Brian Aldiss - A Rude Awakening

For the moment, enough was enough. I checked to see that my revolver was in my holster and my old man in my trousers, and slipped away into the night. Margey, I told myself, meant more to me than all the sergeants in the British Army laid end to bloody end.

At the far end of the road from the sergeants’ mess stood an MP’S guardpost. It marked the official entrance into the perimeter of our lines. There, the redcaps underwent their primitive life-cycles, lowering barriers across the road after dark, arresting drunks, and generally making themselves obstreperous.

Inside the perimeter was a heterogeneous collection of soldiery: a small detachment of the Royal Mendips, of which I formed part; several squads of 26th Indian Division, comprising both British and Indian troops; some sinister Dutchmen belonging to PEA Force; and a few other odd bods, including some Japanese troops, who were too useful for nasty jobs to be sent home to Nippon, and a solitary Chinese major who spent his days searching for unmarked Chinese graves. This miscellaneous rabble formed part of the occupying force; we were billeted in varying degrees of comfort in what had been a Dutch suburb, before war overcame the Netherlands East Indies four years previously, early in 1942.

The perimeter defences, like our duties, were ill-defined. Despite many alarms and shoot-ups, we could not get it through our thick heads that the Indonesians meant us harm. After all, we had come to liberate them from the rule of the Japs. The general fucking-about meant that a curfew was imposed between midnight and seven in the morning. During that period, those of the occupying force not on duty were supposed to remain snug within their own lines. The redcaps on the gate knew me better than that.

A searchlight burned above their post, drawing a tangle of ghastly winged life into its net. As I entered the lighted zone, a motor-bike zoomed up behind me. I jumped to one side, fearing another drunken driver. Jackie Tertis pulled his heavy old BSA to a halt a few inches from my Number Elevens, pushed up his goggles and grinned evilly. He left the engine roaring. ‘Want a lift into town?’

‘What about the piss-up?’

‘Like you, I skipped it. Better things to do with my time. Climb on – haven’t got all bloody night.’

He flashed a pass at the redcap who challenged us. Despite my reservations concerning Tertis, I climbed on the pillion and latched my hands under his belt. He was a dangerous bugger in every way, not least as a driver.

Back in our unsophisticated days in India, Jackie Tertis had been a pale little squaddie with wanking problems, afraid to enter a brothel or say boo to a gobble-wallah. Burma had changed all that; after Kohima, Jackie had become tough and nasty, closed to his mates. Promotion had come his way and he remustered as Intelligence. Now he worked on Dutch detachment, prising confessions out of Indonesian prisoners for Prevention of Enemy Activity Force. In truth, I was partly afraid of him.

Beyond the MP post was a sinister dark stretch of road, with empty houses standing on either side. Tertis accelerated through that bit.

‘You going to have a poke?’ he shouted over his shoulder.

‘Yes. You?’

The noise of the engine drowned part of his answer. I caught only the last part. ‘… bloody British Army … no discipline any longer.’

Ahead was a level crossing, made melancholy by a solitary light burning above the gates in the darkness; the railway lines glinted like oiled rifle barrels. Two Dutch officers had been ambushed and shot dead at this spot only the week before. We bounced across the track. To one side lurked the dark shape of the railway station. Beyond it was a small market. After that, street lighting began, each light surrounded by a sphere of illuminated insects; after that, you were in the centre of Medan. The great thing was to be alert, and drop like a stone if you heard anything. (Some weeks later, I made a fool of myself in Winchester High Street, by falling flat on my face when a car backfired.)

We sped over cobbles. There were two or three pedicabs moving about; otherwise, anyone going anywhere went on foot, walking purposefully. Medan was dangerous after dark.

The centre was rather picturesque. Succeeding occupations by Japanese and British troops had not altered the arrangement of modest Dutch buildings, among them the Hotel De Boer, Reserved for Officers, which stood round four sides of the large open green. The green was fringed with European-type trees, while in its centre stood a fine Batak house, all timber, perched on stilts, its steep roofs curling like sails up to the sky.

Beyond the green Kesawan, the main street began. The Chinese quarter lay to the right. There lived my lovely Margey.

Tertis pulled in to the curb when we reached the square.

I climbed off. I did not ask him where he was going.

‘Watch it,’ he said.

‘You too.’

He roared off down the Kesawan.

Despite all my mates said, it was fairly safe in the Chinese quarter. The Chinese were neutral in the struggle between the Indonesians, Dutch and British. Also, Holland’s tough colonial troops, the Ambonese, were billeted here, and ready to go into action at any moment. In these narrow side streets was more humanity than in the main thoroughfares. Many Ambonese strolled about the roadway, sat in cafés, relaxed at street-corners, in windows, or on pavements. They played guitars and sang – my god, there was ‘ Terang Boelan ’ again! – and they never forgot to tote their Yankee carbines. With all those Ambonese about, the forces of Soekarno were not likely to try anything in Chinatown.

On the corner of Bootha Street, near Margey’s house, a café did thriving business, its worn tables and chairs spilling out on to the pavement. Lanterns burned, supplementing the erratic electricity supply. The Chinese who ran the café had set it up as soon as the Japanese surrendered, taking over an old shop whose owners had fled or been killed. From the depths of the shop came the reedy whine-and-throb of Chinese music. Many a time when I took Margey there to eat, mine was the only white face to be seen. As I passed, one of the Chinese waiters smiled a greeting. Horatio Stubbs was known in Sumatra.

I felt good. The heat never bothered me; I was born to roast. I had on my jungle greens, puttees, boots, web belt with service revolver, and battered bush hat which I had worn all the way through India, Assam, and Burma, and which I had refused to change for new-issue berets. At the top of my sleeve was the green flash of the Royal Mendips, with my three stripes beneath it. I wore my four medal ribbons – Long Service, Victory, Burma Star, and Pacific (the latter illegal) – in a bar over my left breast pocket. I was neatly turned out. I had shaved and showered three hours earlier, and applied talc to my prickly heat. I clocked in at thirteen stone one, was twenty-three years of age, circumcised, brown as an Indian, sweating gently, and eminently ready for a good fuck.