The Rose of Singapore (42 page)

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 that 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.

On entering the city, they passed Kuala Lumpur's railway station, designed in the British ‘Raj' style, the imposing General Post Office building and several more government buildings and hotels until they arrived at the clock tower across from which lay a broad expanse of green, the Padang, where men of many nationalities, all dressed in white, played a very British game of cricket. At the far side of the field, shaded by trees, was the Mock Tudor-style Selangor Club where many a gin and tonic was downed.

The lorries then passed close by a grove of coconut palms, which almost hid from view a mosque built upon a promontory between two rivers, both sluggish and muddy-brown. These dirty-looking rivers gave the city its name,
‘kuala'
meaning ‘river confluence' and
‘lumpur'
meaning ‘muddy'.

The lorries sped onward along a congested Batu Road, the bazaar and shopping centre of KL, where Indian merchants and shopkeepers all but forced those customers who were passing their doorways to enter their gaudy markets; naturally, in a most polite manner and with beaming smiles. “Just look, Johnny! Just look. Come inside,” they would urge. Often, the passer-by, generally a British serviceman, would simply smile and ignore the invitation. But not to be outdone, the wily shopkeeper would then say, “Come in and have a cold beer, Johnny. No need to buy. Just look.” Many potential customers would readily accept the offer of a cold beer, and some time later would emerge from the shop burdened down by purchases they had never intended to buy.

Soon into the countryside again, the two lorries sped past an old Chinese man dressed in the traditional black cotton suit, trudging along the side of the road, burdened down by strings of freshly gathered vegetables hanging from a bamboo pole bouncing upon his narrow shoulders. A few yards behind him, garbed in a black smock, her head completely shaven, trotted a small girl of about ten years of age carrying tools of farming. They look like father and daughter, thought Peter.

Rick interrupted his thoughts by saying, “Look over there! Those must be the Batu Caves,” he said, pointing at a distant mountainous area. “And that must be the Tiger Tooth Rock.”

“So it is!” exclaimed Peter. “Quite a sight, isn't it. No wonder it's called Tiger Tooth Rock. It really does look like a gigantic tooth.”

Indeed, Tiger Tooth Rock did appear somewhat like a gigantic tooth, covered in vegetation and standing tall, its base hidden in the depth of the jungle. The Communist terrorists had long used Batu Caves as their hiding places until blasted out by continuous night and day bombing by planes of the RAF. The caves had almost been demolished, or so it was thought, although it was strongly suspected that terrorists still hid and plotted within the sanctuary of those caves, the entrances camouflaged by rubble from the heavy bombing, and now overgrown by the jungle.

Onward the two lorries sped, rattling and bouncing when their wheels struck potholes. But the road was mostly level and wide, with few bends, and running parallel with the railway line for mile after mile. These first thirty miles were a driver's dream.

On their arrival at a deep gorge between jungle-clad hills known as the Kanching Pass, the road became narrow, twisting like a giant snake beneath cliffs overgrown by sweating green foliage and sweet-smelling flowers growing in a blaze of colour. Also, there were banks of tangled vines, tall grasses and green shrubbery, and everywhere was serene and would have been quiet but for the singing of many birds. It was all so beautiful, yet so very treacherous, with potential ambush positions within every square foot of those hills. There was, though, no movement to be seen; nothing, not even a breeze stirred the undergrowth.

Perhaps it was too quiet for Flying Officer Morgan's liking. “OK men, shove a round up the spout,” he suddenly shouted. “There could be trouble waiting for us in this area.”

Rifle bolts were immediately pulled back and rounds of ammunition pushed into breeches. Men tensed, their anxious eyes seeking hidden enemies. Several slipped the safety catches off their weapons and kept their finger on the trigger. They sweated freely, the seats of their KD pants sticking to the wooden forms on which they sat. Carefully scrutinizing the jungle around them, many of the men expected to hear shots fired at them but Kanching Pass, with all its hidden enemies, was soon left behind, and the two lorries roared out onto an open plain where there were more rice fields.

The lorries passed through the village of Serendah before it too was left behind, and they were on the open road again. Here, rice fields were dotted by islands of banana trees, heavy with hands of green bananas.

As the lorries sped onward, and as the paddy fields were gradually left behind, the awful smell of sun-ripened excrement diminished until eventually the air became breathable again. Now they had arrived among rubber plantations; mile after mile of avenues of trees, each tree bearing a latex cup attached beneath a long, sweeping, freshly made cut on its scarred trunk. Every day those trees had to be tapped, their barks scarred afresh in order to produce the milky sap that would eventually become rubber. Barebacked native tappers moved quietly among the trees, some collecting the cups of latex and transferring it into larger containers, whilst other workers followed, tapping afresh the trees with sharp machetes. The tappers did not look up to wave, smile or shout greetings to the servicemen in the two lorries. Even if they had wished to, they dared not. These rubber tappers, mostly Tamils, were constantly intimidated and often murdered by the terrorists, more especially if they showed any sign of friendship towards the British.