Farewell to the King [antikvár]

Prologue 1942 Freedom! To do what? Big black clouds driven by the warm winds of the northeasterly monsoon scudded over the South China Sea. The swell built up into heavy, leaden waves which smashed against the coast. The lifeboat creaked and grated as it grounded on the beach, then tipped over, spilling oars and survivors into the foaming surf. It was February 13th, 1942, a few days before the fall of Singapore. The survivors were soldiers and sailors who had escaped from the city dying under Japanese bombs, their little coaster torpedoed and sunk in the night. Now, in the cold harsh light of dawn, they gazed at the grey sand on to which fate had cast them. Far to the east, the straw huts of a fishing village anchored in the dunes bowed before the driving rain. To the west, quite close, a dead tree, advance guard of a mighty forest, stood out against a cliff of dark jungle extending from the white line of surf and merging into the lowering sky. A lieutenant - or was it a captain? No one seems to remember his name or rank - proposed taking a chance and heading for the village, waiting there until dark and persuading the fishermen to ship them all southwards to New Guinea and Australia, which the Japanese had not yet reached. Chilled to the marrow and huddled together like sheep 11