I caught sight of the top of a head first. Suddenly Maxi came back to life. ‘Nagas,’ he shouted, and jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. Those three brown skinny natives were not surprised at seeing us. They knew we were there. Wily lot. Euphoria had Maxi negotiating (sign language). The blanket, four packs of limp cigarettes, a few rupees, and these toothless old men were happy to lead us back to the army camp.

The army CO looked surprisingly relieved when we got there. ‘Thought I’d have to send someone out to find you. You RAF chaps aren’t cut out for combat,’ he wanted us to know. Maxi was quietly furious – jaw tight as a cage. Until the CO handed us a beer each. We could hardly believe it. Christmas in May? ‘Good news,’ he told us. ‘The war with the Germans is over. Hitler’s dead.’ Poured himself a whisky from an almost-full bottle. ‘They’ll be sending us everything they’ve got now.’ Lifted up his generous glassful and told Maxi and me, ‘Didn’t fancy your chances against that Jap patrol. But thank God. Maybe you fellows aren’t such clots after all. Cheers.’

Thirty-seven

Bernard

It was a relief for everyone to know loved ones back home were now safe. Free from those unimaginable things we heard the Nazis were throwing at them – doodlebugs, rockets. I stopped picturing Queenie huddling in the shelter, with Pa under the bed. Brought her out into the light again. Standing by the kitchen stove reaching up into the cupboard for flour or salt. Her blouse pulling taut against her breasts. Her fair hair flopping in front of her eyes before she pushes it behind her ear where it curls obedient as thread. Everyone cheered at the war in Europe’s end. Every back felt a pat on it. A job well done. But none of that made our long road ahead feel any shorter. It would take us years to wrest back Burma from those little yellow men. Everyone agreed with me. Inch by inch we’d have to go. Just look at the Yanks in the Pacific – island by island, and each battle bloodier than the last. Maxi wagered me two years. I’m not a betting man, I told him. Four, some other chaps said. While the thought of ‘never’ dulled the eyes of some.

So the Japs’ sudden surrender was a startling shock to all. I had a dose of dysentery. I’d been ordered by the MO that day to hold on to an enema. Seven hours he said I was to keep it warm. Only had it in two when Maxi’s face appeared at the basha door.

‘Have you heard the news, Pop?’

I told him to go away. The chaps tried those tricks all the time. I expected some airman to come in and slowly pour his tiffin tea into a mug in a deliberate, long trickle – an old ruse. Auto-suggestion that saw the fainthearts biting their lips and crossing their legs. Only those with an iron will and the stamina of a bull could stay the distance with this particular medicine. I was determined to be one of them.

‘The Japs have surrendered,’ Maxi informed me.

‘Pull the other one,’ I told him. Everyone knows Japs don’t surrender.

But his face lit like he’d won the pools. ‘Honest, it’s God’s truth,’ he said.

Shock had me running straight for a thunderbox, which gave Maxi a laugh.

News of the new-fangled bomb had everyone curious. They all wanted to know what I knew – that bit older, you see. But there was little I could tell them. Even the officers were left scratching their heads. Arguing over what an atom bomb could be. They were clueless. But the Japs surrendering spoke louder than any top-brass explanation. All agreed, it was God’s own weapon if it could make the yellow peril turn tail and run.

So the war was over! A day’s holiday from duty with three days’ beer ration. Maxi, after several beers, gathered everyone round to show them his peace-time plans for the rabbit farm. Painted it on an old parachute slung from a tree. Two bunnies, a cage and several leaping pounds signs. ‘One male and one female, that’s all you need,’ he yelled, ‘because you know what they breed like?’

‘Rabbits!’ came the drunken response.

Maxi led the whole camp practically in a rousing chorus of ‘Run Rabbit Run’. Said it was to be the company song. Grabbed me next. ‘And Pop here is Chief Bunny.’ Got everyone laughing. ‘But there’s rabbit pie for you all when we get home,’ he shouted. Couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t taking this whole rabbit-farm venture seriously enough. He flung his arms round my neck, hugged me to him for quite a while before I realised he was heavy – a dead weight. It took three of us to get him on to his charpoy. But no matter how sore the head, every one of us on our RSU – probably every chap in the whole of SEAC – joyously wrote a letter home to our loved ones that night. War over, I’ll be home by Christmas, it said. Believed it too.

Then we got the order to move. Everyone cheered. Only to find we were moving nearer to Burma. Going the wrong way, the chaps shouted. We were worried we weren’t getting out but were on our way to Rangoon. Top brass insisted POWs should get home first. Nobody disagreed. They’d died once already those prisoners. They’d been turned round at the pearly gates by St Peter – might look dead but still too warm to come in. They came through the camp on their way to Bombay. I gave one of them my chocolate ration. Chindit. He’d flown a glider behind the Jap lines. Been in their hands for nearly two years. His bones jangled inside his skin like coins in a bag. Could almost see the squares of chocolate passing down him. Had to watch as he clutched his stomach. He spewed brown liquid back up. Too rich for him. The poor chap cried – openly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘what a waste.’ Every man was happy to stand aside to let these flimsy scraps of Englishmen get home. What race of people could watch flesh wither on a man until he was no more than a framework? Left me proud to belong to a civilisation where even the most aggrieved was held back from raising a hand to our Japanese prisoners.

But word was, some men were getting their demob quicker than others. Particular skills, you see. Needed for post-war rebuilding back in Blighty. Britain required a new backbone. Men to reconstruct the ravaged land back into something worthy of the British Empire. Evidently there was a list the top brass had drawn up. At first, every airman on our RSU puffed out his chest waiting for that call. Nobody had actually seen this demob priority list but soon everyone began muttering about it. Reports said they had sent home a ballet dancer. A chap had heard it on another unit. A ballet dancer rushed back to England. Perhaps he had to dance on Hitler’s grave, a joker wondered. Maxi knew of a theology student who had been urgently delivered back to his mother in Purley. A bell-ringer. That got everyone tutting. This list worked its way under the skin of nearly every man left out there. Some young goofy idiot, who’d not been out long and spent all that time on mess fatigues, got sent straight back. I asked him what he did in Blighty. He told me he was a plumber’s mate. A plumber’s mate was deemed more important than chaps who could rebuild a fallen Liberator, piece by piece. Absurd. That had me muttering along with the rest. The mechanics, the teachers, the clerks who were all left out here sat brooding on their worth to a country they loved. Wondering what sort of Britain was being built without us. Forgotten war, forgotten army, forgotten again. Everyone agreed: surely every man out here had earned his say.

Of course, it was the Communists who started it. Uncle Joe Stalin’s friends. Wanted everyone in our RSU to down tools. Stop refuelling kites, unloading, servicing, that sort of thing, until we were all promised early demob. I’d wanted nothing to do with those hotheads. Those men who’d cheered the Labour Party victory back home. Ungratefully booting out Churchill after he’d won us the war. They couldn’t wait to get back to England, those Communists. Thought there was a new order waiting for them. ‘Now things will be different,’ spoken with every gesture, every look. Eyeing up Squadron Leader Howarth at Christmas while he (traditionally) served us rankers our meal. Thinking all officer class would be serving them soon. Then moaning about the CO after he’d left. ‘Off back to his bearers and whisky,’ they’d say, ‘and we’re here with just a beer.’ Even the chaps who should’ve known better began agreeing with these rabble-rousers.