Sins of Our Fathers

Chapter 1

(Unedited 1st Draft) 

Sweating and struggling with the incessant tropical humidity, I watched Collins waste away, ravaged by cancer. I saw his family suffer, and had laughed and wept with them. I had to decide what to do with the responsibility he left me. No longer an observer, I had, without realizing, become a player. Somehow, I had inherited a duty of care from a man I barely knew, other than through his memories. I had his story, now I had to decide what to do with it.  I found out about Collins by chance. An off-topic answer to a difficult question. A side story that hijacked the plot. I was researching an article about Lieutenant-General Bennett and the Fall of Singapore. The shame of a nation. A sad, little sideshow hidden in the annals of wartime history. This led me to seek out the survivors, those who had lived through the horrors of Changi and the Burma-Thailand railway. There were few of these men left, and those that I approached didn’t seem keen to rake over the painful memories. It was during an abortive interview with one of these old men that the chase began. Emphysema was killing him; he was surviving only by sucking on an oxygen mask. This was how I first heard about Sergeant Collins. I asked the man one final question before I gave up on the interview. It was a confrontational question, born of desperation.

“Do you think Bennett deserted his troops when he left Singapore? Was he right to escape? Was he being brave or a coward?”

The man breathed heavily on the oxygen and then dragged the mask to one side to speak. The look in his eyes showed contempt for both my question and me.

“Bennett, a deserter?” He paused for more air. “He was a brave man. Look at his record. Look at what he did for the diggers at Lone Pine.” He stopped again, sucked more oxygen, and then spoke in accusation. “Only one who knows for sure is Sarge Collins. He was there. He’ll tell you the real story.”

He put his oxygen mask back on and waved me away. The nurse entered the room in response to his buzzer, and I knew I had just a few more seconds before they threw me out. I could taste the start of a story, the bittersweet taste of adrenalin.

“Is Collins alive? Where is he? Where would I find him?”

The nurse already had hold of my arm, hushing me and guiding me from the room. I was on my feet still asking the same questions. I heard his reply just before the nurse pushed me out.

“In Singapore. He never left.”

That’s what led me here. A throw away comment from a dying man. The words still resonate.

In Singapore. He never left.

That led me to Changi airport, and the heat and humidity of Singapore. I had an old college friend that I could room with for a while. I had gone off to try journalism. He did things with international currency that I didn’t understand, no matter how many times he tried to explain. He had headed off to a luxurious ex-pat life in Asia. I had stayed at home, trying to eke out a living selling articles to minor magazines while looking for that breakthrough story. He had got rich; I still had my dreams. He thought I was a little crazy, fun to have around, but crazy all the same. He toted the latest electronic gadgets like armaments, business commando. I just had an old tape recorder, a lap top computer, and a notepad. By comparison, I was prehistoric. At night, I played with the ex-pat crowd--parties, clubs, pubs, and the endless comparisons of salary packages and investments. It was interesting to see how the other half lived. There was always an edge of complaint to their conversations, about how things weren’t the same or as good as at home. I shook my head at that one. Wasn’t that why they had come in the first place?

The days were mine though. While they went out to make money for themselves and obscene profits for their employers, I was free to explore Singapore and search for the elusive Sergeant Collins. Singapore struck me as a contradictory place. A hyper-efficient, modern city with no soul. It appeared the most unasian city in Asia. As I dug deeper though, I found out it was a mixing pot of races, religions, and influences. Singapore’s colonial past was there if you looked--in the old shop houses, Raffles, the Teutonic Club converted into a high-end hotel, and the still legible sign for the Warrant Officers and Specialists Club now a local government building. History was there but it was hiding. I toured the sites. I followed the masses on the milk run from the Merlion through to Sentosa Island. Nowhere could I find a trace of Sergeant Collins. I checked the POW records and found no trace of him. I finally found him mentioned in the AIF annals. Recorded as ‘Missing in Action.’ My frustration grew and wearied me, as did the heat and humidity. I was basting in frustration and cloying tropical heat. I asked everyone I could about Sergeant Collins but all I got were blank faces or doors slammed in my face. It would be easy to conjure a conspiracy, but the truth was closer to apathy. I was talking of the old Singapore and neither the Government nor the ex-pats cared about that. There was no profit in it. People didn't consider the fall of Fortress Singapore polite conversation.

I had almost given up. I decided to play tourist for the last few days of my visit. I had left the ‘Battle Box’ until last. I had hoped to go armed there with my story complete, and revel only in the atmosphere. Now, I was casting desperately for an angle. The ‘Battle Box’ is the Fortress in the story of Fortress Singapore. The underground bunker housed the commanders and the intelligence of the Allied forces before the fall of the island to the Japanese in February 1942. In turn, it then housed the Japanese before they too had to surrender. Several of the officers committed Hara-kiri rather than face the shame of defeat. It is a sad footnote in history; one of the worst defeats that the British and Australian forces ever faced. With unexpected tactics reminiscent of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese had the allied forces out maneuvered, pinned down in Singapore with little food, water or ammunition, and no chance of resupply. The embattled Allied Forces also carried the responsibility of the local inhabitants who would have born heavy causalities in the case of a prolonged siege. The British commander, General Percival, had made what many armchair critics considered the shameful choice of surrender. In fact, it was a pragmatic decision that shortened the offensive by only a few days, as defeat at that point was inevitable. It also saved many thousand of lives. The outspoken commander of the Australian forces, then, General Major Bennett, had taken action that was more creative. He had handed over command to a junior officer and escaped Singapore to continue the war on other fronts. Some damned him for cowardice; others lauded his ingenuity. This was the story I was following. Why did a man, who had fought at Gallipoli, was wounded under fire, and awarded medals for bravery, choose to take flight? A contradiction wrinkled many and was like an unhealed wound in the history of the Australian army. Apparently, Sergeant Collins had the answers, but I couldn’t find him, no matter how hard I looked. I entered the ‘Battle Box’ at the tail of a small tour group led by an old Singaporean guide. Outside the heat and humidity bit into you like a disease, painful and debilitating. Entering the bunker, the cold, darkness, and claustrophobia was a different world. It was if the bunker had trapped history inside. Not many tourists come to the ‘Battle Box’. Why relive the shame of defeat? Hidden away in Canning Park, next to a country club and botanic gardens. Singapore has preserved it as they left it. It is a place of memories, echoes, and pain of the past. It confronts your preconceptions and makes you face reality. It is a place of nightmares and anguish. This is generally not what most tourists are seeking. They prefer the designer shops on Orchard Road and the Singapore Slings in the Long Bar at Raffles.

The ‘Battle Box’ is now an animated tour; wax, life-like characters reenact the fateful day of surrender. The machinery lies where it originally did. The British had no time to destroy it. You can feel the tension in the atmosphere, the memories echo in the dank dark rooms. There is no peace here. You feel the souls still searching for resolution of some sort. I listened to the tour guide, donned the earphones for the reenactments, and sank myself back in time. You can smell the fear and frustration as if it has somehow clung to the walls and refused to leave. I read the graffiti on the wall. The urgent notes written by the Japanese about the locations where British troops might be hiding. It was a time of frantic decisions, confusion, and turmoil. The guide had been a child at the time of the fall. He told stories of hiding under the table from the sounds of bombing and gunfire. The Japanese had taken his own father in for questioning. His father survived, unlike the estimated fifty thousand local Chinese tortured or killed by the Japanese. His bitterness was real and very alive. A living testament to what many considered ancient history, best forgotten. At the end of the tour, I asked him the question I had asked so many others. I expected the same result, a blank stare, a shrug of the shoulders or the ‘so sorry I can not help.’ It was a random act, like a ship hitting the only submerged log in thousands of miles of ocean. I drawled, lazy from the late nights and the sapping Singaporean heat.

“Do you know anything about a Sergeant Collins who served here?”

He looked at me. I saw him mentally compute his mortality. I hoped he was desperate that this be a story people should not forget.

“Maybe.”

He had an accent and I had to be sure I had heard him correctly. This was the first opening I had.

“You know of him? Is he still alive? Where can I find him?”

His eyes hooded. He considered me. My heart thumped in anticipation. I knew if I pressured him, he would close up. He had to save face. He would decide the call.

“Is he alive?” He repeated my question like a mantra, still studying me. “Maybe look in Chinatown. He used to have a tea house there, or his wife did.”

“Where? What tea house?”

He shook his head. He would give me nothing further. He had fed me a clue. I sensed he was protecting the mystery. If I were worthy, I would find him. Or at least, my quarry would let me find him. The guide waved me away.

“I am an old man. My memory is weak. Maybe Chinatown, maybe a teahouse. Maybe he was Collins then, but not now.”

I grasped his arm I desperation.

“Please tell me where? I need to know his story.”

The guide pushed me away, surprisingly strong.

“Ask in Chinatown? He may be dead by now.” He now addressed the group who looked confused at my sudden excitement. “The tour is now over. Please visit the museum and sign the guest book.”

He turned and hurried down a dark passageway. I tried to follow him but the walls and the darkness closed in. I was fearful of becoming lost. I followed the illuminated exit signs. I didn’t wait to visit the museum. I already knew what was there. I ran out of the bunker, through the park and to the street. The sweat of the exertion clung to me and made my eyes sting. I reached the road and flagged down a taxi. The driver looked at me waiting for me to give him a destination.

“Chinatown please?”

“Where in Chinatown?” he replied.

“I don’t know, just Chinatown.”

The driver shrugged his shoulders. Crazy Westerners. He took off at regulation speed towards Chinatown. I sank back in the seat, still sweating while the taxi air conditioning did its best to freeze my sweat. I finally had a break, a small one, but a chance at least to find the story of Sergeant Collins. I had precious little information to work with--a name, a rank, and a serial number. A hint of a location and a past occupation. Not much, but at least a start in a chase that had been full of so many dead ends. Traffic slowed us but I knew it wasn’t far to Chinatown. Nothing in Singapore is far. Past the Parliament and over the river and we entered the outskirts of Chinatown.

            The driver slowed as we neared a side street full of shophouses--the colonial relic of commerce--shops downstairs, accommodation for the trader above. The sunlight danced in the reflections of the brightly colored shophouses.

“Where you want to go?” the driver asked. I had no idea but went with instinct.

“Restaurants? Tea Houses?”

The driver looked back over his shoulder.

“Which one?”

I thought for a second.

“Is there a street with many restaurants?”

The driver finally looked happy with a question I had asked. Perhaps I had finally made sense to him.

“Ah, Smith Street! Many restaurants there.”

He pulled over; I paid him and he pointed in the direction that I needed to go. I was about to ask him for more information but two young Europeans had already grabbed the cab and were squawking on their mobile phones drowning out my words. The cab was gone and I looked down Smith Street at the rows of restaurants and teahouses. I didn’t know where to start, but the sun was burning me and the idea of shade and a drink was suddenly very appealing. I slumped at a street side table, under an awning that kept off the worst of the sun. The humidity still reached me. You can’t hide from that and I began to sweat again. An old Chinese granny came with a menu but I knew what I wanted. A Tiger beer, ice cold with the condensation running down the outside of the bottle. I could see it in my mind’s eye and taste it on my tongue. I waved the menu away and said “Tiger.” She nodded; she knew what I wanted. I watched her go back inside the shop house and call out in Chinese to someone inside. I heard the word ‘Tiger’ and knew she had understood. I looked down the street from my vantage point and felt depression hovering over my shoulder. All the old shophouses were restaurants or teahouses. It could be any of them or none at all. The granny shuffled back with the beer in her hand. I caught her arm and asked her the same question I ad been asking everyone since I got here.

“Have you ever heard of Sergeant Collins? He may have a tea house here or his wife did.”

She pulled her arm away, unimpressed that an impulsive Western young man had touched her. She shrugged her shoulders.

“No English.”

I looked at her. We both knew she was lying. What I didn’t know was why. I apologized for my rudeness.

“I’m sorry. I have come a long way to find him. I am tired, hot, and frustrated. Do you know anyone who might know about an old man, Sergeant Collins? Australian, he served up at the Battle Box.”

She looked at me as if making a decision and then dismissed me.

“No English,” she repeated.

I sighed. I could do nothing to force her. She shuffled back into the shop and I took a swig of beer. I had to formulate a plan. I heard quiet Chinese voices inside and then a middle-aged Chinese man came out and scrutinized me. I called out to him in question.

“Sergeant Collins, do you know him? Do you speak English?”

He shook his head at both questions and gave me the same canned response.

“No English.”

He turned and walked back inside. This time I was sure he was lying; he had no trace of an accent. I didn’t understand. Why were they all protecting him? Why did he have to hide, if he still existed at all?

I drank my beer in cold frustrated anger. Godammit! I would find him, no matter how long it took me. He had my story and I had to get it out of him. How little I understood at this point and how much I had to learn. I thought about what had happened for a few seconds. My paranoia crept in and took up position in my psyche. I was sure they would watch me from here on in. There seemed to be a conspiracy to protect Sergeant Collins. I finished my beer quickly, reveling in the cold trickling down my insides. I threw a five-dollar note on the table and stood. I walked down Smith Street. I could feel someone was watching me, and looked back over my shoulder. Sure enough, the man in the restaurant was still watching me. I had to make a plan and I had to make it fast.

            I walked on. I eyed the restaurants hoping some clue would spring out from the dark shaded interiors. Nothing did. Some of the waiters beckoned to me to come inside, but I shook my head in denial. I was suddenly no longer a tourist. I was a hunter on the trail of his quarry. A small Chinese boy fell into stride alongside me. I kept walking. We walked in silence for a few steps until the boy spoke.

“You looking for something special, mister?”

I looked down at him. He returned my gaze with an innocent smile, big brown eyes, and a mat of tangled hair. I knew this was no angel. He was looking for any commission he could make. I stopped and faced him.

“Yes.”

The boy looked interested. He waited. He obviously thought himself the local Mr. Fixit. I went on.

“I’m looking for a man, a white man, an Australian. He’d be an old man now. Name of Collins. Jimmy Collins. He served up at the ‘Battle Box’ in the war. He may have a teahouse here, maybe with his wife. I’ll pay for information. Do you know him? Sergeant Collins?”

The boy scratched his head. I could see his mind churning. He looked around as if careful of anyone observing him.

“Maybe…I find out. You wait here mister, me back in a minute.”

He was gone darting like an eel in a stream, into the nearest restaurant doorway. I waited. I was trying to think of another idea. I heard raised voices from inside the restaurant and the boy darted out, yelling what sounded like insults over his shoulder at the anonymous man inside. The boy called out to me.

“You wait. He a crazy old man. I find out for you.”

He darted into another doorway seemingly at random. I sighed. This looked like a waste of time and the beginning of yet another false start.

I walked on, deciding that my little guide was unlikely to be able to help me. I turned the corner and continued walking, finding myself at random in a local market. I was trying to think of an approach. How could I find this man other than going door to door? I stopped at a Chinese medicine stall, amazed at what I saw in the large rattan baskets outside. Some things I could identify and other were a mystery. I saw dried seahorses, roots of unknown plants, powders, and fish, none labeled. I looked up and the proprietor was watching me. He knew I was only curious not a potential customer. Very few Westerners would shop here. He smiled graciously and I returned the gesture. I continued on my way, past the obligatory stores selling tee shirts, souvenirs and other Chinese knick-knacks. It was close to sundown and several of the vendors were starting to pack up. I decided to call it a night and start my search fresh tomorrow with a clearer mind and maybe a plan made. I looked for a way out of the maze of stalls and caught sight of my erstwhile boy-guide grinning from ear to ear. I stopped, letting him come to me. He took the cue and walked straight over.

“Did you find him?”

The boy shook his head.

“But I found someone who knows him.”

I bent down suddenly eager.

“Is he still alive?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders in the universal ‘don’t know’ gesture. I sighed. I tried to slow the myriad of things that I wanted to say. I settled for one question.

“What did you find out?”

“One man does know him, but he won’t talk here. He’ll meet you later.”

“Who? Where?”

The boy rubbed his fingers together symbolizing cash. I knew this could be a scam but I had no choice. I turned away pulled my wallet out and selected a twenty. I turned back and held it out in front of the boy. His eye watched it like a dog would a bone.

“This is for you, little man, after you tell me who and where.”

The boy spat.

“Twenty? I think it’s worth more than that.”

“Well I don’t! If it proves useful, I’ll be back and I’ll give you the same again.”

I could see him computing the chances. He obviously decided it was worthwhile. His fingers shot out like a preying mantis striking and the twenty disappeared. I didn’t even see where he put it but he stepped back out of range if I lunged for him. He called out a memorized message.

“His name is Kurt--crazy old Dutchman. He will meet you at the Long Bar at Raffles. Eight o’clock tonight.”

With that, he was gone dipping and running through the stalls. I couldn’t have caught him if I tried. I smiled. That was the type of local business I understood. It wasn’t much but it was a start. The chase had now turned into a dance. I walked back towards the main drag and in search of a taxi. Nothing to do now but wait a few hours and see what happened next.

            I was there early. I was excited about the prospect of finally finding Sergeant Collins, but also philosophical. It could be a waste of time or worse. I took a seat at the famous Long Bar, home of the Singapore Sling. The attentive barman dressed in tropical whites slung a basket of peanuts in front of me and raised his eyebrows expectantly. He was Malay Indian, eager to please and with a smile that would have made him a fortune in Bollywood. I went with the flow and ordered a sling. I looked around, taking it all in and seeing if Kurt was there. I only had the description of crazy old Dutchman to go on. A cursory inspection offered no likely candidates. I picked up a peanut, cracked its shell, and dropped it on the floor. It was a local tradition and the floor around the bar looked like a Wild West saloon. The barman reappeared with my sling. An Indian barman supposedly invented the drink at Raffles and they keep the secret recipe in a safe there. It makes for a good story but you can get a sling anywhere now. I took a sip of the pink liquid and to me it just tasted like an over priced, sweet cocktail. The barman had served me in a souvenir glass etched with the Raffles logo. I was sure I could buy that too for a price. The bar was quiet. A few westerners sat drinking--suits discussing a day at the office, tourists soaking up the atmosphere. There were no locals that I could see. They were wise to stay away from prices like these. The distinctive palm leaf-shaped fans moved the air in the room, beating off the worst of the heat. These fans were on an old horizontal bar mechanism on the ceiling. An odd shaped cog turned the bar and drove the fans to flap vertically, reminiscent of days gone by. Originally, it would have powered manually by a local but even an institution like Raffles has to adapt to modern times. A modern ceiling fan may have been more efficient but it wouldn’t have the same aesthetic appeal. I was distracted from my inspection by a man sitting down next to me. I looked around. From his appearance and his smile, I guessed Kurt had appeared.

            Before I had a chance to take him in, he began to speak.

“Yes, I am Kurt, before you ask. What could be more natural than two seeming friends meeting for a drink at an establishment like this, ja?”

The barman appeared on cue and Kurt waved away the suggestion of a sling. He spoke to the barman in rapid Mandarin, and the barman nodded his understanding. He reached behind him for a bottle of scotch and poured Kurt what seemed to be a very healthy measure with no ice, just a dash of water. Kurt’s voice had the feint hint of an accent but he swapped between languages like an old Asian hand. He turned to me.

“So, you are looking for a friend of mine, an old forgotten man. You take an odd approach, crashing around Chinatown, manhandling old ladies and bribing boys.”

He took a healthy swig of his scotch and he could see he was no stranger to its charms.

“But I…”

He waved me silent with a gesture.

“Shush! I came here to find out who you are and what you want. I already know you are an impulsive young man. I watched you. The whispers run fast and wide in Chinatown. As soon as you mentioned his name, you were a marked man.”

He shook his head as if in condemnation. I took the moment to appraise the man next to me. He was in his sixties or seventies; it was hard to know. His body was rail thin and he looked wiry like a distance runner. He was dressed in a white silk mandarin collarless shirt, linen trousers, and open toed sandals. His gray hair was cropped so short, he looked bald, just a slight sheen to soften his skull. His eyes were piercing blue; it was as if he could see inside you. He had the look of the born again religious zealot. His face looked almost jaundiced. It was a man who had seen much of the world and had been troubled by his experiences. I broke the silence with a question.

“So, why are you here?”

He laughed.

“Philosophically, or here and now?”

I laughed too. My nervousness causing me to overreact.

“Specifically, to see me. Do you know him?”

He nodded.

“Yes. But the question should be will you get to know him, ja?”

That indeed was the rub. It was time to begin the dance. I had played this game before and knew we were skirting each other’s defenses. I couldn’t rush; I needed to play him like a prize marlin.

            I began more obtuse than my nature, which is more like a wounded buffalo at full speed. I had a sense he would appreciate it.

“Why here? Why Raffles?”

He cut me no slack.

“After you little performance this afternoon, I had to take you somewhere…more neutral, more Western. What would be more natural than us being here? Do you see any locals? No, they have more sense than to drink here. Two westerners having a drink at the Long Bar? Nothing unusual there.”

No opening there. I decided to take another tack.

“If my, performance as you call it was such an embarrassment, then why meet me at all?”

He smiled.

“Touché! Finally a comment worthy of consideration.” He paused, and then continued. “Because Collins is an old man now, and sick. He has little time and much to tell.”

My heart beat faster but I tried to maintain my best poker face.

“So, he is willing to tell me his story?”

“I didn’t say that. Nothing even close. He has a story. I am not sure yet whether you are the one to write it.”

The word yet gave me hope. I was on trial it seemed.

“What would you like to know? What I’ve written before? Who I write for?”

He finished his drink and looked at his glass wistfully. I took the cue and ordered another round. I dropped the sling and moved onto the scotch too. Think like the prey, smell like the prey. He nodded his appreciation of the drink.

“No, not really. It is more of a question of who you are and what you are seeking.”

I pondered that. I decided to play my cards straight.

“I was originally writing an article on Major General Bennett, Lieutenant-General Bennett as he became, but I couldn’t see inside the man. I couldn’t find anything new. So I heard about Sergeant Collins, and I thought he may have an insight I needed.” I stopped with a sudden thought. “Should we talk here or would you prefer to go somewhere more private?”

“My dear boy, we are somewhere private. Nobody cares what we say unless we start talking about insider stock tips. Look around you; do you think any of these people care about ancient history?”

I looked at the hovering barman.

“What about him?”
Kurt laughed.

“He cares about his tip, nothing more. He is Malay. He cares about the Chinese about as much as he cares about you, only what you’re worth to him. We can talk freely here.”

There was a moment of awkward silence; I jumped in to fill the void.

“So as I said, I was writing about Bennett when I heard about Jimmy Collins…”

He interrupted me.

“Bennett! That’s an old story. Nothing new there, my friend.”

“You knew Bennett?” I thought I must have underestimated his age. He shook his head.

“Nobody knew Bennett, he was a General. The other Generals didn’t even know him, as for us…” He trailed off as if lost for words. I prompted him.

“Go on.”

He stared at me with an intensity that smarted.

“There is no new story about Bennett. What they have written has said it all. I’m not sure even Bennett knew why he did what he did. Now, Sergeant Collins, that’s a whole new story.” He stared at me again. “That is the story to be told.”

I had to jump in.

“And the question is can I tell it?”

“That is indeed the question.”

We once again lulled into silence at a seeming impasse. This time I let him fill the silence.

“So, my young impulsive friend, why should you be the one to tell the story?”

“Because I came looking.”

He smiled.

“It has been a very long time since someone came asking about him. That’s why the alarm bells rang so loudly.”

I sensed a small opening.

“So why do they protect him, guard his identity?”

“Because their parents or grandparents did before them. It is a family duty of care passed on through the generations.”

“But why?’

“That, my friend, is the story.”

“So can I tell his story? Can I meet him?”

He rose and finished his drink. I sensed he was leaving. He shook my hand.

“I sense you are an honest young man but that is not my decision. I will have to ask him.”

He began to walk away. I called out after him.

“But how will I know. How will you let me know? Can I give you my number?”

He stopped, looked at me, and shook his head as if I was an errant child.

“We already know who and where you are. The only question is, will he see you or not. I don’t know the answer all I can do is promise to ask him the question. Ciao for now.”

With that, he was gone and I sensed that it would be a grave mistake to follow him. I finished my drink in contemplative silence, paid the exorbitant bill and left. Nothing to do but wait once again.

            Nothing happened for the next day or so. I stayed close to the phone but whenever it rang, it was never for me. I thought about going back to Chinatown but I knew if I had any chance at all of meeting Sergeant Collins then that would blow it. Patience had never been a strong suite for me but I sucked it up like a trooper. I decided to give it twenty-four more hours, and then with no contact, twenty four more. On my planned last night, we were heading out to yet another brand new, can’t-be-missed restaurant when the phone rang. My host picked it up and then called out to me.

“Hey, Ace! It’s for you.”

My heart began a rapid tattoo in my chest. I mouthed at him.

“Who is it?”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at his watch.

“I’m out of here before we lose our booking. Catch a cab over later, if you can.”

He picked up his load of electronics--cell phone, PDA, pager, MP3 player, and left.

I spoke into the phone.

“Hi.” The voice on the other end was familiar to me. It was Kurt.

“Here’s the deal. We’re still not sure. His wife will meet you and make the decision. It’s up to you now, old boy. If she likes you then good, if not…”

I needed no more prompts.

“Where and when?”

“Arab Street. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Where in Arab Street…”

The phone had already gone dead. I hung up. All or nothing on one meeting. Like a single hand of poker for the pot. I decided to give dinner a miss. I slept fitfully. My dreams were full of a Chinese raven-haired beauty.

            Next morning I was up early, rehearsing my approach. I tried every scenario I could think of, but I knew that I didn’t know the rules of the game we were playing. I caught a cab to Arab Street. The vendors were setting up. Arab Street is the center of the Arab quarter, famed for its textiles and rugs. Every store carries an abundance of cloths in every color of the rainbow. It was like a scene from Baghdad. There had been a small rainstorm earlier and now the pavements and roads steamed like a sauna. I had taken every effort to dress appropriately but now my tropical suit hung on me like a limp rag. I had no idea where I was supposed to meet them, so I began to wander slowly up the street. I smiled and refused the frequent entreaties to ‘come inside and look at the quality of my silks.’ I wasn’t here to shop, other than for a story. I wandered up one side of the street until I came to the exquisitely detailed mosque. I didn’t feel like delaying there; the men in the vicinity seemed to be there on serious business. I stopped and looked around, but I saw no sight of Kurt. I began back down the other side of the street where the vendors once again harangued me. I waved their approaches aside. I was about to cross one of the streets when I saw an old Chinese woman beckoning me into a side lane. I stopped in my tracks. It was the same Chinese grandmother that had served me a beer in Chinatown. I walked over to her careful to look around to see if anybody was watching me. There were no watchers that I could see. I reached her and she grabbed my arm to speak to me.

“Come, come! I will take you to her.”

I nodded. She was there as an emissary it seemed. She had certainly recognized me easily enough. I wasn’t the only ex-pat on Arab Street. She moved along quickly in front of me, surprising fast for a woman of her age. She reached a door to a small house, opened it without knocking, and slipped inside. She left the door open for me to enter. For a moment, the darkness inside blinded me. It was cool and shady inside the house and coming in from the bright sun outside, I couldn’t determine detail. I took a hesitant step forward and the door slammed behind me. Someone took hold of my arm and led me forward into a small living room. My old grandmother was sitting at a small inlaid table facing me. There was Chinese tea and two cups. They had obviously been expecting me here. I looked around at who was holding me and it was Kurt. He smiled.

“Take a seat. This was the meeting you wanted.”

I sat and looked around, waiting for my visitor to arrive. Kurt sat near the door as if on watch. There was silence except for the trills of a songbird caged somewhere in the house. The old woman spoke to me in perfect English, unlike her earlier performances.

“So, you want to meet my husband and hear his story, yes?”

            I took a few deep breaths to help me adapt to the new reality.

“You! You are Jimmy Collins’ wife?”

She nodded and smiled, obviously pleased with her deception. I stammered on.

“But…you…in Chinatown.” I slapped my forehead. “The first tea house I stopped at was the one I was looking for?”

Again, she nodded. Kurt laughed and threw in his comments.

“Like a bull in a China shop, no pun intended. You accost his wife, throw his name around, and expect to get an honest answer. After they have hidden him for so many years? God bless the innocent!”

I sat back in my chair.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea. You must think me an idiot.”

She tipped her head as if considering it, then laughed.

“No. I did then, but now I know it was ignorance not malice. Kurt here thinks you’re quite bright if a little...how shall I say…impulsive?”

“Once again, I am so sorry.”

Her manner changed and I saw an inner strength in her eyes that belied her stature.

“My name is Jade. It is how I am known.”

“And I am Harry, but I suspect you know that.”

She nodded in acceptance of the obvious.

“I would very much welcome the chance to talk to your husband.”

“We shall see.”

Again, it appeared I was on trial.

“We will take tea, visit, and see what arrangements we can make.”

I sensed enough to sit back and let her pour the teas. There were only two cups. I nodded towards Kurt.

“If he would like a cup, I could easily do without.”

Kurt smiled and pulled a hip flask from his pocket.

“I travel prepared.”

Again, Jade smiled and poured us both a cup.

“Let us get acquainted,” she said.

Now we would dance it seemed.

            There was a silence. One of us had to lead and I had the suspicion it was me. I decided a question to open would be the best strategy.

“Do you know why I came here?”

She nodded.

“Kurt has told me.”

“And you probably know something of background by now?”

She smiled, enjoying the honesty.

“Yes. I have even read some of you articles on the internet. Singapore is very technologically advanced you know.”

This time I smiled. I shouldn’t underestimate her.

“Then the question is; can I meet your husband?”

She looked at Kurt. I saw the reflection of his nod in her eyes.

She finished her tea and stood.

“Yes, on three non-negotiable conditions.”

“And they are?”

“Firstly, we meet only at the teahouse; you make no further inquiries as to either of us?”

That was easy.

“Agreed. However, I do know where to find you. I know where the tea house is.”

“No. That now belongs to my son and daughter. You saw my son yesterday. I rarely go there. I was helping yesterday because my daughter was elsewhere. You will not find me that way.”

I laughed. My assumptions were proving consistently incorrect. I nodded.

“And the second condition?”

“You will write his story as he tells it--no embellishments, or interpretations. It is his story after all.”

That one was harder to swallow. I needed to have some input.

“But…” I began.

She silenced me with her hand.

“I said non-negotiable. It is time his story his story is heard. You have the means to distribute it, but I will not have him made anymore than he wants to be.” She paused. “There is one more condition.”

I was on the back foot in terms of negotiation and she knew it. I looked at her.

“Go on.”

“You can tell his story or not. I cannot force you, but if you do publish it, you must never tell anyone where he is. He must have what time he has left to him, alone. That is most important of all. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

She leant over and shook my hand. She smiled at me.

“Deal as you Westerners say.”

I smiled back.

“Tomorrow then at ten, at the teahouse. The name is Sleeping Dragon Teahouse; most of the drivers know it. I will leave now. You will stay and Kurt will make sure you get home safely.”

She half-bowed and left. Kurt smiled.

“It’s all in the timing, Harry. He has little time left. She wants his story written and it seems, despite your best efforts, you’re going to be the one to hear it.”

We left shortly after. I hardly slept at all that night and I was there at the Sleeping Dragon at ten am sharp.”

I had chased, we had danced, and now it was time for the story.

            When I arrived at the teahouse, Jade’s son, led me through the teahouse to the back and up the stairs. We emerged in a small room, with windows over the street and a small balcony. The sun was in my eyes and I think the placement of the chairs was deliberate. I caught my first sight of the elusive Sergeant Collins. He sat behind a table, with Jade next to him. Kurt was also in the room. Kurt spoke.

“Sit. Jim will tell his story. There is no need for more than that.”

I felt a little put out, but in this situation, I had to be accepting. I sat. Jimmy Collins was an old man and in poor health, that much was apparent from his appearance. He\looked in pain. Jade leant over and whispered to him. He smiled and nodded at her. No one made introductions and the silence hung heavy in the room. I could hear the wheeling and dealing of Chinatown from outside the window. He began to speak, his voice quiet and unassuming.

“To answer you question…yes I was there when Singapore fell…with Major General Gordon Bennett. I suppose someone had to find me eventually. It’s so long ago now; I am surprised anyone still cares.”

He reached out to Jade, his hand shaking like a palsy victim. She took his hand and held it in support. She gazed into his eyes and I could tell the love was still real for them. His rheumy eyes cleared; I could see him stepping back in time to the memories locked inside his mind. He smiled at some remembrance. He looked at me with a clarity of insight that sent shivers down my spine. He continued.

“It was the shame of the nation, but I suspect you know that. One of those little horrid accidents of history that gets put away out of sight and out of mind.”

He shook his head as if at some internal judgment. I reached for the tape recorder I had put on the table next to me. I hoped he wouldn’t notice but nothing seemed to slip past him. He raised his eyebrows in question. I had to speak even though it felt like laughing at a funeral.

“Do you mind if I record it for posterity?”

Even to me, my comment sounded trite. He sighed heavily.

“No, I suppose it’s for the best.”

He looked at his wife and she nodded in encouragement. He went on.

“Where to start, where to start?”

I led him.

“Maybe when you first arrived in Singapore?”

He smiled.

“It’s as good a place as any. It was when my life really started anyway.”

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