The Plantation (29 page)

‘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.’

I tried to digest this remark. ‘Gone? Where? Where is my father, Ah Kit?’ I knew my voice was rising.

He lowered his head, not looking at me. ‘Dead, Captain. They killed him.’

‘No, no. How did this happen?’ I asked, scarcely believing what I was hearing, but realising the truth of the matter.

‘Tuan Elliott would not leave the estate. He sent us all away. But many of his people would not leave. It was their home, too. Several days after you and the mems left, the Japanese soldiers arrived. Tuan Elliott met them on the steps of the big house and told them that they were not to hurt the plantation workers, who were not at war with Japan. But the Japanese soldiers laughed and one of them shot him. They tied the tuan’s body to a tree in the yard and told us that if anyone touched it they would be shot, too. Then the soldiers went to the kampong and raped many of the women and killed some of the tappers who live there. Ho and I were too frightened to cut down the tuan’s body, but after two or three nights, we decided to try. The Japanese soldiers had found the alcohol that tuan always kept in the house and many of them were drunk, so we quietly moved into the garden and cut down the tuan’s body from the tree and buried it in the kampong, where no one will find it. The Japanese soldiers said nothing the next day because I do not think that they wanted their officers to know that they had been drinking.’

I tried to straighten up. I wanted to leap to my feet but I knew my legs would not hold me. ‘So these soldiers are still in my home?’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘The workers?’

‘All gone away.’

‘The plantation? The trees?’

‘I do not know. I left too.’

‘There’s no one to look after anything. Ah, Bill, this is terrible news.’