Malayan Spymaster

by Boris Hembry

  Charles was well-informed about the general situation, and assured me that every effort by Special Branch and the unofficial members of the Legislative Council was being made to persuade Sir Edward Gent, the high commissioner, to take much tougher measures, not only with the communist terrorists and their trade union sympathisers in Malaya, but also with the Government at home whom, it was considered, were sitting in splendid isolation in their ivory towers in Whitehall, listening to the usual socialist claptrap from their Labour supporters and advisers. Gent was still not persuaded, so John Dalley quietly went to work on Malcolm MacDonald, the commissioner general for South East Asia. Fortunately MacDonald, in spite of being the son of Ramsay MacDonald and himself a supporter of the Labour Party, was far more receptive and perceptive, and flew up to KL to see Gent. Gent was still not convinced that it was not just a ‘little local incident’ which could easily be contained. It is reported that, as a result of this meeting, MacDonald cabled back to the Colonial Office expressing his opinion of the great seriousness of the situation in Malaya and advising the appointment of a new high commissioner.

  Gent was recalled to London early in July and when circling over Heathrow, his aircraft collided with another and he was killed. Gent was a gallant man; a double first at Oxford, a rugger Blue, and winner of the DSO and the MC, but unfortunately blind to the perils building up in Malaya.

  My weekend in KL followed very much the usual pattern of such visits – office at eight thirty, brandy and ginger ales at Robinsons at eleven, back to the office until one, adjournment to the ‘Dog’ (the Royal Selangor Club) for a few beers, home for a late tiffin and lie off, a round of golf or a swim, followed by the first stengahs of the evening, home to bath and change, and then out for dinner and dancing at the Lake Club. Sunday was a day of rest. A round of golf in the morning, followed by several beers and a couple of large pink gins before curry tiffin, home for a long lie off, maybe a gentle walk after tea, a light supper and early to bed. The first flight to Ipoh on the Monday morning would get me back to Kamuning for tiffin.

  The evening we got back from KL, Bill Powndell drove up for a chat and a stengah and warned us that he had evidence that the telephone lines were being tapped, even that the Sungei Siput exchange had been infiltrated by the Min Yuen, so that any important discussions, especially concerning movements, routes and timings, must be coded somehow, or spoken in French or German or Latin. I was agreeably surprised as to just how much Latin I still retained from school.

  Early in July I received a call from John Barnard, the police chief in Perak, asking me to attend a meeting in his office that same morning. Present were Malcolm MacDonald, Innes Miller, the British resident, Neil, the State legal adviser, J. S. Ferguson, chairman, Perak Planters Association, myself, the vice-chairman, a brigadier, the Gurkhas’ commander.

  This was the first time that I had met Malcolm MacDonald, and he impressed me from the start. We were to meet many times, and became quite friendly, and Jean and I visited him on several occasions informally at his official residence, Bukit Serene in Johore Bahru.

  John Barnard read out an ‘appreciation of the situation’, which was far bleaker than even I had anticipated. Because of the semi-official censorship that existed, the media had not been informed of half that had occurred. We discussed security in some detail, and I briefly mentioned the necessity of controlling the squatters somehow, but that was deemed impractical, so soon forgotten. I also spoke about HOBA, and suggested that other estates and tin mines might consider establishing their own home guard units, as not only would it relieve the police of static guard duties, for which they lacked the people anyway, but it also showed the CTs that we too meant business. I then suggested that the military might be able to assist in their training, as not many estates would have Kamuning’s advantage of a resident experienced platoon sergeant. This was thought a good idea and would be considered.

  One decision that was taken at the meeting was that all estates from Ipoh to Kuala Kangsar should arrange to collect their pay from the banks at an agreed day of the month, which could be varied, meet up at the Ipoh Club car park, and return along the main road in convoy, pulling out from it when the convoy reached the entrance to their respective estates. I thought this a daft idea, and pointed out that not only would it mean that the banks were overloaded with cash on one given day each month and would thus present an even more worthwhile target for the terrorists, but that any ambush would far more likely take place on the estate roads, where there was more cover to lay up in wait, and to escape into. I was overruled, but, in the interests of solidarity with my fellow planters, I went along with it. In the event it proved to be a fiasco; the convoy went far too slowly, was too conspicuous, and the last couple of estates on the route received no benefit from the convoy system anyway.

  During my absence on leave the estate had been issued with a jeep for the manager’s use. It was now decided that this should be armoured. When it was returned from the workshops I drove it around the estate for a day or so, but found it impossible. It was like an oven, and I felt like a sardine. I had the doors removed. I felt that if ever I were ambushed or mined I could disembark far more quickly.

  We erected a high barbed-wire fence around all the estate bungalows, and during darkness these were patrolled by our Home Guard. HOBA went from strength to strength. In the early days Eussoff and I used to drill them, and march them up and down the main road in front of the main bungalow, factory and labour lines. Later I installed a searchlight. This was particularly useful when I woke in the middle of the night for, if I did not see the sweep of the light after an interval of about five minutes, I knew that the operator was asleep. One night when, after an interval of about a quarter of an hour, the light failed to come on, I crept downstairs and found my HOBA guard asleep. I removed his rifle – shotguns had been replaced – and went back to bed. The following morning I ordered Eussoff to parade the men for a weapons inspection. One very shamefaced man paraded minus his rifle. The derision of his peers was enough punishment, but I deducted a week’s pay having ascertained from Eussoff that the man was unmarried, lived with his parents, and would be spending his money on the local prostitutes.

  It was not too long before the idea of a Home Guard became official policy, and all such ‘private armies’ were incorporated into the Special Constabulary. This was a far better idea; it meant that the ‘Specials’ were properly equipped and trained, could be drafted to where there was most need, and subject to official police discipline. Sergeant Scarlet, a Coldstream guardsman, was put in charge of training the Specials in our area. When he understood that the Kamuning Estate padang was not Caterham, and that Malays fresh from a kampong had to be treated differently to a Guards recruit, he did well and our Specials took pride in their drill, especially if they were being watched by British soldiers. When Sir Henry Gurney came to Sungei Siput, HOBA mounted the Guard of Honour for the High Commissioner, and was complimented on its smartness. They continued to wear their HOBA shoulder flashes until the newly appointed police officer in charge of the Special Constabulary in Perak insisted they were removed, much to the disappointment of the HOBA members.

  At about the same time most estate managers were sworn in as honorary police inspectors, to allow us to issue orders directly to the Specials guarding us. We were also issued with Sten guns. The Sten was not as accurate as my American carbine, but made much more noise, and could loose off 150 rounds a minute if it did not jam. The Sten was also a dangerous weapon, to friend and foe alike, because of its habit of going off at the slightest jolt. On one occasion Bill Powndell was up the Plus road with a young planter, a former soldier who was waving his Sten about in all directions. Bill had told him to take care where he was pointing it. The silly young man took exception to Bill’s advice and said that he had been on an army small arms course so there was nothing he could be taught about Sten guns. With which he dropped the gun, whether on purpose or by accident history does not relate, which promptly
went off, one bullet ploughing a furrow across Bill’s ample backside. I gather that to say the air was blue would be an understatement. When later recounting the incident Bill told me that he’d got back through at least three generations of the young man’s family, on both sides, without repeating himself. Knowing Bill I could well believe it.

  One night, shortly before Bill was to go on leave, we had him to dinner. Dan Wright was also staying with us, as VA. We were just settling down to the first after-dinner stengah when the bungalow was splattered with bullets. We followed our drill. Jean turned out the bungalow lights and tried to telephone the police station, but the line had been cut. Then she took refuge in the tiled bathroom. We men ran down the stairs to rally the Specials, and tried to spot where the firing was coming from. I made a dash for the sandbagged redoubt where HOBA was gathered, ready to direct the searchlight on to the enemy position. Spasmodic firing went on for some minutes with Bill and I returning fire with our pistols in the direction of the CTs’ muzzle flashes. When the firing had stopped I went back to the bungalow and could not help laughing as I saw the ample bellies and backsides of my friends protruding from each side of the pillars behind which they were taking cover. But I feared that the CTs had only moved on to attack the factory and office, so I ran down the drive, trusting that they did not know of my short cut. At the gateway I ran into cross fire, as the factory Specials opened up on the CTs. I worked my way into the factory compound by a monsoon drain and was both pleased and proud to find that my Specials were all at their posts, returning fire in a disciplined fashion and with no sign of panic. The CTs soon withdrew, and after a few minutes congratulating all those concerned, I returned to the bungalow – quite forgetting to duck under the barbed wire fence, and gashing my forehead. By the time I reached home I was covered with blood, so much so I thought that I had better shout a warning to Jean not to worry when she saw me. I have the scar to this day.

  I do not remember whether it was during this episode or one later that a bullet ploughed its way through a nine-inch wooden beam and missed Jean’s head by only a couple of inches. It was because of this that I sandbagged the verandah around the whole house, and had a trap door made in the floor of the bedroom so that we could drop down straight into the sandbagged redoubt below where most of the Specials would be.

  I was very angry and distressed at about this time over the treatment of my trusted contractor and undercover agent, Wong Fatt. Wong was subpoenaed to appear as witness for the prosecution in the trial of a captured terrorist. I thought it quite wrong for the prosecuting authorities – not the Sungei Siput Police; they would have known better – to call on this man to appear in open court to give evidence, as it would be sure to attract reprisals. I was overruled by Neil, the State legal advisor in Ipoh, but did receive his promise that Wong Fatt’s name would not be published. To my utter disgust and dismay his name and photograph appeared in the local newspaper a few days after the trial. I immediately telephoned Neil and gave him a large piece of my mind. He said it was the law, despite having promised me otherwise. I told him to change the bloody law. ‘How the hell do you expect witnesses to come forward if their lives were at risk?’ I was told I was exaggerating.

  Later that day Wong Fatt came to my bungalow and said that he had already been threatened and what should he do? I told him to stay in our kitchen quarters for as long as he wished and that I would help him get away. After a few weeks I drove him up to Penang where he said he had some distant relatives and would be unknown there. Nearly two years later Wong returned. I was surprised to see him but he assured me that he would have been forgotten by the Communists, so I reappointed him one of my estate contractors, but with grave misgivings.

  One morning at about six thirty as I was having my tea and fruit on the verandah I heard shots from behind the bungalow, I estimated about a mile away. I grabbed my Sten, telephoned the police station to tell them roughly where the shooting had come from, yelled for Abdul my syce, went like the clappers northwards on the main road towards Kuala Kangsar, until we reached the turning off for the Sungei Koh division. From there we proceeded more cautiously until, rounding a bend, I saw a body lying in the middle of the road, about 50 yards away. I told Abdul to stop the jeep, got out and took to the trees, and approached the body with extreme caution as I feared an ambush. Sure enough, it was my old friend Wong Fatt, riddled with bullets. Hearing some movement behind me I spotted a half dozen bandits moving off, including Perumal. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and did not give chase. Perumal obviously decided likewise and did not return to carry out his threat to me, no doubt because he thought that the police or military would soon arrive in considerable numbers. I waited and waited, but still no police. I then shouted to Abdul to turn around and to go and look for the police to guide them in; he would be sure to find them on the main road. More waiting. I was feeling terribly exposed and hoping against hope that Perumal would not have second thoughts and return to finish me off. Eventually Paddy Jones, my Sungei Koh assistant, arrived and, despite my warnings to stay put, immediately set off in pursuit of the bandits. Luckily he failed to spot them and returned to keep me company.

  Eventually two lorry loads of police arrived. They had decided to take the long way round, through the estate, in case the CTs had been luring them into an ambush. I suppose that they were right, but I had had an extremely unpleasant and lonely hour. I was very sad at this totally unnecessary killing. To the Malay police, Wong Fatt was just another orang Cina (Chinese man); to me he was a trusted and trusting friend.

  I have always considered that the prosecuting authorities in Ipoh were willing accomplices in Wong Fatt’s murder.

  The RAF dropped millions of leaflets over the countryside designed to explain the situation to the populace in general and the Communists in particular. One evening, and to my intense irritation because it took a day to clear up the mess, an aircraft flew over us and dropped a good few hundred thousand of these leaflets over the Kamuning factory area. I telephoned Innes Miller to complain. His response was: ‘But Boris, they were intended for you. You’re the biggest bloody Bolshie around here.’

  The authorities thought it a good idea to erect trip wires around our bungalows. These consisted of a wire some 18 inches off the ground attached to which were small explosive canisters, some 25 feet apart; the principle being that any night intruder would trip over the wire in the dark and set off the nearest explosive. The first couple of nights we were continually woken by explosions, followed by the searchlight sweeping the ground looking for CTs. All that could be seen were startled animals, fallen branches, night owls, even our own cat out on the prowl. I removed the explosives and replaced them with empty cigarette tins filled with a few pebbles, which had the effect of not waking us but keeping the Specials on their toes, at least for a little while.

  Sungei Siput was not, of course, the only hot bed of communist activity; far from it. Nearly everywhere suffered from terrorism. Scarcely a day went by without reports of some fresh disaster. The enemy could strike wherever it pleased with little or no retaliation. For months it seemed that all we could do was to hang on. I was no great authority on this type of warfare but it did seem to me that the Security Forces and civil authorities were going quite the wrong way to defeat the insurrection.

  I served on both the Sungei Siput District War Committee (as its chairman) and the Perak State War Committee, and on both these I continually pressed for a more realistic approach by the Security Forces to combating the terrorists. It was an uphill task, as I see from my notes. Even as late as October 1949 I was arguing for smaller and more mobile units of the military and police to get out into the country, to move stealthily, to lay ambushes, to pay large bribes to reliable informers – in fact, to play the CTs at their own game, only better. The Army must not rely on lorried transport, marching down roads in step in hobnailed boots, and operating in platoons or half companies. I was not the only one pressing for a change in tactics,
and gradually the powers-that-be came round to our way of thinking. All this time, also, I was thinking about controlling the squatters and the ability of the terrorists to obtain their food supplies, information and assistance.

  As the situation worsened, Malaya became news at home, and many London journalists descended on us, the most famous being Patrick O’Donovan of the Observer, Lachie McDonald of the Daily Mail, and Malcolm Muggeridge of the Daily Telegraph. At a lunch given by Guthrie’s in London in 1952 I sat next to Muggeridge and was able to congratulate him on the accuracy of his reporting.

  Patrick O’Donovan wrote a rather more romantic article about Jean and me, and when we tackled him later about his flights of fancy he replied that it was for home consumption, and the editors liked it that way because it sold newspapers. O’Donovan had a very narrow escape when staying with us on Kamuning. On the morning of his departure, and having an hour to spare, he asked if I would show him around the estate. We set off in the armoured jeep. After a mile or so we came to a fork in the road. I stopped to decide which way to go: the left fork was the quicker way back to the office, and I knew we had a weeding gang working near the roadside which I could make a show of inspecting. The right ran deeper into the estate, and consequently there would be more to see. I chose the right fork. We eventually got back to the office where Patrick’s taxi was waiting, and he departed.

  No sooner had he left when an out-of-breath and extremely agitated Tamil kangani came running into the office, salaaming furiously, and so relieved to see me he all but threw his arms around me. He was in charge of the weeding gang. It seems that about half an hour before we had nearly visited him, Perumal and six Chinese CTs had suddenly appeared and enquired whether the tuan besar had been there yet. When told no, the CTs had instructed the weeding gang to go on working as normal, threatened death to anyone who raised the alarm, and hid in wait for me. They then heard my jeep approach, stop for a moment or two, and then drive off in the other direction. A few minutes later the bandits left, and the kangani dashed back to the office to report to me.