The Devil's Circle, page 20
There was always a whiff of victors’ justice about courts like this, so soon after the end of hostilities. In early December we had gotten news that an American military tribunal in Manila had convicted General Yamashita, the Tiger of Malaya, of war crimes and sentenced him to death. No one shed any tears for him, but the information we received about the trial was disquieting. Even his American counsel had doubts about its fairness. It was said that General MacArthur needed a human sacrifice to wipe out the humiliation of having been defeated in the Philippines. How many professional and political reputations had to be salvaged from the wreck of the Malayan Campaign? There had been no parliamentary inquiry into the fall of Singapore, nor was there likely to be one. Those of us who had been left behind knew all about the arrogance and incompetence of the colonial and military leadership. That version of the truth would have caused too much damage to too many important people, all the way to the very top. How much more convenient it would be if it could be proven that responsibility for the debacle lay at the feet of the Indian troops and their traitorous leaders.
AS a prosecutor Selwyn-Jones was quite different from Beatty. He made it quite clear from the start that he was going for the maximum penalty the law would allow. His opening address was liberally peppered with references to ingratitude, disloyalty, treachery, treason, breach of faith, snakes in the grass and stabs in the back. He got quite passionate about it; at least, as passionate as an Englishman of his class could get. It was quite a theatrical performance. No one could accuse him of playing to the gallery though; the gallery groaned, grumbled and growled as he unfolded the catalogue of sins that Habibullah was accused of. The President had to bang his gavel more than once to restore an atmosphere of proper legal decorum.
The main problem that the prosecution faced was that they had no one who had actually been there to see what Habibullah did or did not do. Their case was entirely circumstantial. Selwyn-Jones admitted as much in his opening address. The first charge was murder, or alternatively, abetment of murder. Either he had shot Lieutenant-Colonel Holmes or he had instigated his men to do so. The second charge was waging war against the King-Emperor. Here they were on surer ground, for Habibullah had been captured wearing the uniform of the Indian National Army. He had demanded to be treated with the courtesies due to a lieutenant-colonel in an enemy army. Though the British had not taken him fighting, it was a much easier case to make unless he chose to deny all involvement in hostilities against the British Empire and its allies. This he steadfastly refused to do. It seemed to me that all my recent clients harboured a secret death wish.
The first few witnesses were dealt with efficiently by Selwyn-Jones and Beatty, who took turns to lead the evidence. The witnesses were ground staff at RAF Batu Sembilan and testified to the mutiny of the Bhurtpores. Their evidence was uncontroverted; d’Almeida let George do the cross-examination. Most of what came out we already knew. A pretty convincing case was built up that Habibullah was at the centre of the storm. The most damaging evidence came from Wing-Commander Jackson, the Station Commander. Jackson testified that it had been reported to him that Habibullah had threatened Holmes’s life when taken to the station lock-up. This had been duly recorded and a report made to 8th Indian Brigade HQ. Jackson had been one of the last to leave the station after the mutiny had broken out. He heard that Habibullah had been freed by the mutineers and was leading them. There was no question about Jackson’s honesty. He was a genuine war hero, a decorated veteran of the Battle of Britain. He had spent the last three and a half years in Changi. His testimony clearly made an impact on the judges. Yet d’Almeida held fire. He contented himself with a couple of mild questions to establish that Jackson had seen nothing himself, only heard the news from his subordinates.
Trials are a lot less exciting than most people think. The proceedings were dull. The witnesses were boring. The rain was still coming down hard, but not in as large buckets as before. The raindrops made a steady monotonous drumming on the roof. It was hot and sticky; the ceiling fans only spread the warm air around. I began to feel drowsy, especially after lunch. I was jerked awake when I heard the prosecution call their last witness for the day: Lieutenant Bhajan Singh.
Bhajan Singh’s appearance provoked a rumble of disapproval from the crowd. He appeared in the jungle green uniform of the victorious Indian Army, in contrast to Habibullah’s worn and faded khaki of the defeated INA. On his shoulder was the regimental title of the 1/16 Punjab Regiment. Selwyn-Jones took him through his evidence-in-chief. According to him, he had pretended to join the INA in order to find a means to escape from captivity. Although he had been a major in the INA, his loyalty had always been to the King-Emperor. He took the first opportunity to desert when his battalion had been sent to fight in the Arakan. He brought with him his whole platoon and intelligence about the dispositions of the Japanese. After debriefing, he had been reinstated in his old rank and posted to the 1/16 Punjabis. Bhajan described his dealings with Habibullah in detail, painting him as the moving spirit behind the collaborators. It was well known among the captured Indian Army troops that Habibullah had instigated his men to mutiny against the British and murder his commanding officer, he said. In fact, said Bhajan, Habibullah had boasted of it. Habibullah was most active in recruiting among the Indian POWs after Jitra, while he, Bhajan Singh, had hung back. As a reward the Japanese made him a major and entrusted him with command of a full battalion based on the treacherous Bhurtpore Regiment. He was in charge of hunting down stragglers in the rear areas around Tanjong Malim. Any British prisoners were handed over to the tender mercies of the Japanese. Saboteurs were summarily executed.
Bhajan was looking rather smug when d’Almeida rose to cross-examine. “Lieutenant Bhajan Singh,” began d’Almeida softly, “isn’t it true that you became a member of the Indian National Army long before Lieutenant Habibullah Khan?”
Bhajan’s self-satisfied smirk vanished. He hesitated. He hadn’t expected that the defence would have known anything about him. “What do you mean, long before?” he temporised.
“The 1/14 Punjabis were overrun at Jitra,” continued d’Almeida calmly. “That was what, in the second week of December 1941?”
Bhajan nodded reluctantly.
“I didn’t quite hear your answer, Lieutenant Bhajan,” d’Almeida pressed. He picked up a piece of paper from his folder and looked at it. I knew for a fact that the folder contained scrap paper on which he doodled during trials. “You joined the INA around 14 December, after your battalion was overrun at Jitra, am I correct?” he asked, waving the paper at Bhajan.
Bhajan swallowed hard. You could almost see the gears turning in his head. What did d’Almeida know? What was on that piece of paper? He was obviously weighing up the pros and cons of lying. Discretion got the better of him. “Yes,” he said, “I joined in December of 1941, after the Battle of Jitra.”
“And Lieutenant Habibullah joined the INA when?” He picked up another paper from the folder and scrutinized it. I had a peek. It was an old bill from his dhobi. “Just before the battle at Slim River at the beginning of January 1942, was it not?” he asked, peering intently at his dhobi list.
The flapping piece of paper seemed to mesmerise Bhajan. “Yes, yes, correct, in January 1942.”
“In fact, it was you who persuaded him to join the INA?” d’Almeida went on relentlessly.
“Not persuaded,” answered Bhajan, squirming, “he did not need to be persuaded. He was anti-British already.”
“Did you not take him in early January 1942 to a rubber estate at Parit Batang?”
Bhajan started to look distinctly uncomfortable. Selwyn-Jones was frowning. His eyebrows almost touched. “Yes,” answered Bhajan nervously.
“Why did you take him there? What was it you wanted him to see?”
“There were … there were dead rubber tappers,” replied Bhajan.
“Dead rubber tappers,” repeated d’Almeida. “Around, what, 50 of them?”
Selwyn-Jones’s brow was dark as thunder. He rose to object. “Mr President,” he rumbled, “this evidence is wholly irrelevant to the charge.”
“On the contrary,” responded d’Almeida calmly, “Lieutentant Habibullah is on trial for his life for waging war against his sovereign. The circumstances under which he joined the Indian National Army are highly relevant.”
Colonel Huntly, the President, conferred with his colleagues on the bench. “We’ll allow it,” he said shortly.
“Much obliged,” responded d’Almeida with a slight bow. He turned back to the witness. “Lieutenant Bhajan Singh, you showed this massacre to Habibullah in order to induce him to join you in the INA, is that not correct?
“I cannot … I cannot say for certain,” replied Bhajan Singh with obvious discomfort. He looked around the court, as if for support.
“Lieutenant Bhajan Singh, I remind you that you are on oath,” said d’Almeida quietly, looking him straight in the eyes. “Who killed those rubber tappers? Was it the Japanese?”
Bhajan was silent. D’Almeida stared directly at him in a contest of wills. “Was it the Japanese who massacred them?” repeated d’Almeida.
“No,” said Bhajan after an eternity. There was a sharp intake of breathe from the gallery. The members of the court looked disturbed.
“Who, then?” pressed d’Almeida remorselessly.
“It was the North Anglian Yeomanry,” replied Bhajan in a strangled voice, “that is why I brought him there. To show him what the Britishers had done. He was very, very angry. He joined up immediately after he saw the bodies at Parit Batang. He wanted revenge on the Britishers.”
The gallery erupted. It was with great difficulty and much pounding of the gavel that Colonel Huntly restored order. Beatty was dumbfounded. Young Second-Lieutenant Ward looked as if he was going to be sick. It was clear that Bhajan had not told them any of this beforehand. Selwyn-Jones looked murderous. He had blundered into an ambush and didn’t enjoy the experience.
THE rain was still heavy when we emerged from the court. After his exchange with d’Almeida Bhajan had completely collapsed as a witness. The re-examination didn’t do anything to restore his credibility. If he had thought that he could get back into the good books of the British by his testimony, his gambit had backfired spectacularly. We saw him scuttle off escorted by a couple of redcaps. Damage control parties were doubtless going around fixing the press coverage. The six of us were huddled under the porch, prosecution and defence, bunched together waiting for our cars. Major Beatty was still quite affable despite the shellacking that d’Almeida had subjected Bhajan Singh to. He made polite conversation with George about the atrocious weather we were having. Lieutenant-Colonel Selwyn-Jones stood next to d’Almeida, having acknowledged him with a stiff nod. He maintained a cold silence, his military moustache stiff under his nose. Second-Lieutenant Ward shuffled uneasily at my side, not quite sure whether to fraternise with the enemy. I encouraged him with a smile.
“No sign of it clearing up, I’m afraid,” I remarked conversationally.
“No,” he replied, “doesn’t look like it.” After a slight pause, he continued, “I heard that you’re an old Fentonian.”
I was surprised. Hardly anyone had heard of my old school. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” I said. “Are you?”
“No, not at all,” he answered. “But I live nearby, at Walsingham in fact. I often used to cycle past Fenton Abbey.”
I warmed to him. Though I hated the place when I was there, in a strange way the fact that he came from that part of the world was a bond. I was about to make another trite remark about how small the world was when there was a pop, like a cork coming out of a champagne bottle.
“Down!” yelled Beatty, “Someone’s firing at us.”
There was no time for thought. Everyone hit the ground instinctively; everyone except young Ward, whose brand-new uniform had yet to fade in the sun. The next thing I knew his blood and brains were all over my coat.
26
MY knees were still weak when we got back to the office. I thought that I was inured to death, but at such close quarters the shock was considerable.
“Damned close call,” said George. “If your reflexes weren’t so quick …” He let the sentence trail off. “Bad luck about poor Ward, though. The boy can’t have been more than 20, if that. What a way to go, after all the shooting’s stopped.”
“Things are really getting out of hand if someone’s actually out to kill the prosecutors,” I replied. “I know there’ve been riots in India over these Red Fort trials, but I didn’t think matters had gotten so bad here.”
George was about to answer when d’Almeida summoned us to his office.
“Are you all right?” he asked me solicitously.
I nodded. “I’ve been worse,” I answered shortly.
“This incident has put a new dimension on the case,” said d’Almeida. “I must consider it carefully.” I waited for him to vouchsafe to us some gem of insight, but he didn’t say more.
“Well,” remarked George, “we’ve got them on the run after your demolition of Bhajan Singh.”
D’Almeida’s eyebrows arched. “Indeed?” he said. “All we have established is that Bhajan Singh is a rank opportunist and not to be trusted. But his evidence is that Habibullah Khan did join the INA willingly and did so because of his revulsion at the atrocity perpetrated by the North Anglians. On the charge of waging war, this evidence supports the prosecution.”
George deflated. I was downcast. It had felt like a victory at the time, but now it seemed that we had scored an own goal. “So where do we stand?” I asked.
“We stand where we have always stood,” replied d’Almeida cryptically, “but with a surer foothold than before.” He got up and paced. This was his habit when he was thinking. He removed his glasses and started polishing them. This meant that the thoughts were really deep. We watched him in silence.
Suddenly he rounded on George. “Is there any word of Flight-Sergeant Dave Blake?”
“You mean the Australian airman who was at Batu Sembilan when Holmes was killed?” responded George calmly. He was used to d’Almeida’s sudden changes of course. “No, not a word. We know he was in Singapore at the Fall. Dennis saw him on the last day when all the Aussie brass-hats were getting out. After that, there were some reports that he’d made it to Sumatra on a small boat. One of my contacts picked up the scent in Medan. But that’s as far as it goes. The RAAF has no records of any Flight-Sergeant Blake among the men who got away. Either he’s dead or hiding somewhere in the wilds of Sumatra. If he’s still alive and in the jungle he may not even know that the war’s over.”
D’Almeida started polishing his spectacles again. “Without Blake, we have no eyewitness to the killing of Holmes,” he said, speaking more to himself than to us. “We need to do more than rely entrirely on the prosecution’s burden to prove the murder beyond reasonable doubt.”
Abruptly, he turned to me. “Habibullah mentioned in his statement his contact with Chinese guerillas at Batu Sembilan. We should follow this up. I know that it is very late in the day, but we must do what we can. Will you see to this matter?”
I was unsure. “Where do I start? They’re upcountry in Kelantan. We don’t even know who they are.”
D’Almeida nodded. In the old days he would have been impatient. The War had one good side-effect; it had mellowed him, at least as far as I was concerned. “We have one contact point: that young lady Madam — or I should properly say Miss — Ah Moy.”
“Ah Moy? The one who claimed to be Gim Huat’s mother?” I asked, surprised. “What’s she got to do with it?”
“She is Kuomintang,” replied d’Almeida patiently. “The guerilla band around Kota Bahru is Nationalist Chinese, not Communist; one of the few. The American OSS has been supplying them and her. That is the connection. She may be able to give us a name and a means of contacting them.”
“Where do I find her?” I asked uncertainly.
George intervened. “Her real name’s Sim Moy Yin, but she goes by the monicker of Helen Sim. She works with a getai troupe in Great World, the Fenghuang. We found that out when digging into the Lao Leong Ann case. They’re playing at the Chien-tien Nightclub and Cabaret. She’s their star attraction, believe it or not.”
“Helen Sim at the Chien-tien Cabaret in Great World. Right, got it. I’ll go straightaway.” I rose to leave and so did George.
As we reached the door d’Almeida spoke again. “Dennis, take care,” he said simply. I was shocked. He never used my Christian name. What had I let myself in for, I wondered. When we were outside, I turned to George. “What did the old man mean by that? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
George was serious for a change. He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Nothing certain, just a feeling. You don’t seriously think that they were gunning for the prosecutors do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” responded George, “If they wanted to kill the prosecutors, why pick on the youngest and least valuable one? No, my bet is that they were aiming at someone else.”
“Not the prosecutors? Then who? D’Almeida?” I asked astounded.
“I think that the bullets were meant for you,” replied George seriously. “I think someone’s out to get you.”
MY first instinct was to head back home, lock myself in and hide under the bed. After the initial irrational fear had passed, I knew that it couldn’t be done. If anyone wanted to get me, the old house in Cavanagh Road wouldn’t have stopped them. Anyway, I had a job to do. I couldn’t very well slink off and crawl under a rock until everything was over. Before the War I’d done exactly that; gone into hiding to avoid being killed by a thug. It was the most miserable time of my life. I had become fatalistic with age. If whoever was trying to get me got me, then so be it; I wasn’t going through all that again. The world’s not big enough to hide from all your fears. I tried to think of possible suspects. There might have been any number of people who were upset that ‘Nakamura’ had gotten off, ostensibly because of what I did. But I knew it was no use worrying about anonymous homicidal nuts. It’s like lightning; you can be struck anywhere, so there’s no point brooding about it. The only one I could think of who had a personal grude was Eng Tong. He might possibly be angry about the rejection of his suit for June or the exposure of his plot to have Lim Tay Lin hang for Warrant Officer Nakamura’s crimes. But why try to kill me?
