunted but definitely human, standing in a slight crouch, a rifle held across the body, then moving slowly forward.
I had