The Rose of Singapore (37 page)

Senior Aircraftman Peter Saunders and several other members of the catering section, like so many other airmen and airwomen stationed at Changi, became volunteer helpers and hosts to the wounded. They assisted the medical orderlies in taking patients to the NAAFI, the camp cinema, the cricket and football field, and on short outings down to Changi Village, visiting the beach, and attending friendly gatherings at the Changi Yacht Club. But most of all they seemed to enjoy big beer-drinking parties at Changi's Malcolm Club, where jokes were cracked and there was much talk, laughter and song. It was difficult for Peter to understand how these wounded boys remained so cheerful, their misfortunes joked about, sometimes ruefully. They had survived Korea, not quite intact, but they had survived, and now it seemed as if all stress and tension was flowing from their patched-up bodies. They were alive, and they were returning home. Life ahead of them was tomorrow. Today they celebrated. Peter could only venture a guess as to their innermost feelings. Few spoke of Korea. That in itself was a tragedy left behind, and for them, best forgotten. They spoke of home, of mother, the old man, the missus, a girlfriend, and Blighty.

Now they were fighting a different battle, their own battle. Here, in transit at RAF Changi, they were being helped, but soon they must help themselves, both in mind and body, for the remainder of their lives. But for now, they were fighting, by singing and blotting out horrifying memories, trying to ignore pain and bouts of depression, at seeing a stump that had once been a healthy leg, or burn marks and shrapnel wounds that might never completely heal. Korea, for them, had to be forgotten. Ahead the future lay with wide open doors. It would be up to the wounded individual to make sure that those doors did not close. Peter wondered what his reaction would be if he were in the place of one of those boys. He could not answer such an awful question.

He was glad when the radiogram was turned on and the song “Moon Above Malaya”, sung by a sweet-voiced, well-known and popular Chinese girl from Shanghai, floated soothingly through the beer fumes and cigarette smoke in that crowded great hall at the Malcolm Club. And when “Moon Above Malaya” faded away it was followed by, “Rose, Rose, I Love You”, “Tell Me Why, Why I Love You Like This?”, “Just One More Night, Alone With You I Must Create”, “The Little White Cloud That Cried” and “Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling”.

These were the songs which headed the Hit Parade on Radio Malaya, songs that Peter Saunders enjoyed listening to. Those wounded British soldiers fresh from Korea will remember for the rest of their lives those few days spent in transit at RAF Changi, Singapore.

Day after day the wants of the procession of arriving wounded were tended to; evenings were reserved for entertainment. Meanwhile, as the days and weeks passed, the volume of wounded slackened until it became a trickle flowing through the camp; then that trickle thinned to a mere handful, the wounded having been rerouted home to the UK.

One of the last cases to depart from Changi, a frail, freckle-faced youngster who Peter escorted to the plane one scorching afternoon, said philosophically, “We can teach them a lot, and they can teach us a lot. If only we could get together peacefully with our enemies, it would be a happier world.”

Peter agreed, and said, “Good luck, John.”

Dwelling upon John's last words, Peter watched as the hospital plane took off for England, and he was still pondering them when it disappeared from view into a steamy haze hanging over the jungle of Johore.

And now, after weeks of caring for the wounded, it was time for him to return to work at the sergeants' mess, and to his profitable sergeants' mess fish and chips shop. Also, babysitting for the Camerons. But most enjoyably, to spending more time with his adorable Lai Ming.

21

On 2 June 1953, throughout the world, loyal subjects of the British Empire celebrated Coronation Day—the crowning in Westminster Abbey of their sovereign, their lovely young monarch, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

The citizens of the tiny British colonial island of Singapore celebrated this once-in-a-lifetime event in spectacular style. Boldly, and with great reverence to their new monarch, they transformed the already gay and colourful city into one bedecked with Union Jacks and buntings, red, white and blue streamers and banners, millions of glittering coloured lights and countless jewelled crowns all painted gold. Anticipating this memorable day, gardeners had worked diligently in every city park preparing the soil and planting millions of plants, which now bloomed red, white and blue in massive displays of colour. And in brightly illuminated shopfronts the message ‘Long Live The Queen' was splashed across banners in red upon gold displaying the peoples' respect and goodwill towards their new ruler. On this day no talk was heard of independence.

In honour of the Coronation, Singapore's rich diversity of ethnic groups united as one to celebrate this day joyously and with devotion towards the island's new ruler. The British, Chinese, Indians and Malays were all her subjects, she their ruler. With warmth in their hearts towards their new monarch, the people of Singapore rejoiced.

The Chinese population accepted Queen Elizabeth II as their ‘number one' even though she was a woman, and they showed their reverence and respect for her in their own special way. After dusk had fallen on Coronation Day, a two-hundred-foot dragon, belching great gusts of fire from huge nostrils to ward off evil spirits from the queen during her reign, weaved a crazy pattern through the waters of the outer harbour. Illuminated by a thousand coloured lights, the dragon was towed hither and thither by small boats without lights which, in the darkness of the vast harbour, could not be seen from the shore. Thus, the fiery dragon, an awesome sight, rode the swell in lone magnificent splendour.

Closer to shore, junks and
sampans,
coated in fresh, gay-coloured paint, lost their normal drab appearance, enhanced by new sails in red, purple and gold, and by great red banners splashed with gold Chinese character writings proclaiming ‘God Save the Queen'. In a warm breeze, red and gold buntings fluttered gaily from mastheads, and fire-crackers hanging from yardarms loudly snapped and crackled as they leapt up the masts and spat sparks from off lowered booms.

Not to be outdone, the Indian population erected two man-made, illuminated, larger-than-life elephants on either side of one street, their trunks reaching inward towards the centre of the street. On their backs and heads the two elephants carried Royal Coats of Arms, and between the tips of their outstretched trunks they held a colossal replica of the crown which the queen would wear at her Coronation.

Mounted on the roof of the tallest building in Singapore, the newly opened Cathay Building, was a brightly-illuminated crown, where, immediately below the crown, a brightly-lit, intricately designed royal coach drawn by four horses moved clockwise electronically around the top of the building. And below, at the Cathay Theatre, the words ‘A Queen Is Crowned' shone from thousands of clear, brilliant electric lights.

At the Capitol Theatre, where the picture ‘The Miracle of Fatima' was being shown, the whole front of the building was adorned by Union Jacks and a colossal banner proclaiming ‘Long Live the Queen'. An equally huge plaque of a Union Jack with a crown above it adorned the roof, reaching for the sky in majestic splendour.

The day was declared a national holiday. Many British colonial officials and military officers played cricket and drank gin and tonic, whereas British servicemen, other ranks of course, drank beer and played football, often against swift and agile Chinese players.

There were street parades, too, not only by the military but also by various ethnic groups, joyfully marching in colourful display, with bands blaring, flags flying and fire-crackers popping everywhere to ward off evil spirits.

All British military personnel, except for those detailed for parades or performing necessary duties, were given the day off. And all were issued a chit, which could be exchanged in the NAAFI for a free soft drink or a bottle of beer of their choice with which to ‘splice the mainbrace' and to drink the Queen's health. Also, all military personnel were issued two hundred State Express cigarettes, twenty to a tin. These flat, gold-coloured tins, collectors items really, had the inscribed words ‘State Express 555' displayed on their lids. Below these words was a picture of the Royal Coat of Arms and the words ‘Coronation June 1953. HM Queen Elizabeth II.' At the bottom of the lid was the company's address, ‘210 Piccadilly, London' and finally, in small letters, the words, ‘Made in England'.

Peter Saunders gave away eight of his ten tins of State Express cigarettes. Those he chose to receive a tin were Charlie, the number one cook, Yip, the number two cook, Kah Seng, the kitchen boy, Chuff Box, the junior kitchen boy, Wang, the head waiter, Yong, the barman, little old Sew Sew, the camp's seamstress, and Wan Ze, Lai Ming's
amah.
Lai Ming graciously accepted the ninth tin as a souvenir, and for the same reason Peter kept the tenth.

Now, hand in hand, Lai Ming walked with Peter Saunders along brightly lit Stamford Road, then along St Andrew's Road, passing a brightly illuminated St Andrew's Cathedral, and onward until they reached the waterfront where they could clearly see the fiery Chinese dragon.

“Queen Elijabef is my queen as well as yours, isn't she?” asked a serious Lai Ming looking up into Peter's face.

Peter chuckled. However much he corrected Lai Ming, there were letters in the alphabet, which she could never pronounce no matter how hard she tried. The letter Z became J and TH became F making the word Elizabeth particularly difficult for her to pronounce.

“Yes,” Peter assured her. “Queen Elizabeth is our queen, yours and mine.”

Lai Ming smiled knowingly, nodded her head in approval, and was satisfied.

Three months after the festivities surrounding the Coronation had died down, Peter, now back to his regular routine of afternoons at the beach, fish and chips evenings and the frequent nights with Rose, found himself sitting in the kitchen of the airmens' mess with his best friend Rick. Both now had girlfriends in Singapore and were enthusiastically comparing notes when the ringing of the phone at his elbow interrupted him. Lifting the receiver, he said, “Hello. SAC Saunders speaking. Duty cook, sergeants' mess.”

“Oh! Hello SAC Saunders. So I've finally contacted you. This is SHQ Movements Section. SAC Williams here,” came back the brisk reply.

Movements Section, those very words sent a sudden sickening shiver through Peter. “Oh, Christ. Now what?” he heard himself saying under his breath. A call from Movements could mean only one thing, a new posting. But it couldn't be back to Malaya with his malaria. Perhaps he was being posted back to Hong Kong. He didn't want to jump to conclusions but his mind raced. Could this call be merely a message advising him of impending new arrivals at the sergeants' mess? Normally such messages came through a different office at SHQ but perhaps procedures had changed and they were now coming through Movements. “Hello. Yes.” Peter heard himself saying, his voice filled with uncertainty.

“Ah, yes, SAC Saunders. Could you report to Movements sometime today. You've been posted. I've a form here for you to fill in.”

Posted. That one word hit Peter so hard he suddenly felt weak at the knees. “Posted!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “To where?”

“Oh, not too far away, and not for long. It's to a place called Fraser's Hill, up in the Highlands of Malaya.”

“The Highlands of Malaya?”

“Yes. You're to spend a month up there on detachment from here. Changi will remain your parent unit.”

“But why am I being sent to Fraser's Hill?” blurted out a dismayed Peter Saunders. “I'm not supposed to return to Malaya. I'm on medical repat' from KL. I've had malaria.”

“I know. I have your file in front of me. However, there's nothing written on it about you working as a cook at Fraser's Hill. It seems they're sending you up with a bunch of other chaps who are marksmen with a rifle. You are a marksman, aren't you?”

“I haven't fired a rifle since I first joined the RAF nearly three years ago.”

“Is that so? Well, I suppose the powers-that-be consider that once a marksman, always a marksman.”

“But I'm a cook. I'm not in the bloody RAF regiment,” said Peter, exasperated at the news.

“Look here, old chap, you sound pissed off over this posting but it's not my fault, this is Movements. We instruct you as to where you are going, by what means of transport, and when. Nothing more.”

“I know. But where the hell is Fraser's Hill? And what am I supposed to be doing there with a rifle? And when am I supposed to be going?”

“Very soon is the answer to your last question. Can you come down to see me at SHQ this afternoon, say, before three?”

Dazed, Peter said, “Yes.”

“Good. As for Fraser's Hill, there's a small RAF radar unit at the summit. The camp's main purpose these last few months, though, is a place for R and R, a health camp at a high altitude. It's about 5000 feet above sea level, so I've been told, where the climate is dry and cool.”

“But where is it?”

“It's in the highlands in the southern part of Pahang, a little north of the Selangor border.”

“God, I still can't believe it!”

“You can't believe what?”

“Oh, never mind. I never wanted to see that part of Malaya again.”

“Well, unfortunately, you are going to see it.”

“Fuck it!” exclaimed Peter, exasperated.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I'm just mad at being posted away from here.”

“It'll only be for a month. Look, come over to SHQ and I'll give you all the gen. We'll get your clearance chit signed and you'll be able to collect your air passage form at the same time. You'll need to attend a casual pay parade tomorrow.”