The Plantation

by Di Morrissey

  ‘I would never accuse our British troops of being lily- livered,’ said Bill. ‘But, it seems to me, that as soon as any troops get within range of the Japs, they are ordered to make a strategic retreat.’

  I had to agree. ‘The trouble is that there is no full backup either. There’s no air cover and no big guns. And it seems to me that we’re losing a lot of ground without putting up much of a show.’

  ‘You know, there’s another problem. It’s as though the Japs and us are fighting different wars,’ said Bill. ‘Our men are weighed down with gear and heavy equipment, while those Japs paint themselves green, stick leaves on themselves and stalk us in rubber-soled shoes with small-calibre guns. It’s just not cricket.’

  We both agreed that another of the great oversights by authorities was their refusal to make use of the loyal Chinese.

  ‘There must be a quarter of a million Chinese of all classes and cultures in Malaya who are united in their dislike of Japan especially after the Japs invaded China. I bet they would love to have a crack at that enemy,’ I added.

  ‘I’m afraid the pooh-bahs turn up their noses, just because they’re Chinese and therefore aren’t thought trustworthy enough to defend the British empire,’ said Bill.

  ‘I suspect that there is another reason. Some of the Chinese workers here are tainted with the whiff of communism. They say that they are working towards an independent Malaya. Won’t happen, of course, but it makes the authorities nervous. That’s another reason why they won’t work with them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Bill. ‘But what the British authorities forget is that the Chinese hate the Japanese more than they hate us, especially after the terrible Rape of Nanking.’

  Having aired our grievances we decided that, as we were volunteers, we had a choice in the matter of how we fought. And after several more days of endless retreats, we thought that the whole Malayan peninsula was going to fall, so we had to make a decision about what we were going to do.

  ‘I say it’s pointless waffling around with the tommies. Their damned officers still don’t know what they’re doing,’ said Bill.

  ‘I think that if we don’t decide to get away quickly, we’re going to be caught by the Japs and then what good would we be?’

  Bill jumped at this idea. ‘Listen, I’ve still got that small sailboat down on the coast. What if we find it and try to get away and head for Colombo?’

  So we decided to strike out for the coast, get Bill’s boat and sail to Ceylon. Luck was with us and we made the twenty or so miles to where Bill’s boat was on the coast with hardly any problems. We camouflaged it to look like a fishing craft and we travelled at night, until we made the open seas of the Indian Ocean. We made landfall at the Nicobar Islands and, as luck would have it, a small freighter was able to take us on to Colombo. We realised just how lucky we had been when the Nicobar Islands were taken by the Japanese only a couple of weeks later.

  In Colombo, where we fell in with compatriots, we learned that Malaya had by now succumbed to the Japanese. Days later we heard that Singapore had also fallen, and that thousands of allied troops were now guests of the Emperor. We both felt very glad that we had been able to get away. Although I had heard nothing at this stage about my wife, or the rest of my family, I was sure that they would have had time to be evacuated and I prayed mightily that they were safe. I was also concerned about the welfare of my parents and hoped that they were both safe as well.

  At first our time in Colombo was frustrating as we felt we weren’t doing enough to help towards the war effort. We were too far from all the action, although the Japanese were beginning to get closer to India. We both managed to find desk jobs with the army, organising supplies for the troops and other mundane, but necessary, tasks and we were eventually moved after many months to New Delhi, to take up positions at South East Asia HQ.

  We knew there was a lot of intelligence gathering from behind enemy lines, and, when we heard about Force 136, both Bill and I latched onto the idea of joining it as a way of being more useful.

  ‘Force 136 is training and sending men into Japanese-occupied territory. What they need are local people like us who know the country, the jungle, the interior, and have local contacts,’ I told Bill.

  ‘Sounds like a good thing to do,’ said Bill. ‘No one else has valued our local knowledge.’

  So we decided to make pests of ourselves until we were eventually asked to join the special intelligence unit and we were flattered by our reception.

  ‘You’re just the sort of chaps this unit needs,’ said the CO. ‘You know the people, speak the language and understand the natives.’

  Bill and I felt greatly pleased that our local knowledge was to be put to use.

  ‘What do you need us to do?’ I asked.

  ‘As you two would know,’ explained the CO, ‘prior to the outbreak of war there were several communist cells in Malaya formed for the express purpose of getting rid of the British. Well, things have changed. Most of the commies are Chinese and many of them have decided that the Japanese are worse enemies than the British, so they have proposed a truce.’

  ‘I’m not surprised by that change of heart, sir,’ I responded. ‘How are you able to use it to your advantage?’

  ‘As a fifth column. They can get about the country behind enemy lines. They are saboteurs, but this is not their main function because we know that the Japs retaliate to that sort of thing with dreadful reprisals, so we primarily use the communists as intelligence gatherers in preparation for an Allied invasion.’

  ‘What do you want us to do? Act as go betweens?’ asked Bill.

  ‘More or less. We’ve got several chaps working with communist units, but we want you to try and make contact with one of our chaps in particular. He’s been working in the central mountains, staying with the Orang Asli, in one of their villages, but we haven’t heard from him for quite some time. The communist unit he was working with was extremely effective, and we would like to make contact with it again as well as finding out what happened to our man, Roger Burrows.’

  ‘How do we find this village and the communist unit, and what makes you think they will trust us?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think trust will be a problem. Here, I’ll show you on a map where Roger’s village is.’

  When the CO pointed out the place, Bill shouted, ‘I know that place. I’ve even been there a couple of times, doing some research for the DO, counting heads, that sort of thing. I can even talk a bit of their lingo.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll try and get you in there as soon as we can.’

  Our training was brief and before we knew it we were dropped behind enemy lines, with limited rations and a radio, into what was once our own country. Unfortunately for us, we were dropped near the coast rather than in the mountains. The weather had unexpectedly closed in, making things very difficult for the pilot, but good for us, as the low clouds and the dark night protected us as we landed.

  It was strange to be on the run, crawling on hands and knees through the undergrowth, slashing our way through mangroves, sinking in mud, skirting kampongs and slinking through plantations where once we had walked as tuan besars. We knew we were never far from the enemy.

  ‘Even when we can’t see them,’ said Bill.

  At one stage, stopping in a small clearing, we ate some of our rations. We could see a Japanese watchtower in the distance, built of bamboo and giving a good view of the trunk road. But we managed to skirt it easily by keeping to the trees. The night was chilly and damp and, with no fire, very uncomfortable.

  ‘What is hard to swallow is that we can no longer trust the local people,’ said Bill. ‘An Indian riding his bicycle along the road, a woman carrying water, a coolie collecting firewood, they could all turn us in.’

  And, because we were carrying a radio, we knew the Japs would have no mercy and not bother with taking us prisoner. We’d be shot at once.

  ‘It’s a long walk into those mountains,’ said Bill. �
��And I wonder if our luck will hold.’

  ‘We’re pretty near Teluk Anson,’ I replied. ‘And that gives me an idea. There’s a Sinhalese gentleman there who’s an old friend of my father’s. I think that he would help us, if we can get in touch with him.’

  Bill agreed that trying to contact Father’s friend could be risky, but so was wandering around the Japanese-held coast. ‘We’ll give it a go, then.’

  So a couple of tiring days later, living on pineapples, bananas and our army rations, and continually skirting kampongs and any other habitation, we arrived on the outskirts of Telok Anson, a small town near Slim River, to find the Japanese flag flying and soldiers everywhere.

  ‘Going to be difficult getting into this part of town without being spotted,’ said Bill.

  ‘Impossible, I’d say. Let’s just stay hidden outside the town and see what happens,’ I replied.

  The local citizens seemed to be going about their business as usual, but we thought we would be relatively safe if we stayed in the swamps near the ghats of a dhobi wallah. We watched the dhobi wallah for a while, and it seemed that he and his family were doing the washing of the Japanese. Because these washermen were Indian, I felt sure they would know of my father’s Sinhalese friend, Mr Gupta, who was well known as an engineer as well as being quite a philanthropist. I just hoped he hadn’t been arrested or killed by the Japs.

  That evening as one of the dhobis approached the old sunken cement tank that was being used to soak the dirty linen, we decided to take our chances and approach him. He jumped in fright as two white faces suddenly rose up before him, fingers to lips.

  Bill spoke quietly to the man in Tamil, who swiftly understood our predicament. However, the dhobi wallah was clearly afraid, he began to shake with fear.

  Bill told him that we needed his help, and that we wanted him to get a message to Mr Gupta. He agreed to do so as Mr Gupta had helped his son once. He suggested that we stay well hidden in the tank because if the Japs found us, they’d not just shoot us, but him and his family as well.

  ‘Ask him if we can buy some rice and sambal from him, now,’ I said.

  A short time later a woman came to the ghat with a load of washing. From beneath the linens she produced a tiffin carrier filled with rice, pickles and a little chicken. Everything was lowered into the tank where we crouched. We thanked her, passed her some money and feasted before sleeping on top of the dirty linen she had left behind.

  At daylight, a young boy appeared and handed us long Indian shirts, baggy trousers and a couple of turbans which we wound tightly over our heads, and he led us from the ghat. A close examination would reveal that we were not Sikhs, but we prayed that from a distance we would pass muster.

  Keeping our heads low, we skirted the main part of town until we reached the wealthy residential section of the city. The boy took us down a side alley by a large compound and through the back entrance of a substantial house. Once inside, we were taken to meet its owner.

  A tall, solidly built Sinhalese man came to greet us and was very surprised when I introduced myself. ‘Mr Elliott! This is a surprise, we meet under difficult circumstances,’ said Mr Gupta. ‘How is your dear father and how may I help you?’

  I told him that I had heard nothing from my father for almost eighteen months and then I told him of our predicament. He listened, and swiftly agreed to help us.

  ‘I may be able to drive you into the Cameron Highlands, and you can walk into the jungle village from there.’

  ‘May I enquire as to how you can do that?’ I asked, rather surprised.

  ‘When the British retreated from here, they destroyed the filtration system of the town’s water supply. This was not only an inconvenience for the town, but dangerous because the water became too hazardous to drink. I persuaded the Japanese that I could mend the system, which not only saved the town’s people from getting ill, but also the Japanese. As a result, I was not only allowed to stay in my house, but I was able to keep my car.’

  ‘We appreciate your helping us, but we don’t want to jeopardise your life,’ said Bill.

  ‘Please, it is fellows like you who will help get rid of the Japanese, so I will see to it that I get you to the mountains. In the meantime, please use the amenities of my home. There is now clean hot water and my wife will prepare you a meal. It is best the servants do not know of your presence. Many Indians wait for the days when the British will return, but others believe the Japanese when they say that the days of the British are over. This, myself, I do not believe, but others may be gullible and they will aid the Japanese by betraying you.’

  The next day, still disguised as Sikhs, we left Gupta’s house to drive to the highlands.

  ‘Listen, Gupta,’ Bill had said earlier that morning. ‘Our disguises aren’t very good. We don’t have beards, our skin is too light and my eyes are blue. If the Japs stop us and have a close look, they’ll see we’re not Indian.’

  ‘You are not to worry,’ replied Gupta. ‘I will make you my driver, and you can wear some old sunglasses of mine. I doubt, however, that they will look at you. Servants do not rate much attention. Mr Elliott will be a coolie, sitting in the front of the car beside you. I will tell the Japanese that I am concerned that if I do not check the water sources for the town carefully, they may be exposed to cholera. They are very frightened of cholera, so they will let me pass.’

  Events happened much as Gupta said they would. The Japanese did stop his car, but Gupta was magnificent and the possible threat of cholera was enough for us to be waved on. There was little traffic on the road to the Cameron Highlands and we made good time. When we had driven as far as the road would allow, Gupta let us out, handing us some food for our travels and bidding us good luck. He turned the car around and headed straight back down, leaving us on the side of the road with the knowledge that we had a lot of jungle to tackle before we reached our destination.

  The jungle was dense and unforgiving, but Bill had been in this region before and was able to follow the narrow paths with seeming ease, so that within a few days we arrived in the village where we hoped to make contact with Roger Burrows, as well as the local communist leader.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Bill as we gazed through the trees at the little kampong with its attap-roofed huts. ‘Do we just walk in and hope for the best?’

  ‘We might as well. I’m sure that the villagers are aware of our presence by now, anyway. You did say that you knew enough to be able to converse with these Orang Asli, didn’t you?’

  As we strode into the village, trying to look as masterful as possible, we were met by the headman, whom Bill greeted politely. The old man looked at him for a while, and then broke into a toothless grin and greeted Bill in return.

  ‘He remembers me from my visit here about five or so years ago. We got on famously, so I know we’ll be all right here.’

  ‘Ask him about Roger,’ I said.

  Bill spoke again to the old man, who nodded and signalled us to follow. We entered a hut and there we could see a man lying on the floor matting.

  ‘Roger?’ I asked.

  ‘’Fraid so, old chap. Who the hell are you?’

  I introduced Bill and myself and told him that HQ has sent us in to try and find him.

  ‘Well, here I am. The radio broke down about nine or more months ago and I haven’t been able to get the right parts to mend it, so I couldn’t let anyone know what was going on in this part of the world.’

  ‘And you, how are you?’ Bill said.

  ‘Not too bad. I’ve got a touch of malaria at present, so I like to stay in here where it’s dark. The light hurts my eyes, but apart from that I’m in good condition, considering the circumstances. The communist leader I’ve been working with is bloody brilliant. Gets me medicines when he can and tells me what the Japs are doing. But of course that’s no use without a radio to relay the info.’

  When we told him that we’d been able to bring a radio in with us, he was delighted.

 
‘How soon do you think that you can set it up? I’ve got so much that I want to tell HQ. But before any of that, tell me, how’s the war going?’

  Over some tea, which we had carried in with our rations, we told Roger of the war’s progress and in particular the Burma campaign, as that was most important to this region. We had to confess that for quite some time it had not gone well, and that Japanese troops had actually come right up to the Indian border.

  ‘Since General Slim has been in command, things have changed,’ said Bill. ‘He’s gradually pushing the Japs back, but I don’t expect that Malaya will be liberated any time soon.’

  As we talked, sitting on mats in the hut, a figure appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Ah, it’s my young communist leader. I’m glad you can meet him so soon, he’s just been a tower of strength and a wonderful guerilla. If we had more like him, the Japs would have all left Malaya by now,’ said Roger.

  As the young Chinese man made his way in to join us, I could hardly believe who I was seeing.

  ‘Ah Kit, I’d like you to meet Captain Elliott and Lieutenant Dickson. They’ve been sent to find me and they have a radio.’

  ‘Good evening, Captain Elliott,’ said my former number one houseboy.

  ‘Ah Kit, this is quite a surprise. No wonder HQ said that I would have no trouble working with the communist leader here. Bill, Ah Kit was my houseboy at Utopia.’

  Bill shook Ah Kit’s hand. ‘Roger tells us great things about what you’ve been doing. It will be a pleasure to work with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Tell me, Ah Kit, have you heard any news from Utopia or from my father?’

  Ah Kit joined us on the floor and slowly began to speak. ‘Captain, things are very bad. Utopia is now the headquarters for the Japanese in the area around Slim River. They have moved into the big house and live in it.’

  ‘My father . . . Where is he, Ah Kit? Is he a prisoner?’

  Ah Kit looked at the floor and shook his head and took a moment to answer. ‘Captain, it is bad. Tuan besar, tuan Elliott . . . He is gone, sir.’