The Rose of Singapore (51 page)

Onward he would go, he decided. Perhaps a fool, but he was no coward, and he was too near his goal to turn and run. He would reach his objective. He would seek and find that child now crying for help in the jungle.

30

A frightened girl dressed in a torn and bloodied white silk dress stood looking up at him out of big brown unblinking eyes, wide with both fear and wonderment. Filled with mingled awe and helplessness, she was uncertain; the unfamiliar man towering over her had rescued her from the treetops, and he was not angry with her or using loud words of reprimand.

Puzzled and shaking his head in disbelief, Peter Saunders stared down at the little girl. He tried to smile, wanting to reassure her and gain her confidence. Then, because the top of her head reached only to just above his knees, he squatted down in front of her so that their faces were level.

The little girl's face was coated in dirt, bloodied where scratched and swollen from weeping, yet by her delicate features and ivory-white skin, she could very well be the daughter of a Chinese aristocrat, thought Peter. Also, although now dirty and dishevelled, her hair obviously had been groomed by caring hands. It was as black as ebony and flowed in soft and shiny waves around delicate shoulders. She had cute little dimples and a tiny heart-shaped mouth, but it was her eyes, which impressed Peter the most. Almond shaped, they were brown and beautiful, and they reminded him of how his Chinese girlfriend Rose looked when perplexed or appealing to him when wanting her own way.

“Hello, little girl,” Peter said to her, in English.

The little girl, not understanding and looking obviously puzzled, simply stared back at him and said nothing.

“So you don't speak English, eh? In that case let's try Cantonese.
Ne hou ma, siu mui mui
?” (How are you, little girl?)

Unblinking and watching his every move, the little girl, still not seeming to understand him, remained silent.

“So, you don't speak Cantonese either. That's damned odd. I suppose you speak Mandarin,” said Peter Saunders. “Well, I don't, so we'll have to stick to Malay.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“
Boleh cakap Melayu
?” (Do you speak Malay?) he asked.

Instantly, the little girl's face brightened. “
Boleh,
” she answered.

Wanting to reassure her that he was a friend and not going to harm her, Peter said, “
Saya kawan. Orang Ingerris.
” He smiled to himself. He did not know too many words in Malay, but speaking to this little girl, his vocabulary seemed adequate. He told her that he was a friend and an Englishman.

The girl nodded her head in understanding. “
Saya Cina,
” she whispered shyly.

“
Bagus.
That's good. Now we're getting somewhere. I can see that you're a little Chinese girl, but I find it strange that you speak Malay and not Cantonese.”

Having understood not a word of the last long sentence, the little girl gave him a coy look and shrugged her shoulders. Peter then asked her name, saying, “
Nama siapa
?”

This drew an immediate response. In the same shy whisper, the little girl replied, “Ho Li Li.”

“Ho Li Li, eh!” said Peter. “Well, that is a lovely name. Ho Li Li,” he repeated.

The girl nodded her head.

“Well, Miss Ho, I shall call you Li Li. How's that?”

She was smiling at him now, almost to the point of giggling “I suppose I do look a funny sight,” Peter said, forgetting for the moment his throbbing head-wound, the chaos all around him and the horrifying sights he had just witnessed. But now, at long last, the din was subsiding. Ammunition exploded in a burning vehicle at the rear of the convoy, and orders in English were being shouted from another direction. But except for the occasional rifle shot and some short bursts from a Bren gun coming from somewhere in the distance, the gunfire had ceased. Now, the stillness of the air was broken only by a whispering breeze that rustled the topmost leaves of the trees surrounding the odd couple facing each other among the greenery.

“I must see if we can get back onto the road. If we can, then I'll try to find out who you belong to.”

Rising to his feet, and whilst stooping to pick up the child, he was startled by the sound of snapping dry twigs behind him, as if from under someone's feet. Turning, he gasped in dismay. His hands dropped from the girl. Already it was too late to take defensive action, much too late. He had committed the cardinal sin of allowing his rifle out of his hands. It stood where he had propped it, against the skinny trunk of that rotting tree six feet away; it may well have been six miles for all its usefulness to him now.

Fong Fook had reached his objective. Not only had he found the crying child but also a defenceless military enemy. Stepping out from behind a covering of jungle vegetation, he smirked and, forgetting the child for the moment levelled his rifle at this easy kill.

Realizing the hopelessness of his predicament, Peter Saunders did not move a muscle but instead stared stonily back into a villainous face full of hate. He saw the skinny man's cobra-like eyes dart to where his own rifle stood propped against the tree. He saw the man's lips part and heard a low snarl coming from the mouth of a sallow, shrunken face leering evilly at his helplessness. Peter Saunders stood as if stone. There seemed nothing he could do except await certain death.

It was Li Li who gave him his chance. Both he and Fong Fook had momentarily forgotten her presence. Sensing and fearing great animosity between the two men facing each other, she gave a loud fearful cry and ran whimpering to hide behind a mass of tangled creepers.

Fong Fook's eyes followed Li Li's passage for just those few fleeting moments but not so those of Peter Saunders. He dived forward, straight at the man, at the gaping muzzle of the rifle, with his hands outstretched ready to grasp and slew the weapon to one side. But he was not fast enough. Too late, he saw the finger squeezing the trigger. Then he saw the finger fumbling with the trigger. He could not understand why there was no exploding report, no pain. His mind would not allow him to believe it as he reached his adversary, was upon him, grappling with him and throwing him to the ground. There, the two combatants writhed and rolled, wrestling and clawing at each other, each seeking the other's throat for a strangle hold. And except for Li Li's loud sobbing, the jungle surrounding the two men locked in mortal combat became strangely quiet.

Fong Fook, his rifle lying on the ground where it had fallen, now attempted to reach his
kris;
so did Peter Saunders. Suddenly seeing his chance, Fong Fook kneed Peter in the groin and sprang to his feet. Lashing out a foot, he kicked him in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Gasping for breath, Peter rolled over, hauled himself to his knees and desperately crawled towards his own rifle.

By now Fong Fook had not only regained his rifle but also knew the reason why it had previously failed him. He had clipped on the safety catch after the tank commander's head had disappeared down into the turret and had forgotten to release it. Snapping the catch forward, he fired at Peter and then drew back the bolt, freeing the spent cartridge. Violently he slammed the bolt forward again, so violently a round jammed across the open breech.

Peter Saunders felt a searing pain in his thigh as the bullet tore into flesh and bone, the impact jarring him, spinning him around and knocking him on his back. Clutching at the wound, he gasped in agony and for moments could do nothing to help himself. Horrified, he watched as the veteran Chinese terrorist fumbled with his rifle. He heard the man cursing in Cantonese, saw his own blood soaking through the hem of his KD jacket, and all the while seeing his rifle so near, almost within reach. Desperately he flung himself upon it. It was in his hands, but too late. Fong Fook had already managed to clear the breech, had slipped another round into it and fired at point-blank range, the bullet tearing into and embedding itself in Peter's chest. Peter collapsed, writhed in agony for some moments, then lay still, almost unconscious and as if dead.

On regaining his mental faculties but still dazed and in great pain, he heard screams. His mind cleared, and on looking towards where the screams were coming from, to his horror he saw the terrorist holding the baby girl by the hair with one hand, and in his other hand the
kris
with which he was about to cut the child's throat. Then, surprisingly, he dropped the child who fell sprawling upon the ground, and returned the knife to its sheath. Blood began to trickle from Peter's mouth but he gave it no heed as he anxiously watched the little girl who lay sobbing bitterly at the feet of the terrorist. He was going to spare her life Peter was thinking. But, no, that was not the terrorist's intention. Suddenly, to Peter's dismay, the man stooped and with both hands caught the now screaming child by the throat and lifted her off the ground, where she dangled, kicking and squirming in a pitiful manner. Her screams ceased. The man was strangling her, wringing the very life out of her young and innocent body, and all the while he was grinning fiendishly as the little girl's movements became more feeble.

“You bastard!” Peter shrieked at him, and in savage fury, he forgot pain, forgot everything except that which he must do. “No!” he screamed as he hurtled himself upon his rifle and pulled the butt savagely towards him. But the child was shielding the man, and Peter's hands were shaking far too badly for him to take any proper aim. He saw an opening and fired but the bullet only grazed the man's face. His strength ebbing fast, Peter feebly drew back the bolt and slid it forward again, but too late.

Flinging aside Li Li, Fong Fook drew his
kris
and sprang at Peter who, seeing the enemy upon him, swung up the muzzle of the rifle to meet him. He squeezed the trigger the very moment the terrorist loomed over him, the recoil tearing the weapon out of his weakening hands. He groaned aloud. He had shot the man in the stomach, but not a shot that would cause instant death. The terrorist, with blood pumping from his wound, fell astride him. Lying helplessly on his back, Peter saw a skinny arm rise,
kris
in hand, poised now and about to strike. Feebly he raised an arm in a futile attempt to ward off the inevitable death blow.

Suddenly, two shots rang out in quick succession. Peter heard the terrorist scream and felt him slumping heavily down over him, the
kris
falling to the ground within Peter's reach. Dazed, he freed himself and rolled away from the body, hearing as he did so a familiar voice saying, “I said this gun might come in handy, Pete!”

Peter looked up from where he lay on his back. He turned his face and vomited blood. “Rick!” he gasped. “Rick, is that really you?”

“I thought I'd lost you back there, Pete.” Gerald Rickie staggered out from where he had been concealed in the undergrowth. “I've been following him, but I lost him for awhile. Someone was following me, Pete. He got me first, before I shot him.”

“What do you mean, he got you?”

“Pete, I'm hurt. I'm hurt bad.” Rick's voice was gradually fading away.

“Where are you hurt? What's the matter with you, Rick?”

“He got me, Pete. I'm finished.”

“What do you mean, you're finished?”

“I've had …” Without completing what he was about to say, Rick's voice became a wheezing, gasping cough. The heavy revolver slipped from his fingers and dropped with a dull thud to the ground.

“Rick! Rick!” groaned Peter as more blood ran from the corners of his mouth.

But LAC Gerald Rickie did not answer him. Instead, his knees buckled under him and he sank to a kneeling position as if in prayer. He gave a long drawn-out sigh and then pitched forward face downward and became still, the hilt of a knife protruding from the centre of his back.

Peter's mouth hung open in amazement and despair. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He must not believe what he was seeing. Yet Rick was there, in front of him, lying on the ground, not moving, the back of his KD jacket soaked in blood.

“Rick! Rick! Oh, my God! What have they done to you?” His words were hardly audible, and he began to sob. Next, he was on his hands and knees scrambling forward in a terrible frenzy of wretchedness, to fall weeping upon the dead body of his best friend. Peter felt no pain now; grief had overcome all feeling. He didn't feel the wound in his scalp, the bullet lodged in his thigh, nor the bullet in his chest. He took no notice of the blood welling out of his own wounds. He did not realize that he, too, was dying.

“Oh, Rick, you can't be dead. You must not be dead,” he implored. “You just can't be,” and he sobbed bitterly. “Why did we have to come to this bastard of a country? Why did you have to die?”

Hearing movement nearby, he turned his head and saw the badly injured terrorist slowly slithering a hand along the ground towards the revolver.

A grim smile came to Peter's face. “So you are not dead yet, you bastard, and your hand still seeks to hold a gun.” He looked down at what had been his best friend and a murderous need for revenge filled him. He crawled towards the revolver, grasped it and withdrew it from the other's reach.

Fong Fook lay on his back watching him through half-open eyes, a pool of blood forming on his stomach and running in rivulets down over his near-naked body. Peter studied the wound and watched as a miniature fountain of blood pumped out of it. Then he watched as the man struggled to a sitting position, his back against a tree. The man could not live much longer, thought Peter, but he wanted the satisfaction of killing him himself. He could hardly lift the heavy revolver but managed to do so and to point it at the man's head. “Die, you bastard, die,” he was saying and was about to squeeze the trigger when, in his half-crazed mind he was again shooting pheasants in the woods on Lord Mildmay's estate near Yealmpton. Distinctly he could hear Stan Medcock, his gentlemanly workmate and poaching friend, shouting to him, “Not on the ground, Pete! Give ‘im a sporting chance! Shoot ‘im on the rise!”