by Boris Hembry
Having showered and changed, and got outside a stiff brandy, I said to John Craig, ‘John, you certainly put the wind up me, firing so close to my head like that.’ He replied, ‘Sorry, I didn’t fire a shot. I couldn’t find the safety catch!’ It was only then that I realised that it had been enemy bullets buzzing like bees so close to my ears.
After breakfast I returned to the hospital to find that Geoff had been transferred to Johore Bahru hospital under army escort. It was a horrible wound, as the bastards had been using dumdums which had blown a large hole in his stomach.
I am glad to say that Geoff made a good recovery, to spend many more years on Ulu Remis, and to attain the acting general managership of the estate. I was particularly pleased that the brave Special Constable who stood by his post, in the full knowledge that he was exposed and heavily outnumbered, received a most deserved Commendation from the Chief of Police, and a bonus from the estate, for his gallantry.
We escorted Craig and Reid down to Rengam, said our goodbyes, and called in to see some friends on their rubber estate, on the main road. We refused lunch, having had a late breakfast, but after the second drink I began to feel very queer, feeling colder and colder. I was not in any pain, but I soon passed out, and came to on a bed some minutes later. I remember to this day the exquisite feeling of the cold, clean sheets and closing my eyes, remaining still until my strength returned. The next thing I recall was Twitch, in response to a telephone call from Jean, and the estate dresser bending over me, the latter giving me an injection which kept me asleep until the next morning. This was a particularly brave effort by Twitch and the dresser, for their journey was over eight miles or so of dangerous roads, with at least one gang of bandits known to be active in the area, and the return journey at night along the same way. I am sorry that the name of the dresser escapes me, as I am equally in his debt. As I have said before, I had more confidence in estate dressers than in many doctors I have known.
Twitch came over the next morning and drove us back to Ulu Remis, where I was immediately put to bed again and where I stayed for two days before feeling strong enough to get up and resume my normal life. My ‘turn’ was put down to delayed reaction to the excitement of the morning, but in view of what happened shortly afterwards, and the fact that I had experienced many other close shaves and been under far heavier enemy fire before without similar results, it made me doubt the diagnosis on reflection.
Soon after this John Twitchen and I were visiting Hay division when an excited Malay lorry driver drove up to the Fergusons’ bungalow, where we were having tiffin, with the news that he had spotted a gang of heavily-armed CTs at the edge of the jungle reserve that divided Hay and Home divisions, and he said he suspected that they were laying an ambush for Twitch and myself.
We telephoned the military and explained exactly where the bandits had last been seen, and agreed to delay our departure for home long enough for the Gurkhas to investigate. An hour or so later we left to return, passing a full company of the men from Nepal on their sweep through the oil palms and jungle. But the enemy had fled, presumably because their main targets had not materialised. We learned later that there were over 20 CTs in the gang, and that they did indeed intend to murder Twitch and myself and, having done that, to have attacked the factory. The Malay lorry driver undoubtedly saved our lives, and he was suitably rewarded.
My time at Ulu Remis was getting short. Steve Thorburn’s return, at the end of September, was typical of the man. He was expected for tiffin. He arrived, considerably the worse for drink, at dusk, beating the curfew by minutes. He had spent the afternoon with the Fergusons and openly boasted to me that there was no need for a formal handover as he had learned all he needed to know, including my moving the petrol pumps. I was furious and made my feelings very plain. I told him it was outrageous that he should not have left the handing over to me rather to my subordinate, and that Guthrie’s would certainly hear about it. The subsequent two or three days were tricky and Steve was seldom sober after seven in the evening. Never once did we venture out into the fields as he seemed more intent in questioning the staff, both European and Asian, to discover which of his many rackets I had put a stop to. I was not sorry to leave Ulu Remis, but optimistic about my long term future there, and already planning the changes that I would be making.
Disaster (September 1951 – September 1952)
We drove in convoy, my car followed by two estate lorries loaded with our luggage to Malacca, and down the lonely road to our new home. Because of its isolation, Bukit Asahan, I was to learn very quickly, unlike most estates in this predominantly Malay-populated state, had become the focus of attention for bandits based in the jungles around Mount Ophir. Curfew was from 6 pm until 6 am, which meant there could be very little socialising even with the few neighbours there were, and trips to Malacca were confined very much to daytime sorties to the cold storage. Malacca was a small, attractive, seaside town, with 1,000 years of history. In the 16th century it was colonised by the Portuguese, and then by the Dutch before the British. Many of the old buildings remained, and it was interesting to see their various architectural styles. And being mainly Malay it had an easy-going charm that was absent from most other Malayan towns where the Chinese dominated.
We had a company of Green Howards on the estate, and their presence added much to our sense of security. However, we did not see as much of the officers as we had hoped as the curfew applied equally to off-duty soldiers as it did for the rest of us, and anyway they were continuously out on patrol around Mount Ophir, where they had several good kills. We often had a grandstand view of the RAF bombing the mountain, although whether they did so in response to known targets or merely to shake up the enemy, I never discovered. I had meant to ask the senior RAF officer who sometimes attended the Federal War Council meetings, but always forgot. The Royal Artillery also regularly brought 25-pounder field guns on to the estate and fired onto the mountain slopes. They certainly made a lot of noise, but whether they inflicted any casualties again I never knew. I suspect that it was used to keep the gunners’ hand in at their gunnery rather than anything else.
When I took over Bukit Asahan I also inherited the overseeing of two Chinese-managed estates which, although adding to my income, involved a great deal of personal danger, because of the inaccessibility and loneliness of the properties. I made a point of varying my monthly visits and never forewarning anyone that I would be coming. Also, I always travelled alone, without an escort. I did not want the worry of the possibility of Specials being wounded and maybe having to be abandoned to savage mutilation by the terrorists. The Green Howards did patrol the area, but, quite rightly, were not prepared to co-ordinate their sweeps with my visits. In the event all my visits went off without incident, although it was certainly nerve-racking and only added to the strain that I was under.
We were deeply shocked to hear the news, on 6 October , that Sir Henry Gurney had been murdered whilst on his way to Fraser’s Hill. He was travelling, together with Lady Gurney and his private secretary, with a police escort, and was ambushed on the main Kuala Kubu to Pahang road by a heavily armed gang of CTs, estimated to have numbered at least 40. The first burst of fire killed His Excellency outright, and severely wounded the driver, bringing the car to a halt. Lady Gurney was unhurt, but the escort suffered several casualties in an action that lasted the best part of 20 minutes, before the bandits withdrew.
The High Commissioner’s death caused tremendous gloom throughout Malaya. All of us who knew Sir Henry personally felt a great loss. His was not a dynamic personality, but his experience in Palestine brought some much-needed realism about the problems we faced against an armed insurrection. I was summoned to KL for a hastily convened meeting of the Federal War Council. It was chaired by M. J. Hogan, the acting officer administrating the Government, in the absence of Vincent Del Tufoe, the deputy high commissioner, who was on leave.
The first question to be answered was how did the CTs know that the High Commissio
ner would be travelling on that road and at that time, as it was generally accepted they were lying in wait. Who at Government House was privy to the travel arrangements? I see from the minutes which I retain that we agreed it was most probable that a member of staff at King’s House was a member of Min Yuen. I queried how it was that the High Commissioner had been travelling along one of the most dangerous roads in Malaya, with good ambush positions virtually its entire length, without a large military escort, and sections of the army pre-positioned at reasonable intervals along the whole route as had happened during Anthony Eden’s visit to Sungei Siput three years previously. I admired Sir Henry’s insistence in travelling everywhere openly as the Queen’s official representative, in his Rolls Royce, with the minimum of fuss, but the bandits’ success gave a tremendous impetus to their cause, and caused many an ordinary citizen to question the sense of his loyalty to a Government that was unable to protect even its head.
But his untimely death did lead to the appointment of Sir Gerald Templer as the next high commissioner, who was given almost total powers by the new conservative Government in London, to prosecute the war against terrorism in the manner that he and his advisers on the spot thought necessary. It is said that Winston Churchill, whilst on a visit to Canada, ran his finger down the Army List until he reached Templer’s name. He was in England and was sent for. After a chat about everything under the sun except Malaya the PM growled, ‘Malaya. Total powers. Heady stuff. Use it sparingly.’ Sir Gerald returned to England, and in a matter of days arrived in Kuala Lumpur, with more powers than had been bestowed on any soldier since Cromwell. He was lucky, too, to have the backing of a strong government in Britain, and in Oliver Lyttelton (later Lord Chandos) a colonial secretary who was determined to smash the Communists at almost all costs. For the terrorists it was a lethal combination.
In the interim the Government of Malaya was administered by Del Tufoe, who chaired the Federal War Council meetings. One of these was attended by Oliver Lyttelton. I thought him a tremendous man, large in every respect – physically, mentally, breadth of vision, grasp of detail, and sense of humour. I sat next to him and was able to brief him on recent happenings out on the estates before the meeting got under way. At one stage he suggested that we recruit Sakai as agents and spies. I got increasingly irritated as the argument against the idea went on and on, mainly on the grounds of expense and that it would be impossible to recruit and train several thousands. I could hold back no longer and said, ‘Mr Chairman, I am quite sure that the Secretary of State had in mind to recruit and train no more than a dozen or so.’ Lyttelton turned to me and said, ‘Thank you, Hembry.’
That night the Del Tufoes held a dinner at King’s House to which Jean and I were invited. Afterwards, when most of the guests were leaving, Lyttelton asked me to stay behind for a talk. In addition to Del Tufoe and the Colonial Secretary, there were General Briggs, Nicol Gray – with whom Jean and I were staying – and only one or two other senior police and army officers. We discussed the whole sorry situation until well after midnight. Someone raised the matter of Gurney’s successor, but Lyttleton did not enlighten us, except to say that the rumour in England was that Field Marshal Montgomery was being considered. I had the temerity, as the only ‘unofficial’ present, to say that I considered him to be unsuitable, as the Emergency here in Malaya, in my opinion, was not Monty’s kind of war, and that Bill Slim was the man. Lyttelton, with only the mildest sarcasm, said that he would pass on my recommendation, although Slim had just been made Chief of the Imperial General Staff, so it might be difficult.
Eventually Lyttelton said that he had been working for over 16 hours that day and that his trade union would object. I made him laugh when I said, not to worry, I felt sure that he could get special dispensation from our trade union friend Mr Brazier.
I was to meet Oliver Lyttelton again when on leave in England in 1952. He had asked me to call in to see him at the Colonial Office for a private discussion, before inviting me to the House of Commons for Prime Minister’s Question Time. Actually to see and hear the Old Man speaking in the House of Commons was one of my life’s great privileges.
Sir John Hay wrote to me on 17 October 1951 ‘in strictest confidence’ saying that he had been asked by ‘a senior member of the Government’ for his views on certain matters in connection with the Emergency. Whilst I have unaccountably lost Sir John’s letter, I have my reply before me as I write. I started by saying that the Federal War Council meetings I had attended gave me no optimism for an early cessation of hostilities. I stressed that it was not an ‘Emergency’, but all-out war. I said that in a private conversation I had had with General Briggs he said that he had found the Socialist Government at home uncooperative at times, and appeared unable or unwilling to grasp the enormity of the Malayan problem, and that he ‘did not know the answer’. He had also agreed with my criticism that plans made in KL were often inefficiently carried out on the ground, by second-rate officials. I went on to say that I had overheard Sir Henry Gurney tell the Malayan Chinese community leader, Dato Tan Cheng Loc, that only the Chinese could save the country, and that special efforts should be made to convince them that it was in their best interest to support the Government, for they would be the major sufferers in the event of our losing the battle.
I said that danger to life and property was increasing rather than diminishing after more than three years of conflict. I pointed out that, to date, 60 planters had been killed since June 1948. (I did not contemplate at the time that this figure was to reach 100 by 1955. Thus, when this number is added to the number of planters who lost their lives in the war, the total killed in the years 1941 to 1955 exceeded 350, more than one planter in three.)
In answer to Sir John’s specific questions, I replied:
1. The combatant Communists appeared to be better trained and, at the start of the Emergency, even better equipped than we were. Even now, after three years, still too few of our troops could operate in the jungle to the same effectiveness as the CTs. The latest intelligence was that they still numbered between four and five thousand, so they were experiencing but little difficulty in replacing casualties. According to captured documents Communists had infiltrated into executive positions in most trade unions (the familiar pattern, even in the United Kingdom) and other sensitive positions (Government House, for example). I suggested that our Mr Brazier had been only too successful.
2. I emphasised the lack of co-operation that still existed, to my certain knowledge and personal experience, between States, and even Police Circles within States, frustrating plans that were now being put into effect to deprive the bandits of food and information to force them out into the open where they could be dealt with more easily (The Briggs Plan). Eventually this was so all-embracing that estate workers were not permitted to take food to work, and Europeans required a special permit to collect from the local cold storage.
3. Regarding estate costs, I pointed out that, as the labour forces were not allowed to take food to work, they could only work six hours per day instead of eight, but were still paid for the eight – which, according to Brazier’s trades unionists, was only entirely fair, but meant that the Communists had effectively raised our tapping and other field costs by twenty-five per cent – this on top of the cost of all the security measures we were required to take. I gave my opinion that, not only was payment for eight hours work unethical, but would inevitably establish the principle of a six hour working day.
4. I suggested that planters’ morale was pessimistic, rather than low. It did not appear to the man on the estate that any progress had been made towards victory over the Communists. Added to which, the feelings of frustration caused by the loss of efficiency on the estates, the curfew that confined us to our bungalows night after night, the need for eternal vigilance, and the almost daily news of fellow planters being murdered or wounded, was very morale sapping.
I ended my letter by saying that the major part of government policies now being put
into effect had been suggested by myself and, for all I knew, other planters back in 1948, and I added, for good measure ‘The appointment of a Governor of the calibre of General Slim would inspire more confidence.’
I was not to know then that just such a man would shortly be arriving in Malaya.
I recall that in 1949, in one of my several memoranda to the powers-that-be, I strongly advocated compulsory service for all able-bodied men, of all nationalities. This was finally made law in December 1951.
One night I awoke sometime after midnight with the most acute indigestion, and pains down my left arm. I sat on the bedside, in agony, chewing Rennie indigestion tablets until the pain eased. I had a repeat performance in my office towards the end of January 1952, but I dismissed it as indigestion, probably caused by an ulcer – ‘All the worry of working for Guthrie’s, you know’.
We spent that Christmas at the Wittington Bungalow at Frasers Hill, with Len and Vera Cooper from Guthrie’s Singapore office, having followed exactly the same route up there as Sir Henry Gurney.
Just before we left to return to Asahan I received a message from Sir John Hay, who was visiting Malaya, asking me to call in at the KL office as he wished to see me urgently. I wondered, like a small boy called to his headmaster’s study, what it was all about. Within minutes of our meeting he asked me to take over Ulu Remis as soon as possible, as Steve Thorburn was to go on ‘accelerated retirement’. He said that he wanted me to get a few months home leave before taking over, and that arrangements were being made to relieve me on Bukit Asahan. Under no circumstances was Thorburn to know why I was going home again after barely 12 months; it would be put about that I was sick and required treatment at home.
