by Shaun Clarke
troop commander kissing the luscious creature on the
cheek.
‘Well, I’ll be buggered!’ Tone exclaimed softly,
his eyes as wide as spoons.
‘To hell with it,’ Marty said in disgust. ‘Finish off
your drink and let’s go. The night is still young, mate.’ ‘Let’s hope so,’ Tone said.
Leaving the lounge bar, they went back across the
busy lobby and then left the hotel, stepping into the
lamplit night, its dark sky illuminated by great clusters
of brilliant stars and a fantastic, magically glowing
moon. A light breeze had cooled the air, lowering the
humidity, so they decided to walk.
Soon they were in Penang Road, packed and noisy,
its many shops still open, traffic honking and snarling,
the pavements alive with bootblacks, beggars, hawkers
and propositioning, surprisingly attractive, whores. Passing the busy Oasis Restaurant, they were surrounded by rickshaw drivers, wearing floppy hats, shirts, shorts and flip-flops, waving frantically and shouting, offering to take them around town in their rickshaws, show them the sights, find them good, clean girls or, should they not be so inclined, young
boys just as good and clean.
Not yet in the mood for food, clean girls or nice
boys, they embarked on a pub crawl through the exotic
heart of George Town, disorientated by constant noise,
dazed by the frenetic activity, and sensually aroused
by the aromas of grilling meat, frying fish, a wide
variety of oriental spices, petrol and urine. First they
tried the Sydney Bar, filled with lovely Malay girls
dressed in figure-hugging cheongsams, slim legs
crossed to expose golden thighs. Next, the Broadway
Bar, farther along, packed with more of the same.
Then the Boston Bar, just beside the Capital Cinema,
where the queues provided a riot of conversation. Making their increasingly intoxicated way from
one bar to the next, they passed coffee shops,
restaurants, makan carts and many open-front hovels.
They also passed a garage where Chinese coolies were
cutting the throats of yelping dogs, letting the blood
drip down into the monsoon drains by the roadside,
before selling them to the local chefs, to be used, so
Marty was informed when he boldly asked, for that
locally renowned delicacy, dog soup.
‘Christ, I’m going to puke!’ Tone exclaimed,
making melodramatic vomiting sounds.
‘Just remember the entrail ditch,’ Marty said, ‘and
you’ll think nothing of this.’
‘That’s good advice, mate.’
Drinking more beer in the Boston Bar, they gave
serious consideration to the possibility of picking up
two of the lovely Malay girls in cheongsams, without
running the risk of gonorrhoea or syphilis, but wisdom
prevailed over lust and they decided not to chance it. ‘I can’t bear the thought of missing out on going
into the jungle with the squadron,’ Marty said by way
of selfjustification, ‘for being dumb enough to pick
up a dose of the clap. So, thanks but no, thanks, mate.’ Perhaps because of the heat, he was still feeling
reasonably sober when he and Tone left the Boston
Bar, then headed back to the Eastern and Oriental
Hotel and, so they hoped, its much safer, more
sophisticated, ladies. Again entering the Board Room
Bar, feeling drawn to its subdued lighting and soft
furnishings, he was initially disappointed to find that
Paddy Kearney had gone– as, indeed, had Mas and
most of the other customers.
The only customers remaining were three young
Asian girls dressed in Western clothing – loose
blouses and slacks, flat shoes, silk scarves – all sitting
around a corner table. They all glanced up when Marty
and Tone entered, then coyly lowered their eyes again. Taking the same high stools, Marty and Tone
ordered Tiger beers and drank them slowly while
surreptitiously studying the reflection of the girls in
the big mirror on the wall behind the bar. From where
they sat, they had a dim, distant view of the girls, but
they saw enough to note that all three of them were
Chinese, were extremely attractive, and seemed to be
as Westernized as their clothing. Marty assumed this
Westernization from the way they were dressed and
because all three of them were sipping cocktails and
smoking cigarettes. He also knew that they knew they were being looked at in the mirror. They were responding by whispering to each other and giggling a
lot.
‘What do you think?’ Tone whispered.
‘I think,’ Marty replied, feeling only slightly drunk
but certainly very confident, ‘that we should go over
there and introduce ourselves. What can we lose?’ ‘I’m up for it,’ Tone said.
Taking their drinks with them, they crossed the
room and stopped in front of the corner table. The girls
looked up, smiling nervously. This close, Marty saw
that they slightly resembled each other, that all three of
them were slim and shapely, that two of them were
modestly attractive, and that the third, the one sitting
closest to him, was absolutely beautiful.
At least she was to him. She had jet-black hair
framing a flawless, oval-shaped face, with a fringe
cutting a straight line above big eyes the colour of
chocolate. Innately graceful, she was wearing an openneck white blouse that revealed a delicate, swan-like
neck and was belted tightly at the waist, emphasizing
surprisingly full breasts and a slim, shapely body. Her
gleaming hair fell all the way down her spine to spread
out on the seat around her broad hips like a dark,
sensual flower.
When she stared up at Marty, her brown gaze
shyly curious, he was instantly confused, hot and
bothered, embarrassed, and had to work hard to keep
his voice steady when making his first move. ‘Good evening, ladies,’ he said, sounding bolder
then he felt. ‘We’re two lonely soldiers desperate for
female company. Do you mind if we join you?’ Two of the girls giggled, lowering their eyes coyly,
but the third one, the one that Marty had instantly
fancied, asked, ‘Are you drunk?’
Surprised to hear her speaking perfect English,
thrilled by the liquid sensuality in her voice, he did a
double-take, trying to keep his wits together, then
responded: ‘Absolutely not. We’ve just had a couple
of beers so far and are perfectly harmless. So, can we
join you?’
The same two giggled again, then glanced at the
serious one. She studied Marty was a steady brown
gaze, then finally nodded assent. The girls were sitting
on the soft seats with their backs to the wall, and when
Marty and Tone sat facing them, at the other side of
the table, Marty was careful to place himself directly
in front of the girl with big brown eyes. His heart
raced when she smiled at him.
‘I’m Tone,’ Tone said while Marty was still trying
to pull himself together. ‘Tone Williams, British
Army.’ Deliberately not mentioning th
e Malayan
Scouts.
‘You’re an officer?’ the girl in the middle asked,
also speaking perfect English, puffing a cloud of
smoke to hide her shyness.
‘No,’ Tone said. ‘Just an ordinary trooper.’ ‘Ah,’ the girl said, disappointed.
‘Marty Butler,’ Marty said, introducing himself,
glancing at the other two girls, then letting his gaze
rest on the one directly facing him, the more serious
one, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. ‘Also a
British soldier. Also only a lowly trooper.’
‘You soldiers are supposed to be bad boys,’ the
serious, seemingly more mature, girl said. ‘Always getting drunk and making trouble. Always chasing the
girls.’
‘No, that’s not us,’ Marty said. ‘We’re not bad
boys at all. Now the Navy and the Air Force, they’re
bad boys, but we soldiers are gentlemen.’
‘Gentlemen looking for girls.’
‘Well, that’s pretty normal. So, what’s your
name?’
‘I’m Ann Lim,’ the serious one said. ‘And this,’
she continued, pointing to the tiny girl beside her, ‘is
Mary. And that’s Kathy,’ she added, indicating the
short-haired girl at the other end, sitting opposite
Tone. The other two girls giggled softly, nervously, at
the mere mention of Kathy’s name. ‘We’re sisters,’
Ann Lim explained.
‘Ah,’ Marty said. ‘That’s why you all look alike.’
He nodded as if deep in thought. ‘Sisters,’ he echoed. ‘Yes,’ Ann Lim confirmed.
‘Chinese?’ Marty asked.
‘Of course,’ Ann Lim replied, looking mildly
affronted. ‘Can’t you tell the difference between us
and the Malays or Indians?’
Embarrassed, Marty said, ‘I can tell the difference.
I’m just a little surprised by your names. Those are
English names.’
‘My father’s a fanatical Anglophile. We were
brought up in a Malayan convent and taught English
as well as Chinese.’
‘That must be useful. Speaking English, I mean.’ ‘It helps,’ Ann Lim said.
‘You live here in Penang?’
‘Of course. In Tanjung Tokong.’
Having read up on the area on the recommendation
of Paddy Kearney, Marty knew that Tanjung Tokong was a suburb largely populated by well-off Chinese and Europeans and, to a lesser extent, Indians and Malays. He could safely assume from this that these girls were exactly the kind that Kearney had said frequented this bar. They were not prostitutes, but merely well brought-up girls looking for male company, preferably white and with potential as future husbands. Instead of being put off by this, Marty was relieved and, whether or not he qualified as a future husband in Ann Lim’s eyes, knew that he was
helplessly drawn to her.
Not surprised to feel this way after the break-up
with Lesley, he bought a fresh round of drinks, then
settled in to a relaxed conversation with Tone and the
three girls. While a slight awkwardness arose from the
fact that he was giving most of his attention to Ann
Lim while Tone was gradually focusing on Kathy,
which left Mary slightly out of it, the next couple of
hours passed easily enough, with the conversation
ranging from the latest Hollywood films and popular
records to what Marty and Tone supposedly did in the
army. Unable to discuss truthfully what he did with the
Malayan Scouts, Marty changed the conversation by
asking how the girls passed their time. Living in a
good home with servants, Ann Lim explained, they
were not allowed to take proper jobs, but instead were
learning French with a private teacher in Penang,
before being sent to finishing school in Paris. ‘Yes,’ she agreed calmly when Marty said that
they appeared to be well off. ‘I suppose we live a
privileged life. We’re lucky that way.’
‘You seem to be the most serious,’ Marty said,
noting that Tone was talking to the other two. ‘Is that
because you’re the eldest?’
‘Yes,’ Ann Lim said.
‘What age are you?’ Marty asked boldly. ‘Twenty,’ she said.
Feeling like an old man, though he was still only
thirty, Marty ordered yet another round of drinks and
let the presence of Ann Lim flow all around him.
During the rest of the evening, his only real problem
was in hiding
combination of
yearnings. He was certain, however, that she had
sensed his reaction to her and was responding in kind.
This made him feel good.
The evening came to an abrupt end when Ann Lim
checked her wristwatch, looked shocked by the time,
and said that she and her sisters were going to be late
home if they didn’t leave immediately. Realizing that
they, too, had to be back at RAF Butterworth to
prepare for the following day, Marty and Tone left the
bar with the girls, walked them across the lobby, and
escorted them to the taxi rank just outside the hotel.
The stars were still bright and the moon looked
enormous. A cool breeze was blowing across the
lawns and moaning through the papaya trees. ‘Do you come here often?’ Marty asked of Ann
Lim when she was gazing at him through the open
front window of the taxi with her two sisters giggling
softly in the rear.
‘Most Fridays,’ she replied.
‘Maybe we’ll see you in the bar when we get
back,’ Marty said, having to fight the urge to lean
down and kiss her, feeling sensual and unreal. ‘That would be nice,’ she said. ‘When would that
be?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, feeling foolish. his growing feelings for her: a sexual attraction and romantic ‘Too bad,’ Ann Lim said. ‘We might be in Paris by
the time you get back…but it was nice to meet you,
anyway.’
‘Same here,’ Marty said.
Ann Lim smiled and the other two kept giggling in
the back as the taxi drove them away.
‘Bloody hell!’ Marty exclaimed softly, hardly
aware of where he was walking, trusting Tone to lead
him back to the ferry, across the Malacca Straits to the
mainland, then on to the RAF base at Butterworth. ‘I
must be losing my mind.’
‘You lost that a long time ago, mate.’
At first light the following morning, Marty and his
fellow troopers, most with bad hangovers, boarded
Sikorski helicopters and were flown to Jahore.
Chapter Five
Hastily thrown together in a clearing in the jungle, the camp in Jahore consisted of little more than a few rows of wood-and-thatch barracks, open latrines and showers, a corrugated-iron mess hut that was always like a furnace, a NAAFI store, an armoury and quartermaster’s store, both in rotting wooden huts, and a large administrative building. West of the camp was a dangerously short airstrip for the regiment’s three Valetta twin-engine transports and four Westland Whirlwind helicopters. To the east, but inside the mined perimeter, was a centrally located sports ground with an obstacle course at one end, because the socalled ‘sports’ usually took the form of close-quarters battle (CQB) training and unarmed combat practice. This uninviting piss-hole was surrounded by coconut palms, papaya tre
es and deep monsoon drains. Though protected from direct sunlight by the high jungle canopy, it was always as hot as hell and dreadfully humid.
Nominally the training camp for the Malayan Scouts, it also included a support contingent of British Army Gurkhas, Royal Marines, RAF flight-and ground-crew personnel, British REME, Kampong Guards from the Federation of MalayPolice, ‘Mad’ Mike Calvert’s SAS intelligence section (known as the ‘Int’ section and manned by Hong Kong Chinese interpreters and men who had worked with Calvert in Burma) and, finally, the SAS Regiment, including A and C Squadrons, the latter composed mainly of Rhodesian volunteers. Contrary to what the new arrivals of B Squadron (formerly M Squadron of 21 SAS) had expected, it was a crude but extremely crowded, highly active, base camp.
‘I thought it was only going to be a couple of tents,’ Tone said, ‘but it looks like Piccadilly bloody Circus.’
‘It’s all go,’ Marty agreed. Once settled into their wood-and-thatch barracks, the new arrivals, now wearing their OGs, were allowed to go to the mess hut for lunch. There they were nearly asphyxiated by the clammy heat and driven mad by fat black flies, mosquitoes and midges that whined and buzzed about them throughout the meal. Thus forewarned about the hell they would find when they entered the jungle, or ulu, they gathered outside the mess hut and were marched to the administration hut, including the HQ, where they were crammed into a small briefing room.
When their Troop Commander, Paddy Kearney, now back in uniform, entered the room to take up a position directly in front of the large map of Malaya pinned to the blackboard, Marty was first taken aback, then absolutely delighted, to see his old North Africa NCO, Sergeant Bulldog Bellamy, marching in behind him. Bulldog, he noted, was wearing corporal’s stripes, indicating that he, too, had been reduced to Trooper when transferring back to the SAS but had since been promoted again. Seeing Marty and Tone in the audience, he gave them a nod of recognition and the tightest of grins.
‘The fucking terror of North Africa,’ Tone whispered to Marty. ‘I think we’re in trouble, mate.’
‘I’d say we’re in good hands.’
When the newcomers had settled down, Lieutenant Kearney said, ‘You men are to undergo special training and a rather unique parachute course, prior to going into the ulu from our forward operating base at Ipoh.’ The newcomers shot startled glances at one another at the ominous mention of ‘a rather unique parachute course’ but they soon returned their attention to their Troop Commander. ‘However, it was thought advisable that before training commences you be briefed on what’s going on over here and precisely what kind of war we’re waging.’
