The Rose of Singapore (45 page)

In just a matter of a few hours the village had been wiped from the face of the earth, and all its inhabitants slaughtered; all but that one boy, Fong Fook.

Alone, with no food, no shelter, and no one to comfort him in his sorrow, in anger and madness he wandered into the jungle. Knowing that he alone had been spared, he realized that it was now up to him, his duty to his deceased family and to all the dead villagers, to revenge them by killing as many as he could of the barbaric foe. Within the week he met others in the jungle—men, women and children from other villages who, like him, had escaped the oppressors. They talked and consoled one another, and a guerilla force was formed among them to fight the evil tyrants; the revengeful fight against the Japanese had begun.

Because of his coolness and bravery in action, Fong Fook rose quickly to become the leader of more than a score of men, women and children whose sole aim in life was to obstruct and kill the hated invader. They blocked roads, blew up bridges, railway lines and electrical installations. Informers and traitors were put to death slowly in brutal manner. But the guerillas' main goal was to kill Japanese officers and soldiers. The majority of Japanese, those on sentry duty and the like, were quietly and speedily garroted, their bodies hidden in the undergrowth where they became food for wild animals. Seldom were the dead found by the Japanese.

Fong Fook's foremost thoughts, however, were not to speedily kill the enemy, but to capture the enemy alive, and if it were an officer, so much the better. First he would gouge out the man's eyes with his
kris,
then slowly cut off the ears and force the wretch to eat them. He showed no mercy to any Japanese, but treated them as they had treated his elder brother. Most received the same fate, lashed to a fish trap somewhere along the coastline, where he would watch them scream and die as the tide came in and covered them. Every Japanese soldier's fate was sealed the moment he was captured by Fong Fook or any of his followers. When raiding inland, where there were no fish traps, Fong Fook led his captives to a swamp he knew. Once there, he tied them to water-level objects in the swamps, then cut off their genitals, which he tossed as bait to the many hungry crocodile inhabitants. How he laughed at the screams of his victims as the crocodiles glided near to take that first bite.

Many of the women in Malaya were forced to become comfort girls for the pleasures of the Japanese oppressors, and there were a few who willingly became mistresses to the Japanese. The latter, when caught by the guerillas, were seduced by anyone in the gang who wished to make use of them. And when no longer of use these women were taken to the edge of town, tied to palm trees, gagged to muffle their screams, and there disemboweled alive, their bodies slashed open from the vagina upward so that their entrails fell from them. There they remained as a warning to others willing to be mistresses of the Japanese, for them to see and to heed. Cooperating with the enemy meant certain death.

The war ended as suddenly as it had begun, with the Japanese offering their ceremonial swords in surrender to the British down in Singapore. But for Fong Fook the war in the jungle against the hated murderers of his family was not over. He killed many more Japanese officers and men before the last one was finally withdrawn from Malaya. It was not until then that he left the jungle's sheltering cover to start a new life, but as what? How to kill was all he knew.

For a few months he tried his hand at various jobs, mainly as a labourer working long, back breaking hours. He detested this means of livelihood, so that when the Communist Party sought him out and found him doing manual labour, they offered him a paid position of rank within their party. Eagerly he accepted the offer, only to discover that he had signed his name to a group who had recently murdered an English rubber estate owner down in Johore. Also, an uprising against the British had begun and atrocities were being committed against them almost daily. The British quickly reacted. They discovered that Fong Fook was a member of the illegal Communist Party, and its members guilty of murder. Thus, promptly, Fong Fook found out that he was wanted dead or alive by the British authorities, also by the Malayan police, and that there was now a high price on his head.

Hence his return to the sanctuary of the jungle, to be joined by others, many of whom had fought with him against the Japanese and who had become disenchanted by the false promises of their new rulers, the British. Every one of his men became a member of the Communist Party, though none knew exactly why, or what they were fighting for. They were told, ‘it's freedom from the British yoke, and towards our independence.' They received their orders from officials living quietly and unobtrusively in the villages and towns of Malaya, and on the island of Singapore. To disobey the orders of those Communist officials meant death at the hands of his fellow man.

Now, several years had passed since Fong Fook's return to the jungle. His health had deteriorated badly during that period, both in mind and body. Death, one way or another, had already claimed most of his old comrades, but new recruits had steadily joined the gang, though by no means replacing in number those that had departed. Members of the Communist Party had murdered innocent families, slashed hundreds of acres of rubber-bearing trees, destroyed newly planted trees, intimidated the tin-mine workers, butchering one or more occasionally to frighten the others. They had ambushed trains, buses, and even motor convoys, always with order to destroy and kill, which they always did. To kill was their way of life.

Neither did Fong Fook heed the ‘Talking Bird', which flew over him almost daily, nor the millions of leaflets dropped from the plane offering full amnesty. He did not trust the British. He trusted only the Communist Party whom he believed would eventually bring justice to the land of his family.

Now, he and the remaining survivors of his group, about thirty-five of them, lay hidden, spaced out at intervals among the greenery overlooking and bordering the slopes of the Gap. Every man was armed, mostly with weapons taken from those they had killed during earlier ambushes. Most possessed .303 Enfield rifles, some shotguns, and all possessed hand grenades, which lay within their reach. At the last bend in the road, at the far end of the Gap, concealed gunners manned two Bren guns that had recently been obtained from an ambushed British army lorry. Positioned strategically at the turn into the bend was another Bren gun. These guns would create an awesome crossfire, most certainly enough to stop the leading vehicles on the narrow, single lane road, which in turn would bring the whole convoy to a halt. Once that happened, every man in the group would immediately open fire with his small arms, then rain hand grenades down onto the stopped vehicles. As many vehicles as possible would be destroyed, and as many people as possible killed during that initial attack. In the expected ensuing panic, previously chosen guerillas would leave their hiding places and storm the convoy, firing their weapons and hurling the remaining grenades into the vehicles. Once free of their grenades, they would take the arms and ammunition from the dead and the dying. They would then stealthily retreat, to return to their camp in the safety of the jungle, their mission accomplished.

Now, impatiently they waited. It was still too early, but only by a few minutes. It was almost three-thirty.

Visible below, amid jungle, was the entrance to the Gap and portions of the road meandering its way upward to where it would pass directly beneath the ambushers' positions.

Suddenly, at the entrance to the Gap, a billowing cloud of brown dust rose above the greenness; and now could be heard the steady throb of many engines; a droning noise growing louder as the convoy neared.

Waiting men tensed. No longer calling to one another, every man became still and silent. Gripping their weapons, they lay concealed behind shrouds of foliage. Safety catches were released as straining eyes caught movement below. Some loosened the fasteners on grenades. A few more minutes and the convoy would be directly below them, travelling on a narrow road clinging to the edge of a jungle-clad ravine, where, in places, on the left hand side, was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. For miles on the right-hand side of the road, the hillside had been cleared of vegetation from the road upward to about one hundred feet, so that it was now barren and incapable of hiding attackers. But upward, beyond that one hundred feet, the jungle remained as it had always been, where, at this moment, the ambushers hid and silently waited.

Mosquitoes had once been a major problem to the terrorists, but now they were accustomed to having their unprotected skin bitten; they were far more concerned with snakes biting them than mosquitoes. Now, there was not even a whisper among them, and every man tried his best not to make movement, even when forced to change position because of cramped muscles. The armoured car leading the convoy was now only two bends away in the road below and unprotected men could be clearly seen in the lorries following it.

Fong Fook knew this day would bring a massacre upon the oppressors. He badly needed arms and ammunition from the convoy. Perhaps his men might also obtain food or even medications. Mainly, however, he wanted to kill, yet he found no remorse, no glory, no feeling at all towards the deed he was about to commit. He would kill many people this day, both military and civilians, but he had killed far too often for such trivial thoughts to enter his sick mind. At any moment now he would fire a single shot from his rifle, the prearranged signal for the Bren guns to commence firing.

27

Thus, after a brief rest period, the convoy again took to the road, in great glare, heat and dust. The police outpost was soon left behind, and an isolated village of a dozen or so
atap
huts perched on the hillside was quickly sped through. The Gap and the narrow road meandering up the mountainside to the summit of Fraser's Hill lay invitingly open to the long string of forty-seven vehicles.

Carefully making its way around the hairpin bends, and holding well its position in the convoy, a Silver Wraith Rolls Royce purred its way upward, ascending the hill smoothly with hardly a whisper audible from its well-nursed engine. A satisfied smile creased the handsome face of Lim Seng Yew, the middle-aged Chinese chauffeur and valet to billionaire industrialist Ng Kwok Wing. Seng Yew loved driving the new Rolls Royce, more so than any of the other luxury cars in the personal fleet of his employer.

Seng Yew loved his job and was proud to be the servant of such a good master as Mr Ng; just as proud as his father had been when personal servant to his master's father. During the Japanese occupation, both fathers had suddenly departed from this world. They were executed in front of their families by the swords of the invaders; each leaving behind a son, one now the wealthy employer, the other a faithful and trusted household servant.

Looking into the rear-view mirror, Seng Yew said to the diminutive, aged Chinese woman sitting behind him, “See how well my beloved holds the road, and how well she climbs the mountain. Do you not feel the power surging through her magnificent engine as she waits like a tiger ready to leap forward? My beloved does not like to follow others but prefers to lead.”

“Yes, she leads on an open road, but here I prefer others to lead. How many more miles must we cover before we reach the safety of the hilltop? My heart misses a beat whenever I see the swaying of a blade of grass or the movement of a twig.”

“Have no fear little grey-haired one. Soon you will relax at the master's mountain home. You will become invigorated by the mountain air, as will the worthy daughter of our master.”

“The climate here has not suited her. She was as fresh as a young flower when she arrived from Nanking. Perhaps she should have remained there with other relatives of the family.”

“No, little woman, I cannot agree with you. Her departed parents would have preferred her to live with us. Our master was their closest relative, and he loves the girl as he would his own. She will surely enjoy a much better life with him than if she had remained in China.”

“My negative thoughts are only on the climate in Kuala Lumpur as compared with that of Nanking. I hope her health improves when she lives in the big house in Singapore. Yes, it is true our master loves Ah Ho, and he dotes lavishly upon her. In my thoughts Ah Ho means more to him than all his empire. It is good that he has adopted her as his own daughter. I, too, love her as if she were my own child.”

Silence fell between the two as the chauffeur eased the Rolls Royce around yet another hairpin bend, causing Ping Jie, the trusted and faithful
amah,
to nervously grind her teeth and fearfully turn her head away from the sheer drop to her left. Instead, she gazed down upon Ho Li Li, the adopted and only child of Ng Kwok Wing, who lay asleep stretched out on the back seat of the car, her head contentedly resting in the old
amah's
lap.

Eventually Ping Jie asked, “Lim, do you feel nervous driving upon this hillside?”

“No! Should I be nervous?”

“I feel frightened. My eyes attempt to pierce the matting of green and brown, yet they see nothing.”

“We are safe here in the middle of the convoy.”

“I feel no safety,” the old
amah
said.

The chauffeur turned his head towards her, a reassuring smile upon his face. “You must not fear,” he said. “The military might in this convoy is far too great to stir the men of the jungle into action against us. Relax as does your mistress, and think of only what lies ahead, of where the air is cool and sweet, and of where we shall drink cooling iced tea upon our arrival.”

The chauffeur's voice was calm and reassuring, but he too felt a nagging uneasiness, even though this was his third journey to the house at Fraser's Hill within the last two years. On those previous occasions he had felt no nervousness. Often, though, he had wished that his employer would sell the house built on the hill's summit. Once again Lim Seng Yew cast his eyes above the line of cleared vegetation and into the gloom of matted jungle which, being so still and quiet, was pregnant with menace. The convoy was now in its final approach to the Gap. His thoughts flashed to the late High Commissioner of Malaya, Sir Henry Gurney, who had been murdered on this road, and in this very vicinity. He had known Sir Henry well. He also knew that during the past few years the Gap had seen the loss of many lives at the hands of the Communist terrorists. This particular stretch of road was lined with potential ambush positions too numerous to count, even though the vegetation had been cleared from the hillside for many yards upward from the road. However, as all those who travelled the road knew well, it was impossible to clear the whole mountainside overlooking the road of potential ambush positions.