Coconut Wireless

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THE COCONUT WIRELESS

RAY FRANKLIN KAUFFMAN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

1 5

2 7

3 14

4 23

5 33

6 37

7 43

8 48

9 54

10 62

11 66

12 71

13 76

14 88

15 95

16 103

17 110

18 121

19 125

20 131

21 138

22 142

23 154

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 160

1

LIGHTNING stabbed crookedly at the jungle, thunder crashed over the peninsula. It was the season of squalls heralding the northeast monsoon, and already a chill breeze smelling of the wet land was felt aboard the prau, where an old Malay crouching aft blew on the coals in a clay cooking pot, the dull red glow momentarily lighting the high cheekbones and the wrinkled depressions of a toothless face.

A searchlight from a Japanese patrol vessel ghosting along with the tide swept the fleet of fishing junks and praus and sampans huddled in the lee of the land. Then the light carefully examined the shore line; the tide was up and the low tangle of mangrove branches touched the water. The old man in a gesture of dislike ejected a stream of betelnut juice after the departing patrol vessel. For with the coming of the Japanese had come countless regulations to govern the life of the Orang Laut (sea gypsies) and the fisherfolk.

His rice cooked, he took the pot off the coals to cool and then turned his back on the rising wind and thunder and faced west toward Mecca. The island of Penang rose in black silhouette above the dimly lit town. He bowed low and prayed to Allah that the war would soon be ended and that all foreigners and unbelievers with their papers, documents and rubber stamps would leave his land in peace.

Absorbed in prayer and reverie, he did not see a hand rise out of the sea and clutch the gunwale of the prau, the two eyes under a mop of dripping hair. He did not hear the heavy breathing or the thud of knees on the deck—only the thunder, and the wind beating the frayed halyards against the mast. A few drops of rain drummed on the dry thatched shelter amidship. The old man straightened. The searchlight from the Jap patrol vessel was coming back up the channel, picking out each cleft in the wall of mangrove. Then he felt a motion at his back. He half turned. A hand like a steel claw closed over his mouth, stifling his scream of terror. His shoulders writhed involuntarily from the sharp prick of a kris.

Then a quiet voice said, Silent, old one.

The old man relaxed and stared dumbfounded at the white skin of a tall naked man with a dripping wad of clothing tied around his neck.

"Lekas! Quick! Get into your small boat," said the white man, pointing to the little log canoe dancing astern.

Tuan, this is my only living. Without my boat my family will starve...Look! He pointed to the light. Now we will all be killed.

But the white man, dumb to his protests, crawled forward and cut the anchor line. The prau swung broadside to the wind. He stepped over to the mast, felt the halyard and hauled the sail aloft. Terrified, the old man jumped in the canoe and cast loose. The light cloth whipped out to leeward. Then the sail sheeted home, bellied, and the prau raced before the squall like a mad thing. The searchlight swept again the fleet of fishing boats. Then heaven descended on earth and blotted out all visibility. The old man, bending his head to the storm, paddled shoreward. In one blinding flash of lightning he saw only the sail of his prau flying off to the westward.

In the morning he went dutifully to the customs office on the jetty at Penang to see the Kempei (Japanese Military Police) to report the theft of his boat. With straw hat in hand he waited patiently for his turn to enter the sentry-posted building. Suddenly a young Chinese fell headlong out of the doorway. His face was bloody and swollen. He lay in a shallow pool of rain water from last night’s storm, writhing and shrieking in pain. A Japanese soldier followed and kicked the Chinese in the stomach, in the crotch and in the face until the body lay quite still. The old man shuffled quietly away. He would not report the theft of his boat after all.

But around the charcoal pots on his neighbors prau he told his tale, and the tale was retold from boat to boat up and down Malacca Straits from Phuket to Singapore until it became a new legend heralding the approach of the northeast monsoon: Orang orang, beware when the shadow of your mast first falls to the north. For then the storms roll down from the mountains and a white ghost comes out of the sea who speaks the common language with the tongue of man, but in his veins runs only salt water and his eyes are made of phosphorescence. Look always to windward and do not pray facing Mecca after the sun is gone. For the ghost comes with the wind and will spirit your boat away.

On Ceylon the sea broke furiously on the off-lying rocks, then surged across the shallows in a welter of foam to pile up on the beach inside the rock-choked entrance of the lagoon at Nelaveli just north of Trincomalee. Tamil fishermen, black from the sun, strained backwards against the great net pursed out in the clear green water. Their monotonous, cadenced chant, as step by step they worked the net up the beach, stopped suddenly when the headman, standing high on the beach in the shade of the pandanus, cried out, pointing seaward. A strange craft under a low, square-cut sail was heading straight for shore. She cleared the outer reef in a smother of white water, broached to, miraculously stood upright and then sailed straight for the sharp red rocks at the lagoons entrance. The fishermen, shouting, beckoned the stranger toward safety. In the first line of break the vessel broached again and a second later smashed against the rocks. The receding wave sucked her back seaward, and then another sea drove her head on between two rocks, where the mast snapped off at the deck and went over forward. The split sail fluttered like the wings of a wounded bat and then was stilled by the weight of the water. Her buoyancy gone, the wreck lay inert. There was no sign of life aboard. The fishermen approached cautiously. Then a sea washing over the stern carried away the coconut-thatched shelter and revealed the body of a man face downward on deck across the long tiller handle.

2

THE first thing Graydon remembered was water flowing over his parched lips, trickling down his throat—choking him. Overhead were spots of light in the holes of a cadjan-thatched roof. He felt the strange stillness of solid ground beneath. His eyes closed, but the spots of light remained like stars and the ground gyrated in the unceasing rhythm of a ship at sea.

When he opened his eyes again there was a whitewashed ceiling overhead. Then he noticed a mustached face on a long sunburned neck that grew out of an open-throated bush jacket.

I’m Major Bolter. Do you feel like talking a bit? We’re very curious, you know. Unofficial, you understand. Later our intelligence and security blokes will put you through it...Now, just how the bloody hell did you get here? Your boat we know came from Malaya—common type of prau. Australian, aren’t you?

No...American. It was hard to get the words out. "I damn near died of thirst. I know that."

"It was malaria that worried us. Your fever went up to 105 degrees before it broke. We’ve been shooting you full of atabrine. Last week we thought you’d had it."

Last week? Graydon looked puzzled.

Yes, when we brought you in. The headman of the village rode in on his bicycle to collect his thirty-rupee reward for reporting a stranger. I came out in a lorry to where the fisherman had you hauled up out of the sun in one of their temporary cadjan shelters, and we took you straightaway aboard this hospital ship. You haven’t had a lucid moment, up to now—so that’s all we know. Naturally we’re interested in unidentified blokes washing up on our beach in what’s left of an Aussie uniform.

Graydon’s drawn, sun-blackened face tried to smile, but his lips felt big as a Ubangi’s. I stole a boat at Penang, mainland side. There was a lot of small craft anchored close in. I hid in the mangroves for two days waiting for the wind. The Japs knew I was around. They had search parties out day and night. When the monsoon broke I crawled to the edge of the mangroves, and when the searchlight of the Jap patrol came my way I ducked under the water—just kept my eyes out like a crocodile. When the light moved on I swam out to the prau I had marked down. She wasn’t what I wanted, but I had seen only one man aboard. I was too weak to cope with much of a crew. I put the owner off in his dinghy. The tide was up and I sailed across the shoals north of the island.

You weren’t seen?

No, visibility wasn’t much beyond the bow, in all that rain. And in the morning I figured I was a good forty miles offshore. Made good time for three days, then the northeast failed and the sea got dead calm and it was hotter than hell. In about ten days I sighted a high island, probably one of the Nicobars. It was ‘way to the north. I tried sculling with the one sweep aboard, but I was too weak to make it. No water for two days, and the meager supply of rice was gone. Then there was another squall with plenty of rain and I filled up all the containers aboard, which gave me about two gallons. I steered a little north of west, figuring I would eventually hit India...Incidentally, which part of India did I hit?

You didn’t, you hit Ceylon. Ten miles farther south and you would have run right into Trincomalee Harbor. Probably been shot out of the water for not answering recognition signals. Since Singapore fell, this is our naval base for the Eastern fleet... Major Bolter stretched his long legs and, reaching in his pocket, produced a notebook and pencil. Just a few details and then we’ll let you rest up till you feel fit...Full name?

Robert Graydon.

Age?

Twenty-eight.

Nationality—American. Now, place of birth.

San Francisco.

Rank and serial number?

None—civilian.

Occupation?

Mining engineer with the Globe Dredging Company.

Right. Now just a brief sketch of where you have been and what you have been doing since you left the States.

"I left the States in 1937 for Brisbane, Australia. Then went to New Guinea to supervise the assembly of gold dredges. Transferred to Singapore in 1938 in December. Rigged tin dredges for the British-Malaya Smelting outfit in Negri Sembilan. Then went north as far as the Thai border, prospecting. When the Japs landed at Kota Bahru—the rest is a long story...

Yes, I shouldn’t wonder, said the major abstractedly, offering a cigarette. It would be rather a long story, and I won’t ask it now, but there is one thing, Graydon—what in God’s name were you doing wandering around the bush after the Pearl Harbor attack? Why didn’t you go back to Singapore and join the rest of your nationals for evacuation?

It’s a pity I didn’t, sighed Graydon. You see, I did go to Singapore. In fact I stayed there for over a month after Pearl Harbor. And then—instead of sailing—I was sent back up the Peninsula...

By whom?

Colonel Montrose.

What!

Yes. He sent out a call for volunteers among the planters and estate managers who knew the country and the language for hazardous duty. Foolishly I volunteered and, after a few cables here and there, was accepted. But the whole thing was started too late. Montrose got himself killed and I damn near got myself captured. The others were hunted down pretty successfully, I think. Too much disaffection among the natives—but you know the whole mess. No headquarters support. No one believed in us...

Yes, rather...Did you know any of the other planters in that business?

Only a few, the ones in my group. The colonel wouldn’t tell us about the other groups—afraid we might get caught and give their show away.

Did you hear of a man around named Brownlee? Bolter spoke slowly, significantly.

Yes, he was in my group...I don’t want to talk about him now. Graydon was silent for a while, thinking of Brownlee. Kind, friendly Brownlee who had once thrown an ornithologist off his estate for killing a bird; who would give his last atabrine tablet to the most worthless and untrustworthy native in Malaya. Brownlee alone, hunted in the green horror of the jungle. The end, he hoped, had been swift as the stroke of a samurai sword—the quick gush of blood on the fetid ground.

It’s terribly important, you know, Bolter insisted.

It can wait. I’m tired.

Right-o. I am sorry to have bothered you this long.

The major closed his notebook and then resumed in his cheery mask that Graydon found rather irritating: You lived in Jap-occupied territory for about eight months. Incredible! Well, cheerio. At the door he paused for a moment. By the by, how in God’s name did you steer? We found no compass aboard the wreck.

By the sun, mornings and evenings. By guess during the middle of the day. Nights—kept Venus ahead until it set, and then kept Canopus on the left and Capella on the right. Those two stars make a north-and-south line across the sky.

Most resourceful! The major looked at Graydon appraisingly. For two weeks this allegedly unofficial interrogation went on every afternoon until Graydon was sick of the sight of the cheerful, tall, mustached Major Bolter with his incessant search for details. Graydon was forced to live the whole nightmare over again, to go day by day and step by step through mountainous jungle, rubber plantations, rice paddies and mangrove swamps, always hiding, always running, always afraid; to suffer hunger, chills, fever, nausea. Every Malay, Chinese or Indian he had seen he had to describe in infinite detail: their manner, their attitude, their help or hindrance. Of the Japanese the major was singularly reticent and even brushed aside volunteered information. And when Graydon asked how soon he could go back to the States, the major stroked his mustache and suggested a gin and tonic. Graydon then stated that there wasn’t enough money in all the Bank of England to keep him in any latitude that supported coconut palms. The major guffawed over this, produced the gin and tonic and regaled him with stories of elephants.

Graydon’s strength came back rapidly; although still underweight, he had gained back a good half of the thirty pounds that would bring him to his standard one hundred and sixty. He was still troubled with nausea, which was aggravated by the heavy doses of atabrine. His face was an unhealthy yellow, and his brown muscular arms were mottled with white scar tissue from ulcerated jungle scratches. Daily he walked twice around the deck of the hospital ship watching the native dhows under their huge lateen sails, the warships in their blue-and-gray camouflage paint and the dark green submarines nestling alongside their mother ship. It was a peaceful harbor, and only the rusty burnt-out hull of a ship, the barrage balloons, the anti-aircraft searchlight maneuvers at night, the B.B.C. broadcasts at tea, recalled the war.

But it was another week before he was driven to the Southeast Asia Command Headquarters at Kandy by Major Bolter, who explained that the official interrogation would begin. Graydon protested that he had already been squeezed dry.

But, my dear chap, you are the only man alive who knows about Brownlee...One other man did know—he disappeared right here in Ceylon.

What happened?

We don’t know.

At headquarters Graydon was ushered immediately into a long narrow room plastered with maps. He was introduced to a Colonel Morrison, tall, clean-shaven, ruddy, and an elderly civilian, Mr. Innes.

Mr. Innes is with the Ministry of Economic Warfare, said the colonel. He will chat with you for a few moments and then I’ll take over...Your dossier here—he thumbed through a stack of papers—is most interesting. Well, let’s be seated. Tea will be along shortly.

Mr. Innes began at once: Did you ever hear of wolfram?

Yes, tungsten ore, replied Graydon.

Germany is critically short of tungsten...A fortnight ago we forced a German submarine to surface in the Bay of Biscay, captured the crew and the cargo, which was wolfram, and some latex and tin. The latex and tin were loaded either in Singapore or Penang, but we don’t know about the wolfram. Our best guess is Bangkok. We can blockade German surface shipping, but we can’t prevent U-boat smuggling—unless we attack the point of loading...It would be of tremendous help to the Ministry if you could throw any light on this.

Very little, Mr. Innes, except that I saw no evidence of wolfram being shipped at any point in the Malay States.

I understand from Major Bolter that you did see submarines in Penang Harbor.

Yes, I saw four.

Could you identify them from these silhouettes? Mr. Innes spread six ink drawings on the table.

Graydon studied the pictures carefully. I can’t be sure about this one—the small one. But the other three were identical—low, long bridge and rather high mast like this print.

You are quite positive?

Quite.

Those are the new German long-range cargo submarines! You have been most helpful.

I don’t see how.

Everything helps.

Tea was brought and the talk switched to Graydon’s escape. Then Mr. Innes made excuses and left, and Colonel Morrison, thumbing through his stack of papers, said: I imagine you are exhausted from all this questioning.

Yes, said Graydon.

You were hiding out, began the colonel in a slow quiet voice, near Telok Anson and also along the Perak River with a group of Chinese guerrillas...You attempted to find a man named Brownlee?

Yes, I told Major Bolter everything I know about Brownlee.

I am sorry, old chap, but it’s terribly important, you know. He was our only contact on the other side.

He’ll be hard to replace. It’s a tough country to get into, and, Graydon smiled, worse to get out of. It is a pity that Colonel Montrose’s show hadn’t been started sooner. Then we might have had a chance.

Right, but Brownlee may not be dead...We have a wireless in his code—sent yesterday.

I can’t believe it! I saw his radio destroyed, burnt up.

Nevertheless we have the signal and we’re not sure how much equipment he had.

It couldn’t be authentic.

Possibly—that’s why I’m asking you to repeat all details of your attempt to find Brownlee.

When the guerrilla chief told me that there was a Tuan Besar hiding in the mountains with a wireless—you can understand how terribly anxious I was to get to him—he was, I figured, my only hope. We trekked up into the hills, moving along the trails at night and hiding by day, to where a village had been burned to the ground—recently. Parts of it were still smoldering. There wasn’t a living soul in sight—this was where Brownlee was supposed to be hiding. The guerrillas finally coaxed a couple of frightened Malays out of the bush. They told us that the Japs had burned the village, but the white man had left several weeks before. They knew nothing more, but they figured that the Tuan had been captured elsewhere. They also said that the son of the village headman had told the Japs about the radio in order to get money.

Then you saw no one who had seen Brownlee dead—or actually had seen him captured?

No, no actual witness...We searched for several days—over a wide area. The guerrillas sent men into almost every town and village to contact friendly Chinese storekeepers, and it was learned that a white man answering Brownlee’s description had been decapitated by the Japanese near Port Swettenham, and it was confirmed at several places.

Now about the wireless. Did it appear to have been smashed before it was burnt?

Without doubt—the transmitter, that is—just scattered bits and pieces. The receiver was just burned up in one chunk.

Do you know wireless?

Yes.

Could you tell what sort of a set this was?

"I found the base of one tube. It