Peter Saunders sat at the rear of the lorry, at the side of his friend Rick. Both of them, as well as the few other veterans of the jungle, had very mixed emotions. They had experienced the cruel, neutral jungle, and were not ignorant of the potentialities that lay concealed amidst its tranquillity. During this period of time, danger always seemed to lurk there. As for Peter Saunders, the sense of foreboding he had felt when with Rose yesterday evening remained. But, except for this nagging feeling and the thoughts of being away from Rose, on looking at Rick, he felt both happy and thankful at having him at his side. Not only would it be a pleasant trip together, he told himself, but also they would enjoy a happy-go-lucky month at Fraser’s Hill. He had heard that at the camp there was an archery range and a small sports section where one could borrow a bow and a quiver of arrows. He smiled to himself as he thought of Rick and himself playing at being Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, although it was no Sherwood Forest surrounding the small village and RAF camp at the summit of Fraser’s Hill, but instead the almost impenetrable jungle.
Guarding the rear, both Peter and Rick rested their weapons on a pile of new mattresses bound for the camp at Fraser’s Hill. Again Peter checked the safety catch on his rifle to make sure it was on. A flick of the finger, rapid bolt action and a squeeze on the trigger was all it needed for instant action. He was about to speak to Gerald Rickie, who was squinting towards the guardroom and camp exit, when, in a cloud of dust, a jeep drew up at the armoury and out climbed a tough-looking flying officer of the RAF Regiment. A heavy service revolver hung in its holster from the officer’s hip, and an impressive bushy black moustache hid neither the scowl nor the deep scar on the man’s weather-beaten face. Drawing on a black cheroot, he strode between the two lorries in which the men waited, puffed out a cloud of smoke and stood there, almost menacingly, his long arms hanging down his sides like those of an ape.
Looking up at the many inquiring faces peering down at him, he greeted them with, “Good morning one and all,” in a loud, regimental tone of voice.
“Good morning, sir,” came mumbled replies from both lorries.
“I’m your officer in charge of this party. My name’s Morgan. Flying Officer Henry Morgan. No relation to Henry Morgan the pirate but just as much a bastard to anyone who don’t follow my orders. Is that understood?”
Murmuring followed among the men in the back of the lorries, and a few said, “Yes, sir.”
Again they became silent as the flying officer exhaled more smoke and gave a dry sort of cough, as if clearing his throat, before continuing in a loud voice, “OK, chaps, just a little pep talk before we move off. As your officer in charge, I expect each and everyone of you to obey any and all commands I give without question, and at the double. This must be understood by all, right from the beginning. You must pay attention to everything I’m about to say. If you don’t, lives may be at risk, perhaps your own. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” answered many voices in unison.
“Good. As you probably know, we are bound for Fraser’s Hill. The route can become quite sticky at times, and when I say sticky, I mean downright dangerous. We shall be travelling through areas occupied by terrorists whose sole aim is to kill you. Therefore, I expect every one of you to keep your eyes open. And when I say open, I mean for you to be fully alert from the moment we leave here until we arrive at our destination. Once we are on the road, you will look outward the whole time. You will note everyone and everything, and you will consider everyone and everything a potential life-threatening danger. So remember, you must remain alert.”
“He’s no joker,” whispered Peter Saunders to Rick.
“Silence,” roared the flying officer. “Once we’re moving, there’ll be no smoking, as little yapping as possible and keep your hands on your weapons. But no rounds in the breech, not yet. Those with rounds already in the breech, unload them. Now!”
Peter and Rick looked at each other and shrugged. An airman sitting next to Peter withdrew a round from the breech of his rifle. Other airmen were doing the same.
“OK. Next!” Swivelling around, Flying Officer Morgan indicated with a wave of his cheroot the stoic corporal of the RAF Regiment standing behind each of the two Bren guns. “Both you Bren gunners are old hands at this job,” he continued, “but you must not be complacent. I need not remind you that you must remain behind your weapons at all times. Remember, peoples’ lives depend upon you.” He turned to young Pilot Officer Graham who was standing at the cab door of the first lorry, a bored and indifferent look on his face. “You, sir, will be the driver’s mate in the first vehicle. Forget your revolver. You’ll keep the Sten gun in your hands ready at all times for instant action. Is that clear, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” said Pilot Officer Graham. “But I don’t know how to use a, what did you call it?”
“A Sten gun,” barked Flying Officer Morgan. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn how to use it when and if the time comes. Just point the weapon at the enemy and squeeze the trigger.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the young officer. Forcing a smile, he said, “I hope there’ll be no reason for me to use it. Shall I climb aboard now?”
“Yes, by all means, but please stay alert.” Then, turning his attention to the riflemen who lined the sides and rear of both lorries, he said,” I want your rifles at the ready as soon as we’re the other side of KL. Each lorry must have a complete circle of armament protection, also a complete circle of visual protection, so stay alert. There will be no sleeping. Anyone I catch sleeping I’ll deal with immediately on reaching our destination. Is that fully understood?”
Answers of, “Yes, sir,” came from the ranks.
Nodding his approval and with his bushy moustache twitching, Flying Officer Morgan pushed forward a square, stone-like chin as he surveyed the two lorry loads of men he was about to conduct up Fraser’s Hill. All were greenhorns as far as he was concerned; just little boys recently weaned from their mothers’ titties. They were not like him, and never would be. Life in the Regiment had certainly given him the sort of life he loved during the five years he had served in the toughest section of the Royal Air Force. Previously, in World War II, he had worn a red beret, had parachuted into Arnhem, and there, single-handed, had destroyed three German Tiger tanks and killed twenty or more German soldiers before being captured and imprisoned. Then came the end of the war, his release from a POW camp, and his return to England as a civilian, only to find his wife of four years seeking a divorce from him and living in luxury with a top politician. Disgusted with his homecoming and with the feeling that never again could he settle down to England’s boring lifestyle, he had, within weeks of his demob from the parachute regiment, enlisted in the RAF Regiment. He had no regrets. The Regiment gave him the chance to make use of his power of command, and his shrewdness and coolness when in action and facing danger. Long ago he had realized that there was something about him that all those under his command admired, respected and trusted, even though he did appear to some of his men as a five-foot-six, broad shouldered, arrogant little ape in an RAF uniform. His ex-wife had called him a bald-headed, bombastic little bastard. But, nevertheless, he was a genuine leader of men, so much so that all those in the two lorries that morning immediately felt safer by having him in command. Their eyes were riveted on him, his weather-beaten face, and the heavy service revolver hanging loosely in its holster almost to the man’s knee. For the most part he wore an RAF uniform, meaning khaki drill long pants and jacket. But instead of an RAF blue beret adorned with a shiny brass badge, he wore his old red beret with his paratrooper badge still pinned to it, plus a black metal RAF badge that would not glint in the sunlight.
“By Jove, he’s another little Napoleon,” someone quipped.
There were titters of laughter, followed by another roar of, “Silence,” from Flying Officer Morgan, which brought immediate results.
“OK, men, you’ve had your little joke, now pay attention.” Flying Officer Morgan then continued by saying,
“We shall be travelling north from here, just our two trucks, to an army unit at a place called Kuala Kubu Baru. There, we shall join a convoy of both military and civilian vehicles, and from thereon we shall be ascending Fraser’s Hill where the likelihood of meeting trouble will be at its highest. Regardless, immediately after passing the guardroom of this camp, I want you to be on your toes. Then, once we’ve passed through KL, you must remember that every tree, every shrub or bush, every patch of tall grass, every hillock, slope or even a ditch by the roadside, all are potential ambush positions. When we pass through rubber plantations or areas of jungle you must be even more vigilant. Remember, in any of these places may lurk the man who is about to kill you or the man sitting next to you. It is up to every individual here to study all he sees, quickly, taking in every detail, every movement. Where there is jungle, your eyes must attempt to penetrate it, to seek a hidden enemy. Any questions so far?”
There was a silence among the men at first, then a rather timid voice asked, “Sir, if we see something suspicious, a movement for example that we believe is or could be the enemy, what should we do? Do we report to you, or do we fire at it?”
“Good question! If you believe it’s a man attempting to conceal himself, or if you should see someone in the jungle, immediately open fire on him. He should not be there. And shoot to kill. OK! Are there any more questions?”
There was some muttering among the men but no further questions.
“No? Well, in that case, I’ll now explain the route we’re about to take. First we’ll be passing through the town of Kuala Lumpur. Then, with KL behind us, we’ll be heading along a road that will take us past the Batu Caves. Be especially on your guard when passing through this whole area. The RAF has bombed the shit out of the place but the remnant of a murderous gang of Communist bandits still lurks there. So watch out! After Batu Caves, we shall pass a tall peak known as Tiger Tooth Rock. That whole area has been heavily bombed too, both night and day, so I don’t expect trouble there. Regardless, keep your eyes open. After Tiger Tooth Rock we’ll pass through farmland, mainly paddy fields and flat, low-lying land, until we arrive at Kuala Kubu Baru. There we’ll join an armed convoy and proceed along a road winding upward through thick jungle. From there onward we’ll be climbing continuously until we reach the RAF station at the summit of Fraser’s Hill.”
With cold steely eyes, Flying Officer Morgan gazed around him at the many young faces listening intently to his every word. “The Gap!” he suddenly shouted. “The Gap is a death trap. It has one hell of a reputation for ambush attacks, and if today we are to encounter the enemy, the Gap is where we are most likely to meet him. So listen carefully to what I say. The Gap is roughly halfway between Kuala Kubu Baru and the summit of Fraser’s Hill. It’s a narrow passage we must take along a road overlooked by hills coated in thick jungle. On the left-hand side of the road there is a drop-off of thousands of feet covered in vegetation. In places the drop-off is sloping, but mostly it’s sheer; straight down. On the right hand side of the road there’s steep hillsides of jungle, which seem to almost hang over you. Later, when we are about to approach the Gap, I shall remind you that this place is a death trap. You must be on your guard the whole time. Don’t relax your vigil for one moment or it may well be your last. Any questions?” Again curt words were being uttered from an impassive face studying those on the two lorries.
This time there was no murmuring, no questions; instead, there was an uneasy silence except for a rifle butt scraping on a lorry’s wooden floor.
“Good! Now everyone pay attention. Should we get ambushed, and by that I mean fired upon, this is what I expect every one of you to do. First, you will return the fire regardless as to whether or not you can see the enemy. You will fire at the point of the gunfire flashes which you may see coming from the jungle or from behind trees or bushes. If you see no flashes, fire into the vicinity of where you believe the firing is coming from. If you just don’t know where the firing is coming from, keep on firing anywhere into the jungle. You may not hit an enemy, but you may check his rate of fire, or even cause him to retreat. He won’t show himself, I assure you. Our lorries will keep moving, and you will not cease firing until I give the order.”
Looking to where the drivers sat in their cabs, he again gave a short cough, as if again clearing his throat, and then continued. “If we, or the whole convoy, should get stopped, halted shall I say, by a driver getting shot and we are still in the ambush area, everyone of you will get clear of the wagon you’re in as fast as you can; every man-jack of you. And when you jump, you will go over the side facing downhill, even though it may be quite a drop. You must go over the side and downward. Don’t worry whether you roll, slide, fall, or do a couple of somersaults; panic if you will the first few yards down into the undergrowth, but get concealed quickly. And don’t forget your rifle or whatever weapon you’re supposed to be carrying. Your gun is your best friend. I say go downhill because the enemy is almost certain to set their ambush facing downhill. Don’t try going uphill towards him. He will pick you off before you can say ‘fuck it’. And don’t think you’re safe by crawling underneath a vehicle. Ricocheting bullets will soon finish you off. Remember, go downhill, and fast. Once you are under the cover of the jungle, remain quiet and motionless for a while. Get your breath back. Get your bearings. Then try to form up into parties of threes and fours, and, if possible, proceed to stalk the enemy and to retaliate. Once again, though, if we’re ambushed and your vehicle is stopped, go downhill. Let the enemy lose you. Then, you find the enemy.”
He gazed upward at the many faces peering down at him from the backs of the two lorries. He moved his eyes slowly from face to face.
“Are there any questions?” he asked. But none came. “No?” He shrugged his broad, ape-like shoulders. “Remember, no nodding off.” Then, “All right, men, that’s all.”
“That’s enough,” said Rick, under his breath.
“Yes. ‘Twas quite a mouthful,” acknowledged Peter.
Turning to Warrant Officer Jack Perkins who still stood by his side, Flying Officer Morgan said to him, “Warrant Officer Perkins, you’ll sit up front with the other driver.”
“Very good, sir.”
Climbing aboard the lorry Peter and Rick were in, Flying Officer Morgan positioned himself at the side of the RAF Regiment Bren gunner. “OK drivers. When you’re ready,” he shouted.
Engines moaned as bottom gears were engaged. Then, slowly, the two Bedfords headed towards the camp exit. There, the camp barrier pole was raised by an SP who saluted them as they passed him at the guardroom. Proceeding along a narrow, winding road, with RAF Kuala Lumpur behind them and the town of Kuala Lumpur two miles ahead, the two lorries gathered speed amid great clouds of dust. It hadn’t rained yet that day at Kuala Lumpur. But it would.
25
In great heat and swirling dust, and exactly on schedule, the two Bedford lorries left RAF Kuala Lumpur for Fraser’s Hill. The wooden seat on which Peter sat was uncomfortable but so far only the juddering and jolting of the Bedford lorry as it struck potholes in the road caused him any discomfort. The high-pitched whine of the Bedford’s engine dropped in tone as the driver changed to a lower gear and swung the wheel sharply to the left; the truck veered off the narrow road from the airstrip and onto the main Malacca-Kuala Lumpur highway.
Suddenly a near-deafening roar drowned out all other sound as three RAF bombers streaked low overhead, their wing-racks loaded with rockets and bombs as they headed towards yet another strike at known Communist terrorists’ hideouts.
Minutes later, the two lorries reached the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur where, on each side of the road, there were dirty, old wooden shacks crammed with Chinese families. Peter glanced at the deep monsoon drains running parallel with the road, noting that they were still cluttered with garbage and swarming with flies.
Among the shacks grew clumps of banana trees that had wide, tapering leaves shading doorways and open windows. Peter noticed th
at not one of those plants bore fruit, perhaps because they were too young. But they were not too young to shade the many thin and wiry men, clad only in cotton shorts, bronzed and aged by the sun, squatting in the dust on bony haunches, playing mahjong. These men were much too absorbed in their game to look up as the two lorries passed them by. Only when they needed to spit, to swear, or when the wooden tiles were shuffled did they look up from the game. Children were everywhere, playing, laughing, shrieking and screaming. Many of the children appeared to be undernourished, almost all of them bore sores, scabs and scars on neglected bodies, and all had shaven heads. Chinese mothers looked on, appearing neat and clean amid the filth of the place. Almost all these women wore dark blue or black cotton suits or samfoo, the wide trousers known as ‘foo’ needing no belt to hold them up, just a twist and a tuck in at the waist. The jacket or ‘sam’ was buttoned up to the neck, generally with a high collar, and done up by tiny cotton buttons slipped into little loops of cotton thread. The whole two-piece garment hung loosely about the wearer, a cool shading dress sensible in a climate such as that of Malaya.
Tethered to a pole by a long rope, a water buffalo, dangling a bell from its stumpy neck, grazed on scorched, yellowish grass. Most probably, thought Peter, its owner now drank tea in the nearby coffeeshop, which did business next to a Chinese temple. Glistening with sweat, two near-naked coolies jogged along a dusty trail, both burdened down by a huge bale of thatching reeds slung at each end of a bamboo pole lying diagonally across pitifully bony shoulders. Vendors of peanuts and sweetmeats squatted beside their wares, but there appeared to be few customers. Minutes later the village was passed through, and forgotten.
The Rose of Singapore Page 32
