The path of this story has many twists and turns. It starts in Cyprus then jumps thousands of miles to a Dunlop rubber estate in Malaya. From there, four years later, it continues in London - then the pieces come together in Belfast. Officers and one regimental wife of the South Wales Borderers provide the thread for this tapestry but, essentially, the story is about a tiger - Nepti, the silent one.
I first met Frank Morgan when he was a member of the camp staff for illegal Jewish immigrants in Cyprus in 1948. He used to drive Nick Somerville, the adjutant, crazy because he grew his hair so long that it fell over his collar. Not being on the strength of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, even though he wore the uniform of that regiment, there was not much Nick could do about it.
Frank was a short service officer and when the Jews were allowed to go to Palestine in February 1949, he and the other officers of camp staff were posted elsewhere to complete their service.
Four years later, I was in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and found I was staying in the same hotel in Kuala Lumpur as Frank. In the few days we were together he showed me sights in the Malayan capital that I may not otherwise have seen. When we parted, he invited me to visit him on the rubber estate where he worked., not far from where 3/KAR was based.
A few months later, I accepted his offer and travelled the 60 or so miles from Triang in Pahang to Bahau in Negri Sembilan where the Ladang Geddes rubber estate was located. Frank met me at the railway station and took me to his bungalow where I met another fellow who had been with him in Cyprus - John Milward of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. John, a wild party-loving fellow, was none too popular with Nick Somerville either, but as he wore the 'black flash' of the 23rd Regiment, he was even further removed from the adjutant's jurisdiction.
I spent three days with my old friends and wondered if I had made the right decision to stay in the Army as a regular officer. They seemed to have a very good lifestyle, even though rubber planters were number one targets for communist terrorists.
My commanding officer, Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read of the South Wales Borderers, asked me to call on the 7th Gurkha Rifles and pay his respects. Their camp was quite near the railway station, so I checked in at the guard post and made my way to the adjutant's tent. As I stooped down to enter, I felt a gentle but determined grasp on my right ankle, which brought me to a halt. I was in a strange position, bent almost double, legs wide apart and attempting to salute.
"Get off, Nepti," shouted the Adjutant as he reached for his cane and came towards me. I looked backwards and to my amazement saw a tiger cub doing its best to drag me out of the tent. The Adjutant gave her a crack over her rump and she ran for cover. He explained that Nepti had been found in the jungle alongside her dead mother by a patrol from No. 4 Platoon of 'B' Company. The patrol brought her back to Bahau and gave the cub to the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate, whose youngest daughter, Jane, had taken a fancy to her. Jane's father and mother soon found that a six week old tiger cub was, even at that age, too boisterous for their young daughter, so it was sent back to 7/GURKHA. Jane's elder sister, Merilyn, was at school in Malacca. When she came home from time to time she and Jane used to visit Nepti in the Gurkha lines.
I duly paid my Colonel’s respects to the Commanding Officer and then it was time to catch the train back to Triang. The last I saw of Nepti, as a cub, was a pair of yellow eyes staring at me from a fold in the adjutant's tent wall.
In 1956, I spent two weeks leave in London. One day, a friend and I visited the 'big cats'' house in Regent's Park Zoo. To my surprise, I saw a large metal plate on one of the cages which read:
'NEPTI - PANTHERA TIGRIS (TIGER)
PRESENTED BY
7TH GURKHA RIFLES
18TH AUGUST 1952
My friend wondered what had happened when I was rendered speechless for a few seconds. She then thought I had taken leave of my senses when I told her that four years previously the tiger she saw in front of her had held my leg in her jaws. Never the one to lose an opportunity to draw a crowd, I became quite a celebrity among fellow visitors as I related my story. My friend, who knew me quite well then - but very well now after nearly 50 years of married life, said: "OK, that's enough, let's see if you have any more friends in the reptile house."
In 1973, the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales was engaged on an 18 months tour of duty in Northern Ireland. I was invited by the Commanding Officer, Lieut Col Robin Godwin-Austen, an old South Wales Borderer, to pay them a visit.
During an enjoyable five day stay, Robin and Kate, his wife, held a dinner party at their home in Palace Barracks, Belfast, to which I was invited. I found myself sitting next to Merilyn Hywel-Jones, the wife of Major (later Lieut Col) Ian Hywel-Jones, another old South Wales Borderer. During dinner she told me that her father had been the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate in Malaya. When she mentioned two wild planters called Morgan and Milward, I knew I was treading familiar ground and was not surprised when she switched to her sister Jane and a tiger cub.
Merilyn contributed a few more details about Nepti. She told me how sad she and Jane had been when the family came home in 1953 and saw Nepti in London Zoo. By this time she was almost fully grown and quite unrecognisable from the cub they had known only a year before. When Jane and her young brother were asked, in fun, by the keeper if they would like to go inside the cage, they fled in terror! Jane is now a journalist and lives in Denmark. She does not remember much about the real Nepti, but she has a small, worn, stuffed toy tiger called Nepti which she keeps at home.
Nepti did not have much of a say in the pattern of her life. After the death of her mother, she spent some happy days with the Gurkhas and at Ladang Geddes estate, but then it was steel bars and concrete for the rest of her life. She died of a ruptured liver on the 8th April 1959 when she was eight years old.
Showing posts with label Triang. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Triang. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Shauri Ya Mungu (It's God's Will)
There used to be a certain type of British Army officer who, despite any bother caused by the natives, would make the early morning flight of sand grouse his first priority of the day. A person who fitted that description was Lieutenant Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, my Commanding Officer when I served with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles. Being his Signals Officer, and later, Adjutant, I was always close to him wherever we served – be it the jungles of Malaya during the communist uprising, or the forests of Kenya during the Mau Mau campaign.
When I joined the battalion in 1951, the Colonel was in his element. Bird life abounded on the slopes of Mount Kenya and everything from a guinea fowl to an elephant could be found further afield in the Northern Frontier district. One week-end shooting safari with the Colonel would provide enough feathered and hoofed meat to fill most of the larders in the messes and officers’ quarters in Nanyuki.
Six months after arriving in Kenya, for what I expected to be a leisurely tour of duty in a pleasant part of Africa, I found myself taking the advance party of the battalion to Malaya. We were the path-finders for the remainder of the battalion who arrived about three months later. By that time we had completed the course at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Tinggi in South Johore and become adept at operating in the hostile green environment that makes up most of Malaya.
Our first operational area was in the Triang district of central Pahang. Bandits abounded in the jungle and so did jungle fowl and wild pig. It wasn’t the CO’s job to go about shooting bandits, there were plenty of askaris to do that so, as soon as he had made sure that the operational side of things was tied up, he set about preparing for his favourite sport. I used to go with him sometimes to shoot wild boar or whatever Indian, Chinese and Malay beaters would drive towards us.
On one such occasion I had taken up position in an overgrown rubber plantation when I heard the distant yelps of beaters’ dogs hot on the scent of something big. As I stood there wondering if I was going to be the lucky one, I looked around to see if I had any support. There was no sign of anyone and I thought about that tiger which had taken a goat from a kampong four miles away only a few days previously. I did not have long to dwell upon it as a large male pig, pursued by a pack of assorted mongrels, headed straight for me. A Malayan wild pig is a formidable animal. There is none of the farmyard porker about him: he is all bone and muscle with two very sharp curved tusks capable of inflicting a lot of damage. I raised my rifle, took a bead on the animal’s head as it shortened the distance between us and waited until it was only a few yards away. It was a good shot and the boar never knew what hit him; it dropped dead at my feet.
There was a shortage of game that day and it turned out that I was the only one of the party to shoot anything. We left the beaters to carry the pig back to our host’s bungalow while we went on to have drinks before lunch. Despite the fact that he had not had a kill, the Colonel was delighted with my success and congratulated me warmly on my success. Our host’s curry and the cold Tiger beer with which we washed it down set the seal on a very pleasant day and we were asked if we would like to take part in another shoot the following Sunday. “Splendid idea,” said the Colonel, “bandits and such like permitting.”
The armed escort of half a dozen askaris had been looked after in the servants’ quarters and when they saw that we were ready to depart, they took up their positions with a jeep and a ferret scout car. Just as we were about to leave, Jack Watson, who had laid on the shoot and lunch, said: “Oh, by the way, Bob, what part of the pig would you like?” I was not too sure about the anatomy of a pig and, not wishing to deprive the beaters and their families of a good meal, I said: “I’ll take the head if that’s alright.” I must have had some idea about preserving the thing as a trophy but later on that day when the head was delivered to battalion headquarters, I realized that such a plan would not be feasible without the help of a taxidermist. The boar’s head then became a problem and it looked as if there were two choices open to me. We could eat it or we would have to dig a hole and bury it. Whatever I decided had to be done quickly, so I called for the officers’ mess cook.
Corporal Macheru was an unsophisticated fellow who looked upon food as something to make the body function properly. Any process other than boiling meat or burning it in the embers of a fire was, he considered, a frivolous waste of time. He had been in the King’s African Rifles for ten years though and had become used to the strange culinary practices of British officers. He listened to my instructions about how I wanted the boar’s head prepared for the evening meal the following day. I completed my orders by telling him to put the head in a galvanized bath of salt water to keep it fresh.
On the Monday morning, Corporal Macheru, having told the Quartermaster’s ration storeman that he did not require any meat that day, considered the practicalities of roasting the boar’s head. It soon became obvious to him that unless extensive modifications were made to the oven there would be no possibility of getting it inside. He told me that if I was still intent upon eating the head, we would have to think of some other way to cook it. I began to wish I had asked for some other cut, but the boar was large everywhere.
“Well, what do you suggest, Corporal Macheru?” I said. The cook rubbed his big black nose and said he might be able to do something with a Soyer stove. I nodded acceptance of his idea and told him to make sure that the finished product not only tasted good but looked good as well.
A few words of explanation about the Soyer stove might help at this stage.
It was invented by a Frenchman called Alexis Soyer whose brother was chef de cuisine to the Duke of Cambridge. Alexis worked with his brother and was employed by other noble families in London. In 1837 he was appointed head chef of the Reform Club in Pall Mall and it was there that his name became synonymous with fine cuisine.
In 1855 he read in The Times newspaper that British soldiers were starving to death in the Crimea. He had already invented, in 1850, an all-weather stove suitable for use in field conditions and he prevailed on the government to adopt it forthwith. He went to the Crimea in 1855 and worked closely with Florence Nightingale at the Barrack Hospital in Scutari. The place was in disarray when he arrived but he soon had his stoves at work providing nutritious food for the inmates. Among his many revolutionary ideas was a new biscuit that was soft to eat and lasted much longer than the old ‘hard-tack’. Sadly, Alexis caught typhoid in the Crimea and died in August 1858. The Soyer stove was used in the British Army for well over a hundred years.
Corporal Macheru received the cook sergeant’s permission to borrow one of the stoves and when he set it up outside his own kitchen he found that, just like Cinderella’s slipper, the boar’s head - wrapped in a couple of towels, fitted perfectly.
During the late afternoon I went to see how the cook was getting on with the evening meal. The cooking process had come to an end and he had returned the head to the galvanized bath. I could not see it as it was still wrapped in towels and covered in ice which he had extracted from all six paraffin operated refrigerators in the camp. Corporal Macheru, with a big grin, assured me that all was well.
The Indian station master at Triang was not on speaking terms with us as we had requisitioned his ticket office and waiting room for the officers’ mess. Battalion HQ officers lived in a variety of tents and bashas and it was our custom to assemble in the mess before dinner which was served at 8pm. I had been detained in the signals office deciphering a secret message and this made me about 15 minutes late. I joined the others in the ante room (late ticket office) in time for a drink before we went into the dining room (late waiting room).
The Colonel was a stickler for etiquette and, even though we were on ‘active service’ we were all properly dressed in long white trousers, shirt and tie with sleeves rolled down. Mess staff wore white drill with red stove-pipe hats with black tassels. Sergeant Onyala, the Mess Sergeant, reported to the Bwana Mkubwa ( Big Master – CO), in Kiswahili, that dinner was ready: “Chakula tayeri, effendi.” The Colonel led the way into the dining room and as he moved through the doorway, I saw him leap sideways with a cry of: “What the devil is that.” I thought he had seen a cobra, but when I pushed my way forward I became aware of the reason for his convulsion. I had the advantage over other officers because I knew that the gruesome thing on the serving table was the boar’s head. It was hardly recognizable as the dangerous end of the animal I had shot the day before, but its tusks provided a clue to its identity. One of its ears was cocked up while the other hung low like that of a spaniel. A solitary eye gazed with an opaque stare across the room balanced by the empty socket of its twin on the other side of the skull. The snout had parted company from the upper jaw and was elevated at an acute angle like a bullet-nosed missile before take-off. To complete the incongruous spectacle, Corporal Macheru had stuffed a paw-paw between its yellow teeth.
After their initial shock, my brother officers saw the funny side of the cook’s attempt to provide an exotic dish from local resources. Their humour was short-lived however when the Colonel asked me what we were having for dinner. The glum look on my face and my attempt to carve a slice off its cheek brought home the truth of the situation. When it sunk in that there was no other meat available, I was subjected to some rather uncomplimentary remarks. Triang was not the sort of place where you could go out for a meal so, after a fruitless search of all the cupboards in the kitchen, the Quartermaster sent for a box of ‘compo’ rations.
I was pretty unpopular with everyone and I expected to get the sack as food member of the officers’ mess committee, but somehow I managed to survive - most probably because nobody else wanted to do the job.
I have steered clear of boars’ heads since that disastrous experience in Malaya in 1952, but have admired the way the experts make such a good job of using a glazed pig’s head as the centre piece on the buffet table at officers’ and sergeants’ mess parties. I can’t remember anyone ever asking for a slice though!
The railway line which ran north and south through our operational area provided the best means for contact with our rifle companies. We had our own steam locomotive and a couple of ‘flats’ filled with stones which were pushed in front of the engine in case bandits decided to blow up the line. The coaches were 2x4 wheeled bogies covered in armour plate which afforded protection for the occupants from rifle and machine gun fire. When the Commanding Officer of the outgoing unit left Triang, I remember him saying to our Colonel: “Best of luck and remember, don’t eat kippers before travelling on the armoured train.” I should have heeded his advice because a few weeks later I accompanied the Colonel on one of his visits. The daytime temperature in Malaya is always in the top ‘90s’ and inside the armoured train it was considerably more. Once it got going, the small amount of draught which came through the vents eased the position somewhat but then bounce and vibration took over. The springs on the bogey were not designed to accommodate the weight of armour plate and once the thing started to go up and down, the occupants became captives of a giant trampoline. It was not long before I staggered to the doorway and parted company with my kippers.
We had travelled about five miles when the engine slowed down and then stopped, I stuck my head out of the door and asked the Indian driver what had gone wrong. He did not speak any Malay but jabbered back in his own language. Musabi, the CO’s orderly, who could speak some Hindi, told us in Kiswahili that the engine driver had seen a large boar go into the lallang (tall grass) by the side of the track, and he thought the Bwana Mkubwa might like to take a shot at it.
“Hold this,” said the Colonel handing me his M2 carbine and picking up a shot gun. He leapt out of the train and jumped into the lallang. I was able to follow his progress by the nodding heads of grass as he ploughed deeper into the cover in search of the pig. Just ahead of the train was a cutting and I can remember thinking it would be a perfect place for terrorists to set an ambush. I therefore took up a position where I could cover the Colonel if he came under fire.
A shot rang out followed by another, and then I could see the nodding heads of grass coming closer as the Colonel retraced his steps. “Only managed to get a brief look at him,” he said, “before he made off like a bat out of hell.” Musabi hauled his master aboard and then, with a nod to the driver, we continued our journey.
A few weeks later one of our patrols attacked a bandit camp and killed most of the occupants. As usual there was a mass of documents, diaries, books and posters to collect and backload to Police HQ in Mentakab. After they had been examined and translated, the Special Branch officer asked me: “Were you on the armoured train the day the Colonel tried to shoot a pig?” I replied affirmative and he handed me the translation of a report written by a communist sentry who had been in position overlooking the Triang – Kemayan railway line. It read: ‘On such and such a day I was on duty at Post No. 4 when I saw the armoured train approaching from the north. It stopped before entering the cutting and a British officer got out and went into the lallang after a pig. He fired about 20 shots at it and missed with every one’. The Special Branch officer asked me how many shots the Colonel had fired and I replied that there had been no more than two. “Would you like to give him this report?” he asked. “Not on your life,” I replied. “Do your own dirty work.”
The air was blue when the Colonel read the translation. Astonishment that he been watched by a bandit sentry was overtaken by anger when he read the bit about ‘firing 20 shots and missing with every one’. The contents of the report became common knowledge within a very short time and some of the senior officers teased the Colonel about his marksmanship. “I know that wild boar are thick-skinned,” said the Second-in-Command, “ but really, Colonel, I would have thought you could have hit it in a vital spot with one of them.” “God dammit, how many more times have I got to tell you, I let fly with both barrels and by the time I had reloaded, the beast was gone.” I just happened to come into the mess and was made to recount every detail of the event, with special emphasis on the number of shots I had heard. For once, I held the Commanding Officer’s reputation in the palm of my hand, but he had no need to worry and I put the record straight.
After three months of chasing bandits in the Triang district, two rifle companies and a tactical HQ of 3/KAR moved to Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya to take part in an operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles. I was part of the Tac HQ team and had settled myself in at the Government Rest House in Kuantan by the time the CO came to pay his first visit. He spent a few days with us visiting various people and organizations responsible for law and order. He also took the opportunity to meet some of the local rubber planters in the Club. I had already made the acquaintance of a fellow called Richard Buckingham who made a living from harvesting latex from a certain type of tree that produced the basic ingredient for chewing gum. Every few months he would load the stuff into his boat and take it to Singapore where he would sell it to the highest bidder. He obviously did very well as he and his wife lived in one of the largest houses in Kuantan. One of his side lines was trading in exotic birds and he had a large aviary in his garden which housed a number of brilliantly plumed specimens including a peacock called Charlie.
Soon after we arrived in Malaya, the Colonel told me it was his ambition to capture a rare type of jungle cock, which sported a large scarlet comb. If he was fortunate to get such a bird he intended to send it by sea to the Tropical Bird House in London Zoo. This was a pleasant day dream for the Colonel but it was not until he met Richard Buckingham in Kuantan that he began to think seriously about his project. Over a few stiff whiskies in the Kuantan Club, the Colonel asked Richard if he could get him a cock bird of this rare breed and if he could transport it to Singapore for onward transmission to London. Richard sucked his meerschaum pensively and blew clouds of smoke in reply to the first request but gave an assurance about taking the bird to Singapore if and when it was captured.
The following day, the Colonel returned to Triang feeling that his journey had been worthwhile. On the operational side, there had been great success. The Gurkhas had run into the headquarters of a communist battalion and had killed a number of terrorists. The 1/10th and two companies of 3/KAR were in hot pursuit of the remainder and the chance of further success was good.
A few days after his return from Kuantan, Jack Watson, the planter who had laid on the pig shoot, came to see the Colonel. “Look what I’ve got for you, old boy,” he said, removing a large wicker cage from his truck. Inside was a splendid example of the bird the CO had been dreaming about for months. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Jack. “Give me a bottle of whisky and you can have the cage as well.”
The Adjutant of 1/10th Gurkhas handed me a signal which read: ‘Tell Smith to inform Buckingham that Jungle Cock will arrive by road on Monday’. This caused some consternation in the Gurkha HQ as they thought ‘Jungle Cock’ was the code-name for an important visitor. After the initial mix up, I confirmed with the CO that all would be ready when ‘jungle cock’ arrived.
The Quartermaster’s convoy of vehicles moved off at 07.00 hrs on the Monday morning. Aboard a jeep halfway down the line was Musabi with his master’s bird. He had been given strict instructions to safeguard it at all costs and to deliver it to the Buckingham household when he arrived in Kuantan.
After travelling for a couple of hours through the jungle, the convoy commander called a halt and gave the order ‘tengeneza chai’ (‘brew up’). Mess tins and burners were produced and soon the sweet smell of hexamine (small blocks of solid fuel) filtered down the track. Musabi, having slaked his thirst, peered inside the cage and wondered if the bird would like a drink as well. It seemed absorbed in cleaning its tail feathers, so Musabi quietly opened the door and inserted a can of water. This was the opportunity the jungle cock had been waiting for and before Musabi could slam the door, the bird forced its way out of the cage. With a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk it took off and made for the safety of a large tree. It settled on a branch about 50 yards away and 50 feet above the ground. Musabi gazed at the bird and wondered what he could do to recapture it. He knew that a fate worse than death would befall him if he turned up in Kuantan with an empty cage.
The convoy commander blew his whistle, which was the signal for everyone to board their vehicles. A second blast of the whistle would be the signal to start engines prior to the leader moving off. Musabi ran down the line of trucks and told the convoy commander what had happened. He was successful in impressing upon him the gravity of the situation so the order to disembark and adopt all round defence again was given. The convoy commander, accompanied by Musabi, saw for himself the bird which was cleaning its tail feathers far above the ground. After listening to some quite useless suggestions for recapturing the bird, the NCO bent over, picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball, and let fly. It was a marvellous shot; it hit the bird on the head and must have concussed it as it dropped like a stone. Musabi rushed to pick it up and saw, with horror, that its magnificent scarlet comb was missing. The jungle cock was as bald as a coot.
Within a few minutes the bird’s eyes opened and, thankful for small mercies, Musabi bundled it back into the cage. But where was the missing piece of flesh? The convoy commander, satisfied that he had completed what he had set out to do, blew his whistle to get his show on the road once more. Musabi then reminded him that it was he who had deprived the Colonel’s bird of its comb and that he, along with himself, was not going to see much daylight once the Bwana Mkubwa found out what had happened. This brought about a change of mind and everyone in the convoy was assembled to carry out a search for the vital piece of avian headgear. It was hopeless and after another 30 minutes the convoy commander gave the order to move on.
As soon as he arrived in Kuantan, Musabi went along to the Buckingham’s house. Mrs Buckingham was in the garden and as soon as she saw the bird in the cage she realised that something awful had happened. As Musabi spoke no English the interpreting was done by Pte Juma, the driver of the jeep. She considered the matter for some time and then told Musabi not to worry as everything would be alright by the time the Colonel arrived. Musabi must have been under the impression that the memsahib had some way of making the comb grow again as he went off to his tent in the Gurkha lines with peace of mind.
When the CO arrived in Kuantan a few days later, he went to see his bird. He found it sitting on a perch in the aviary in apparent good health, but minus its comb. He was speechless for a moment so Mrs Buckingham laid her hand on his shoulder and said: “I’m afraid it was all my fault. When your orderly gave me the bird, I put it in the aviary with Charlie the peacock. There was an awful commotion and Charlie attacked your bird ripping off its comb. Musabi was marvellous. Despite the danger of being scratched by Charlie’s claws, he managed to rescue your bird but, sadly, its comb was torn off. We tried to graft it back on but it didn’t work.”
Musabi had been standing alongside his master while Mrs Buckingham was making her explanation. He did not understand what was being said, but when he saw the memsahib give him a wink, he knew things were going well. He knew he was out of danger when the Colonel said: “Asante sana, Musabi. Shauri ya Mungu tu (Thank you, Musabi. It was just God’s will).”
I do not know if the Colonel ever knew the real story about his bird. After the disappointment of seeing the jungle cock turn into a skin-head, he did not pursue his project. Musabi continued to give faithful service to his master and the CO remained devoted to his servant.
The bird seemed to be quite content without its comb and was released to the wild. It might have had to suffer a loss of status in the pecking order of its new flock, but surely that was better than spending the rest of its life in a cage in London Zoo.
Post script: Ten years after this happened, my wife and I, along with our two young children, went on holiday to Kuantan. Most of the people I knew during the ‘emergency’ had gone but the Buckinghams were still there. We had supper with them one evening and it was then that I heard the full story about the jungle cock. ‘Buckingham’ was not their real name.
When I joined the battalion in 1951, the Colonel was in his element. Bird life abounded on the slopes of Mount Kenya and everything from a guinea fowl to an elephant could be found further afield in the Northern Frontier district. One week-end shooting safari with the Colonel would provide enough feathered and hoofed meat to fill most of the larders in the messes and officers’ quarters in Nanyuki.
Six months after arriving in Kenya, for what I expected to be a leisurely tour of duty in a pleasant part of Africa, I found myself taking the advance party of the battalion to Malaya. We were the path-finders for the remainder of the battalion who arrived about three months later. By that time we had completed the course at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Tinggi in South Johore and become adept at operating in the hostile green environment that makes up most of Malaya.
Our first operational area was in the Triang district of central Pahang. Bandits abounded in the jungle and so did jungle fowl and wild pig. It wasn’t the CO’s job to go about shooting bandits, there were plenty of askaris to do that so, as soon as he had made sure that the operational side of things was tied up, he set about preparing for his favourite sport. I used to go with him sometimes to shoot wild boar or whatever Indian, Chinese and Malay beaters would drive towards us.
On one such occasion I had taken up position in an overgrown rubber plantation when I heard the distant yelps of beaters’ dogs hot on the scent of something big. As I stood there wondering if I was going to be the lucky one, I looked around to see if I had any support. There was no sign of anyone and I thought about that tiger which had taken a goat from a kampong four miles away only a few days previously. I did not have long to dwell upon it as a large male pig, pursued by a pack of assorted mongrels, headed straight for me. A Malayan wild pig is a formidable animal. There is none of the farmyard porker about him: he is all bone and muscle with two very sharp curved tusks capable of inflicting a lot of damage. I raised my rifle, took a bead on the animal’s head as it shortened the distance between us and waited until it was only a few yards away. It was a good shot and the boar never knew what hit him; it dropped dead at my feet.
There was a shortage of game that day and it turned out that I was the only one of the party to shoot anything. We left the beaters to carry the pig back to our host’s bungalow while we went on to have drinks before lunch. Despite the fact that he had not had a kill, the Colonel was delighted with my success and congratulated me warmly on my success. Our host’s curry and the cold Tiger beer with which we washed it down set the seal on a very pleasant day and we were asked if we would like to take part in another shoot the following Sunday. “Splendid idea,” said the Colonel, “bandits and such like permitting.”
The armed escort of half a dozen askaris had been looked after in the servants’ quarters and when they saw that we were ready to depart, they took up their positions with a jeep and a ferret scout car. Just as we were about to leave, Jack Watson, who had laid on the shoot and lunch, said: “Oh, by the way, Bob, what part of the pig would you like?” I was not too sure about the anatomy of a pig and, not wishing to deprive the beaters and their families of a good meal, I said: “I’ll take the head if that’s alright.” I must have had some idea about preserving the thing as a trophy but later on that day when the head was delivered to battalion headquarters, I realized that such a plan would not be feasible without the help of a taxidermist. The boar’s head then became a problem and it looked as if there were two choices open to me. We could eat it or we would have to dig a hole and bury it. Whatever I decided had to be done quickly, so I called for the officers’ mess cook.
Corporal Macheru was an unsophisticated fellow who looked upon food as something to make the body function properly. Any process other than boiling meat or burning it in the embers of a fire was, he considered, a frivolous waste of time. He had been in the King’s African Rifles for ten years though and had become used to the strange culinary practices of British officers. He listened to my instructions about how I wanted the boar’s head prepared for the evening meal the following day. I completed my orders by telling him to put the head in a galvanized bath of salt water to keep it fresh.
On the Monday morning, Corporal Macheru, having told the Quartermaster’s ration storeman that he did not require any meat that day, considered the practicalities of roasting the boar’s head. It soon became obvious to him that unless extensive modifications were made to the oven there would be no possibility of getting it inside. He told me that if I was still intent upon eating the head, we would have to think of some other way to cook it. I began to wish I had asked for some other cut, but the boar was large everywhere.
“Well, what do you suggest, Corporal Macheru?” I said. The cook rubbed his big black nose and said he might be able to do something with a Soyer stove. I nodded acceptance of his idea and told him to make sure that the finished product not only tasted good but looked good as well.
A few words of explanation about the Soyer stove might help at this stage.
It was invented by a Frenchman called Alexis Soyer whose brother was chef de cuisine to the Duke of Cambridge. Alexis worked with his brother and was employed by other noble families in London. In 1837 he was appointed head chef of the Reform Club in Pall Mall and it was there that his name became synonymous with fine cuisine.
In 1855 he read in The Times newspaper that British soldiers were starving to death in the Crimea. He had already invented, in 1850, an all-weather stove suitable for use in field conditions and he prevailed on the government to adopt it forthwith. He went to the Crimea in 1855 and worked closely with Florence Nightingale at the Barrack Hospital in Scutari. The place was in disarray when he arrived but he soon had his stoves at work providing nutritious food for the inmates. Among his many revolutionary ideas was a new biscuit that was soft to eat and lasted much longer than the old ‘hard-tack’. Sadly, Alexis caught typhoid in the Crimea and died in August 1858. The Soyer stove was used in the British Army for well over a hundred years.
Corporal Macheru received the cook sergeant’s permission to borrow one of the stoves and when he set it up outside his own kitchen he found that, just like Cinderella’s slipper, the boar’s head - wrapped in a couple of towels, fitted perfectly.
During the late afternoon I went to see how the cook was getting on with the evening meal. The cooking process had come to an end and he had returned the head to the galvanized bath. I could not see it as it was still wrapped in towels and covered in ice which he had extracted from all six paraffin operated refrigerators in the camp. Corporal Macheru, with a big grin, assured me that all was well.
The Indian station master at Triang was not on speaking terms with us as we had requisitioned his ticket office and waiting room for the officers’ mess. Battalion HQ officers lived in a variety of tents and bashas and it was our custom to assemble in the mess before dinner which was served at 8pm. I had been detained in the signals office deciphering a secret message and this made me about 15 minutes late. I joined the others in the ante room (late ticket office) in time for a drink before we went into the dining room (late waiting room).
The Colonel was a stickler for etiquette and, even though we were on ‘active service’ we were all properly dressed in long white trousers, shirt and tie with sleeves rolled down. Mess staff wore white drill with red stove-pipe hats with black tassels. Sergeant Onyala, the Mess Sergeant, reported to the Bwana Mkubwa ( Big Master – CO), in Kiswahili, that dinner was ready: “Chakula tayeri, effendi.” The Colonel led the way into the dining room and as he moved through the doorway, I saw him leap sideways with a cry of: “What the devil is that.” I thought he had seen a cobra, but when I pushed my way forward I became aware of the reason for his convulsion. I had the advantage over other officers because I knew that the gruesome thing on the serving table was the boar’s head. It was hardly recognizable as the dangerous end of the animal I had shot the day before, but its tusks provided a clue to its identity. One of its ears was cocked up while the other hung low like that of a spaniel. A solitary eye gazed with an opaque stare across the room balanced by the empty socket of its twin on the other side of the skull. The snout had parted company from the upper jaw and was elevated at an acute angle like a bullet-nosed missile before take-off. To complete the incongruous spectacle, Corporal Macheru had stuffed a paw-paw between its yellow teeth.
After their initial shock, my brother officers saw the funny side of the cook’s attempt to provide an exotic dish from local resources. Their humour was short-lived however when the Colonel asked me what we were having for dinner. The glum look on my face and my attempt to carve a slice off its cheek brought home the truth of the situation. When it sunk in that there was no other meat available, I was subjected to some rather uncomplimentary remarks. Triang was not the sort of place where you could go out for a meal so, after a fruitless search of all the cupboards in the kitchen, the Quartermaster sent for a box of ‘compo’ rations.
I was pretty unpopular with everyone and I expected to get the sack as food member of the officers’ mess committee, but somehow I managed to survive - most probably because nobody else wanted to do the job.
I have steered clear of boars’ heads since that disastrous experience in Malaya in 1952, but have admired the way the experts make such a good job of using a glazed pig’s head as the centre piece on the buffet table at officers’ and sergeants’ mess parties. I can’t remember anyone ever asking for a slice though!
The railway line which ran north and south through our operational area provided the best means for contact with our rifle companies. We had our own steam locomotive and a couple of ‘flats’ filled with stones which were pushed in front of the engine in case bandits decided to blow up the line. The coaches were 2x4 wheeled bogies covered in armour plate which afforded protection for the occupants from rifle and machine gun fire. When the Commanding Officer of the outgoing unit left Triang, I remember him saying to our Colonel: “Best of luck and remember, don’t eat kippers before travelling on the armoured train.” I should have heeded his advice because a few weeks later I accompanied the Colonel on one of his visits. The daytime temperature in Malaya is always in the top ‘90s’ and inside the armoured train it was considerably more. Once it got going, the small amount of draught which came through the vents eased the position somewhat but then bounce and vibration took over. The springs on the bogey were not designed to accommodate the weight of armour plate and once the thing started to go up and down, the occupants became captives of a giant trampoline. It was not long before I staggered to the doorway and parted company with my kippers.
We had travelled about five miles when the engine slowed down and then stopped, I stuck my head out of the door and asked the Indian driver what had gone wrong. He did not speak any Malay but jabbered back in his own language. Musabi, the CO’s orderly, who could speak some Hindi, told us in Kiswahili that the engine driver had seen a large boar go into the lallang (tall grass) by the side of the track, and he thought the Bwana Mkubwa might like to take a shot at it.
“Hold this,” said the Colonel handing me his M2 carbine and picking up a shot gun. He leapt out of the train and jumped into the lallang. I was able to follow his progress by the nodding heads of grass as he ploughed deeper into the cover in search of the pig. Just ahead of the train was a cutting and I can remember thinking it would be a perfect place for terrorists to set an ambush. I therefore took up a position where I could cover the Colonel if he came under fire.
A shot rang out followed by another, and then I could see the nodding heads of grass coming closer as the Colonel retraced his steps. “Only managed to get a brief look at him,” he said, “before he made off like a bat out of hell.” Musabi hauled his master aboard and then, with a nod to the driver, we continued our journey.
A few weeks later one of our patrols attacked a bandit camp and killed most of the occupants. As usual there was a mass of documents, diaries, books and posters to collect and backload to Police HQ in Mentakab. After they had been examined and translated, the Special Branch officer asked me: “Were you on the armoured train the day the Colonel tried to shoot a pig?” I replied affirmative and he handed me the translation of a report written by a communist sentry who had been in position overlooking the Triang – Kemayan railway line. It read: ‘On such and such a day I was on duty at Post No. 4 when I saw the armoured train approaching from the north. It stopped before entering the cutting and a British officer got out and went into the lallang after a pig. He fired about 20 shots at it and missed with every one’. The Special Branch officer asked me how many shots the Colonel had fired and I replied that there had been no more than two. “Would you like to give him this report?” he asked. “Not on your life,” I replied. “Do your own dirty work.”
The air was blue when the Colonel read the translation. Astonishment that he been watched by a bandit sentry was overtaken by anger when he read the bit about ‘firing 20 shots and missing with every one’. The contents of the report became common knowledge within a very short time and some of the senior officers teased the Colonel about his marksmanship. “I know that wild boar are thick-skinned,” said the Second-in-Command, “ but really, Colonel, I would have thought you could have hit it in a vital spot with one of them.” “God dammit, how many more times have I got to tell you, I let fly with both barrels and by the time I had reloaded, the beast was gone.” I just happened to come into the mess and was made to recount every detail of the event, with special emphasis on the number of shots I had heard. For once, I held the Commanding Officer’s reputation in the palm of my hand, but he had no need to worry and I put the record straight.
After three months of chasing bandits in the Triang district, two rifle companies and a tactical HQ of 3/KAR moved to Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya to take part in an operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles. I was part of the Tac HQ team and had settled myself in at the Government Rest House in Kuantan by the time the CO came to pay his first visit. He spent a few days with us visiting various people and organizations responsible for law and order. He also took the opportunity to meet some of the local rubber planters in the Club. I had already made the acquaintance of a fellow called Richard Buckingham who made a living from harvesting latex from a certain type of tree that produced the basic ingredient for chewing gum. Every few months he would load the stuff into his boat and take it to Singapore where he would sell it to the highest bidder. He obviously did very well as he and his wife lived in one of the largest houses in Kuantan. One of his side lines was trading in exotic birds and he had a large aviary in his garden which housed a number of brilliantly plumed specimens including a peacock called Charlie.
Soon after we arrived in Malaya, the Colonel told me it was his ambition to capture a rare type of jungle cock, which sported a large scarlet comb. If he was fortunate to get such a bird he intended to send it by sea to the Tropical Bird House in London Zoo. This was a pleasant day dream for the Colonel but it was not until he met Richard Buckingham in Kuantan that he began to think seriously about his project. Over a few stiff whiskies in the Kuantan Club, the Colonel asked Richard if he could get him a cock bird of this rare breed and if he could transport it to Singapore for onward transmission to London. Richard sucked his meerschaum pensively and blew clouds of smoke in reply to the first request but gave an assurance about taking the bird to Singapore if and when it was captured.
The following day, the Colonel returned to Triang feeling that his journey had been worthwhile. On the operational side, there had been great success. The Gurkhas had run into the headquarters of a communist battalion and had killed a number of terrorists. The 1/10th and two companies of 3/KAR were in hot pursuit of the remainder and the chance of further success was good.
A few days after his return from Kuantan, Jack Watson, the planter who had laid on the pig shoot, came to see the Colonel. “Look what I’ve got for you, old boy,” he said, removing a large wicker cage from his truck. Inside was a splendid example of the bird the CO had been dreaming about for months. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Jack. “Give me a bottle of whisky and you can have the cage as well.”
The Adjutant of 1/10th Gurkhas handed me a signal which read: ‘Tell Smith to inform Buckingham that Jungle Cock will arrive by road on Monday’. This caused some consternation in the Gurkha HQ as they thought ‘Jungle Cock’ was the code-name for an important visitor. After the initial mix up, I confirmed with the CO that all would be ready when ‘jungle cock’ arrived.
The Quartermaster’s convoy of vehicles moved off at 07.00 hrs on the Monday morning. Aboard a jeep halfway down the line was Musabi with his master’s bird. He had been given strict instructions to safeguard it at all costs and to deliver it to the Buckingham household when he arrived in Kuantan.
After travelling for a couple of hours through the jungle, the convoy commander called a halt and gave the order ‘tengeneza chai’ (‘brew up’). Mess tins and burners were produced and soon the sweet smell of hexamine (small blocks of solid fuel) filtered down the track. Musabi, having slaked his thirst, peered inside the cage and wondered if the bird would like a drink as well. It seemed absorbed in cleaning its tail feathers, so Musabi quietly opened the door and inserted a can of water. This was the opportunity the jungle cock had been waiting for and before Musabi could slam the door, the bird forced its way out of the cage. With a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk it took off and made for the safety of a large tree. It settled on a branch about 50 yards away and 50 feet above the ground. Musabi gazed at the bird and wondered what he could do to recapture it. He knew that a fate worse than death would befall him if he turned up in Kuantan with an empty cage.
The convoy commander blew his whistle, which was the signal for everyone to board their vehicles. A second blast of the whistle would be the signal to start engines prior to the leader moving off. Musabi ran down the line of trucks and told the convoy commander what had happened. He was successful in impressing upon him the gravity of the situation so the order to disembark and adopt all round defence again was given. The convoy commander, accompanied by Musabi, saw for himself the bird which was cleaning its tail feathers far above the ground. After listening to some quite useless suggestions for recapturing the bird, the NCO bent over, picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball, and let fly. It was a marvellous shot; it hit the bird on the head and must have concussed it as it dropped like a stone. Musabi rushed to pick it up and saw, with horror, that its magnificent scarlet comb was missing. The jungle cock was as bald as a coot.
Within a few minutes the bird’s eyes opened and, thankful for small mercies, Musabi bundled it back into the cage. But where was the missing piece of flesh? The convoy commander, satisfied that he had completed what he had set out to do, blew his whistle to get his show on the road once more. Musabi then reminded him that it was he who had deprived the Colonel’s bird of its comb and that he, along with himself, was not going to see much daylight once the Bwana Mkubwa found out what had happened. This brought about a change of mind and everyone in the convoy was assembled to carry out a search for the vital piece of avian headgear. It was hopeless and after another 30 minutes the convoy commander gave the order to move on.
As soon as he arrived in Kuantan, Musabi went along to the Buckingham’s house. Mrs Buckingham was in the garden and as soon as she saw the bird in the cage she realised that something awful had happened. As Musabi spoke no English the interpreting was done by Pte Juma, the driver of the jeep. She considered the matter for some time and then told Musabi not to worry as everything would be alright by the time the Colonel arrived. Musabi must have been under the impression that the memsahib had some way of making the comb grow again as he went off to his tent in the Gurkha lines with peace of mind.
When the CO arrived in Kuantan a few days later, he went to see his bird. He found it sitting on a perch in the aviary in apparent good health, but minus its comb. He was speechless for a moment so Mrs Buckingham laid her hand on his shoulder and said: “I’m afraid it was all my fault. When your orderly gave me the bird, I put it in the aviary with Charlie the peacock. There was an awful commotion and Charlie attacked your bird ripping off its comb. Musabi was marvellous. Despite the danger of being scratched by Charlie’s claws, he managed to rescue your bird but, sadly, its comb was torn off. We tried to graft it back on but it didn’t work.”
Musabi had been standing alongside his master while Mrs Buckingham was making her explanation. He did not understand what was being said, but when he saw the memsahib give him a wink, he knew things were going well. He knew he was out of danger when the Colonel said: “Asante sana, Musabi. Shauri ya Mungu tu (Thank you, Musabi. It was just God’s will).”
I do not know if the Colonel ever knew the real story about his bird. After the disappointment of seeing the jungle cock turn into a skin-head, he did not pursue his project. Musabi continued to give faithful service to his master and the CO remained devoted to his servant.
The bird seemed to be quite content without its comb and was released to the wild. It might have had to suffer a loss of status in the pecking order of its new flock, but surely that was better than spending the rest of its life in a cage in London Zoo.
Post script: Ten years after this happened, my wife and I, along with our two young children, went on holiday to Kuantan. Most of the people I knew during the ‘emergency’ had gone but the Buckinghams were still there. We had supper with them one evening and it was then that I heard the full story about the jungle cock. ‘Buckingham’ was not their real name.
Lost Week End
Malayan rubber planters earned a reputation for being hard drinkers during the communist uprising of 1948-1960. At the best of times, life on a rubber estate was a hard and lonely existence but when expatriates became easy targets for terrorists they could be forgiven for taking an extra slug or two of whisky at the end of the day. Mike Malone was a good example of the hard living hard drinking planter; his wife, Mary, ran him a close second. Both came from County Cork and, if put to the test, they would most probably have drunk most of their kinfolk back home in Ireland under the table any night of the week.
I first met them in the village of Triang in Malaya in 1952. Other than a few houses, a row of Chinese shops and a basketball pitch Triang’s only claim to an entry on the map was its railway station on a minor branch line that run up the spine of Malaya. It was also the location of battalion headquarters of the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles.
The ‘down’ train from Mentakab had pulled in one day and was waiting in a siding for the ‘up’ train from Gemas to pass. First class passengers did not expect, neither did they receive, much comfort on this type of train; the only attractive feature was the dining car. Malays, Chinese and Indians sat on hard bench seats on one side of the kitchen while an open air terrace sufficient for six first class passengers was on the other. It was quite enjoyable to sit at the end of the train and enjoy the cool breeze as you looked down the track from the veranda. A Chinese cook produced delicious meals on a charcoal stove while his assistant looked after the drinks.
I was walking along the platform to my office when I heard a shout from the rear end of the train. I looked across the railway line and saw a beefy looking fellow with a glass in his hand inviting me to join him and his female companion for a drink. It was getting on for mid-day so I crossed the line and joined them on the train.
Mike Malone introduced himself and his wife and told me he managed the Glugor rubber estate near Mentakab. I gathered they were going to Bahau, about fifty miles down the line, to spend a few days with friends. The ‘up’ train had been delayed and we spent about an hour in each other’s company before the ‘down’ train could continue its journey. It was a pleasant interlude and before we parted the Malones invited me to a curry lunch party at their home on the estate the following Saturday.
At this stage of my story, the reader should understand that Malaya during the 'emergency' was not the cosy holiday destination it is today. Venturing on roads through jungle and rubber estates without an armed escort was asking for trouble and communication with Army units was subject to strict security; telephones were rarely used as they could easily be ‘tapped’ by the communist terrorist organisation. Wireless was the normal means of contact but this did not usually work after dark.
Unmarried officers lived a monastic life, but those who were married (accompanied) were able to visit their wives once a month on the island of Penang. The Commanding Officer must have appreciated the morale factor for officers like me, because when I asked for permission to go out for lunch, he said: “A day away from this place will do you good. Go off and enjoy yourself.”
The following Saturday morning, I set off in the CO’s Humber 4 X 4 command vehicle accompanied by a large American Dodge load carrier with half a dozen askaris, as my escort. I took a minimum amount of kit as I expected to be back in Triang that night.
Two hours later, I saw the sign post to Glugor estate and drove up the long line of palm trees to the Malone’s bungalow. Mike and Mary greeted me like an old friend and introduced me to a dozen or so people who had driven in from neighbouring rubber estates. As soon as I had slaked my thirst with a cold beer I went to the back of the house to see how my askaris were getting on. They were being looked after by Malay kitchen staff who most probably had never seen an African before. Instant rapport was the name of the game as far as the askaris were concerned and they had already made their mark with a buxom Malay lady who just happened to be in charge of the curry. I stayed with them as they were served mountains of rice and mouth watering selections of curried chicken, fish and goat. My driver told me afterwards he had never tasted anything so delicious in all his life.
When I rejoined the party I was introduced to a fellow called Guy Reardon who ran a rubber estate not far from Triang. When he heard I was going back to Triang that evening, he said: “There’s no need to keep your soldiers here, I’ll give you a lift home.” It seemed a good idea so I gave the askaris instructions to return to base when they had finished their meal.
Although the curry was ready to eat by 1pm, Mike and Mary were in no hurry to feed their guests, neither were their guests in any hurry to eat. There was plenty of drink and both conversation and alcohol flowed freely. I looked at my watch and saw it was getting on for three o’clock. Planters get up early in the morning and soon after dawn they supervise the collection of latex from thousands of rubber trees. After checking all is well in the processing sheds and smokehouse, they usually go home at about 9am and have a large breakfast. This keeps them going until 2pm'ish when they have ‘tiffin’ (light lunch) and then snooze through the hottest part of the day. During the comparative coolness of the late afternoon, they put in another couple of hours work on the estate. The ones I met at the party were 'letting their hair down' and enjoying a break from their normal routine; we sat down to eat at about 5 pm.
When darkness fell, I began to feel uneasy and wondered if Guy Reardon had forgotten about his offer to take me back to Triang. He had been drinking heavily since mid-day and was looking the worse for wear. At the risk of sounding a spoil-sport I impressed upon him my need to get back. He looked at me with glazed eyes and said: “The party’s just starting old boy. Let’s have another drink and enjoy ourselves.” I then asked Mike and Mary to help me but it was evident they also thought the party had some way to go. Guy took another glass of whisky but before he drank any there was a crash and he collapsed on the floor. Mary took one look at him and said: “Well, that’s him out for the night." Guy had hit his head on the corner of a coffee table and a pool of blood was spreading over the floor. “He’s always doing that,” grumbled Mike. “The last time he was here he put his head through that bamboo screen.” Mary brought a bandage and when the blood stopped flowing, Guy was carried to a bedroom and unceremoniously dumped on a bed. If only I had been able to pick up a telephone and speak to someone in battalion headquarters it would have been alright, but there was no way I could get through and going AWOL (absent without leave) on ‘active service’ is a serious matter.
I shared a bedroom with the drunken planter who was sleeping soundly when I turned in. When I awoke the following day, his pillow was covered in blood. I thought the wound on his head had opened but it turned out he had had a nose-bleed. Mary Malone told me it was not the first time he had made a mess of her bedding.
Guy was nursing a hangover when he joined us on the veranda and a bump on his forehead added to his discomfort. When he was offered a choice of corn flakes or fresh fruit he called for some ‘hair of the dog’, otherwise a brandy and ginger.
I was all for making an early start for Triang, but the Malones and Guy Reardon were intent upon attending another lunch party at a place called Bukit Dinding (Malay for ‘Valley Between the Mountain’); they could not understand why I was so anxious to return to a grotty little railway station on a Sunday morning. Once again, I tried to explain we worked every day of the week in 3/KAR but as far as they were concerned, Sunday was a day of rest. Instead, they promised me it would be a quick visit and that I would be back in base before the Colonel had woken up from his afternoon snooze.
I travelled to the manager’s bungalow on Bukit Dinding rubber estate with Guy in his armour plated Chevrolet saloon. It was a monster of a vehicle designed to protect anyone inside from rifle fire and hand grenades. He was very proud of his ‘Chevy’ which, he said, had proved its reliability when he had been ambushed by bandits a few months previously. He tried to impress me by hurling the thing around corners but it lurched so violently it only made me feel sick.
When we arrived at Bukit Dinding, I recognised a few of the people who had been at the Malone’s house the day before. I think most of them were feeling ‘fragile’ and we all sat down for lunch at the reasonable hour of one o’clock. I began to feel there was a chance I would be back in Triang, with a bit of luck, by late afternoon.
At three o’clock, guests started to thin out and Guy asked me if I was ready to make a move. We said our farewells and I climbed into the Chevy alongside him. When we reached the main road, instead of turning right, Guy swung the car in the opposite direction. “Where are we going now?” I yelped. “Just remembered, I’ve got to see a fellow in Bentong,” he replied. “Bentong!” I gasped. “Christ, that’s half way to Kuala Lumpur.” He put his foot down and the ‘tank’ hurtled down the jungle-fringed road. “It’s not that far. We’ll be there in half an hour and it will only take me a few minutes to do my business. You’ll still be back in Triang by six o’clock,” he said. I was none too pleased with this change of plan and I began to feel worried again.
We reached Bentong within the hour and Guy drew up alongside a Chinese general store and suggested I follow him inside. We climbed over some sacks of rice and dried fish and went upstairs where four Chinese men were playing mah-jong in a dimly lit room. Guy greeted them in Cantonese and introduced me. I had no idea what they were saying but I had the impression that Guy was being given a hard time. After about half an hour he stood up and I gathered that business had been completed.
We took the road back to Mentakab and I tried not to think what the CO would say when he saw me. He would be angry, for sure, but I hoped he would understand I was a victim of circumstances. The Chevrolet roared down the deserted highway and rolled alarmingly around corners. Still, we were making good time and I didn’t complain about Guy driving so fast.
During the Malayan emergency you got into the habit of looking for enemy ambush positions: I searched the jungle on each side of the road and kept my sub-machine gun ready for action - just in case! We entered a stretch of road with a number of bends and, to my horror, after negotiating a series of twists and turns, I saw a tree across the road. That usually spelt ‘Ambush’, but Guy had no intention of stopping. With a cry of: “Hold on!” he aimed the Chevy at the leafiest part of the tree. There was an almighty crash as the vehicle tore through branches and leaves and the collision almost halted the vehicle, but Guy put his foot down and the Chevy began to pick up speed again. We never knew if there were bandits near the tree and when we inspected the car later there were no obvious bullet holes. The suspension had been damaged though and we limped into Mentakab with a list to starboard and ominous groans coming from under the bonnet.
It was obvious the car was in no state to take us to Triang and the only course was to head for Glugor rubber estate and ask the Malones to put us up for another night. Mike and Mary were delighted to see us and soon we were tucking into a meal. Thereafter, we calmed our nerves with Irish whiskey while the clock ticked towards midnight. Guy had another nose-bleed during the night and when I awoke his face was covered in blood. I wondered why Mary didn't keep an old pillow so he could indulge himself as much as he liked whenever he stayed with them.
As soon as we had finished breakfast we went into Mentakab to see about getting the car repaired. The damage was more serious than we thought and Guy was told it would not be ready until about four o’clock that afternoon. Mary accompanied us so we left the Chevy at the garage and returned to the estate in her car. Later that morning she showed me around her flower garden and took me into a special place where she grew orchids. I told her my Commanding Officer loved flowers and that he had surrounded his basha (thatched hut) with a variety of plants. She knew I was worried about what he was going to say when I returned, so she suggested I take him a bunch of flowers and some potted plants. It could do no harm and might even cool him down - so I accepted her offer.
The foreman at the garage was still working on the Chevy when we arrived at 4pm and it took another two hours before it was ready for the road. We eventually got back to the Glugor estate at 6.30pm and were invited to have supper. Guy would have stayed another night if I had not insisted he take me home. I gathered the Colonel’s flowers and potted plants, slung my sub-machine gun on my shoulder and enlisted the help of Mary Malone to remove the bottle of Irish whiskey from Guy’s reach. Reluctantly, at about 7.30pm, he climbed into the driving seat of the Chevy and we set off for Triang.
Once we had crossed the Sungei Pahang (river), Guy turned off the main road and took a route through an overgrown rubber estate. To venture into such country at night without an escort seemed madness to me but Guy said he knew what he was doing and eventually we turned up at his estate. He told me that Triang was only a few miles away across country and that as soon as he had had a word with his houseboy he would drive me to the officers’ mess. I felt I was nearly ‘home and dry’ so I accepted a drink before embarking on the last lap of the journey. I had a tankard of beer and Guy poured himself a large whisky which he drank in one gulp.
While he poured himself another one, he told me about his business. He looked after three Chinese owned rubber estates and had to pay 'blood money' to the local communist terrorist organisation (Min Yuen) in order to stay alive. The worry of it all was driving him mad and he broke down in tears, which led to another nose-bleed. He collapsed on the floor and I shouted for help to get him into the bathroom. His servants were well practised in knowing what to do and while they were cleaning him up and putting him to bed I pondered on the latest situation in which I found myself. Here I was, not more than six miles from Triang, with no telephone and no way to get help. I strolled on to the veranda and wondered if I should drive the Chevy myself through the maze of tracks that criss-crossed each other on the huge rubber estate. I had almost made up my mind to do this when I saw the lights of a vehicle some distance away heading in my direction. It was another armoured saloon car and as it drew up alongside the bungalow I recognised the driver as Archie Richardson who occasionally came to battalion HQ to play bridge with the Colonel. “Hello Bob,” he said, “what are you doing here? “ I gave him a resume of the previous three days I had spent in Guy Reardon’s company and then asked him if he could take me back to Triang. “No problem,” he said. "Hang on a few minutes and I’ll run you home.”
I followed him into the bungalow and we checked on Guy, now tucked in bed inside a mosquito net. “This is par for the course,” said Archie. “He’s going to kill himself if he doesn’t stop drinking.” Archie found what he wanted and within a few minutes I had removed the flowers etc. from the Chevy and stowed them in the boot of the other vehicle. It took only twenty minutes to get to Triang and the sentry opened the gate when he saw me sitting in the passenger seat. Archie carried the box of plants and I took the bucket of flowers as we made our way to the officers’ mess.
I could see the Colonel and three other officers playing bridge, but they were so intent on their game that they did not look up until I said: “Good evening Colonel, I’m back.” The bucket of flowers was large and heavy and my face was hidden from view but the Colonel recognised my voice and would have blasted me if it had not been for Archie who was handing over the box of plants to the mess sergeant. I put the flowers on the card table but quickly removed them when I saw the acid look the Colonel gave me. Archie accepted the offer of a drink and this eased the situation somewhat. In fact, the Colonel was, as usual, the perfect host and he accepted Archie’s invitation to attend a pig shoot the following Sunday. I walked back to the car and Archie said: “I don’t know what you were worried about. The Colonel seemed alright to me.” I was under no illusion about being 'let off' but I went to bed thankful I was home at last.
After breakfast the following morning, I went to my office to see what had happened since I had been away. Warrant Officer Kathuka was bringing me up to date when Major Tony Lynch-Staunton, my company commander, walked in and told me to put my hat on. “The Colonel wants to see you - NOW,” he said.
I was marched into the CO's office by Tony and we both stood rigidly to attention as the Colonel said in a steely voice: “I want you to tell me exactly where you have been and what you have been doing since I saw you last Saturday morning.” I told him every detail of what had happened and ended up by apologising for acting in such an irresponsible way.
The Colonel's fingers drummed a tattoo on his desk top, and then he spoke in that deep voice with measured tones which I knew spelt trouble: “You have been very unfortunate in your selection of friends. They have let you down and you must pay the price for being absent without leave.” He then told me I would be confined to camp for a month (except when I was on duty - which was every day) and that I would not be allowed to go on leave for three months. (I did not have any leave during the twenty months I spent in Malaya, except for one week end when I visited some old friends in Bahau). It sounded like a severe punishment but, in fact, my routine was unaltered.
What hurt me most was causing my Commanding Officer to worry about me. I thought the world of him and was deeply ashamed about what had happened. But time has a way of sorting things out and years later at a regimental reunion tears of mirth ran down his face as he recalled the memory of me staggering into the mess at Triang and peeping at him through a large bunch of flowers.
Post script: I never saw Guy Reardon again; he committed suicide, or someone else blew his brains out, six weeks later. Rubber planters in the area closed ranks and the official line was that ‘drink’ had finally proved too much for him. But I remember the look on the faces of those sinister Chinese men playing mah-jong in Bentong and what Guy said about ‘paying the price to stay alive'.
The names of Guy Reardon, Mike and Mary Malone, Archie Richardson and the Glugor Rubber Estate are fictitious, but otherwise the story is true.
I first met them in the village of Triang in Malaya in 1952. Other than a few houses, a row of Chinese shops and a basketball pitch Triang’s only claim to an entry on the map was its railway station on a minor branch line that run up the spine of Malaya. It was also the location of battalion headquarters of the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles.
The ‘down’ train from Mentakab had pulled in one day and was waiting in a siding for the ‘up’ train from Gemas to pass. First class passengers did not expect, neither did they receive, much comfort on this type of train; the only attractive feature was the dining car. Malays, Chinese and Indians sat on hard bench seats on one side of the kitchen while an open air terrace sufficient for six first class passengers was on the other. It was quite enjoyable to sit at the end of the train and enjoy the cool breeze as you looked down the track from the veranda. A Chinese cook produced delicious meals on a charcoal stove while his assistant looked after the drinks.
I was walking along the platform to my office when I heard a shout from the rear end of the train. I looked across the railway line and saw a beefy looking fellow with a glass in his hand inviting me to join him and his female companion for a drink. It was getting on for mid-day so I crossed the line and joined them on the train.
Mike Malone introduced himself and his wife and told me he managed the Glugor rubber estate near Mentakab. I gathered they were going to Bahau, about fifty miles down the line, to spend a few days with friends. The ‘up’ train had been delayed and we spent about an hour in each other’s company before the ‘down’ train could continue its journey. It was a pleasant interlude and before we parted the Malones invited me to a curry lunch party at their home on the estate the following Saturday.
At this stage of my story, the reader should understand that Malaya during the 'emergency' was not the cosy holiday destination it is today. Venturing on roads through jungle and rubber estates without an armed escort was asking for trouble and communication with Army units was subject to strict security; telephones were rarely used as they could easily be ‘tapped’ by the communist terrorist organisation. Wireless was the normal means of contact but this did not usually work after dark.
Unmarried officers lived a monastic life, but those who were married (accompanied) were able to visit their wives once a month on the island of Penang. The Commanding Officer must have appreciated the morale factor for officers like me, because when I asked for permission to go out for lunch, he said: “A day away from this place will do you good. Go off and enjoy yourself.”
The following Saturday morning, I set off in the CO’s Humber 4 X 4 command vehicle accompanied by a large American Dodge load carrier with half a dozen askaris, as my escort. I took a minimum amount of kit as I expected to be back in Triang that night.
Two hours later, I saw the sign post to Glugor estate and drove up the long line of palm trees to the Malone’s bungalow. Mike and Mary greeted me like an old friend and introduced me to a dozen or so people who had driven in from neighbouring rubber estates. As soon as I had slaked my thirst with a cold beer I went to the back of the house to see how my askaris were getting on. They were being looked after by Malay kitchen staff who most probably had never seen an African before. Instant rapport was the name of the game as far as the askaris were concerned and they had already made their mark with a buxom Malay lady who just happened to be in charge of the curry. I stayed with them as they were served mountains of rice and mouth watering selections of curried chicken, fish and goat. My driver told me afterwards he had never tasted anything so delicious in all his life.
When I rejoined the party I was introduced to a fellow called Guy Reardon who ran a rubber estate not far from Triang. When he heard I was going back to Triang that evening, he said: “There’s no need to keep your soldiers here, I’ll give you a lift home.” It seemed a good idea so I gave the askaris instructions to return to base when they had finished their meal.
Although the curry was ready to eat by 1pm, Mike and Mary were in no hurry to feed their guests, neither were their guests in any hurry to eat. There was plenty of drink and both conversation and alcohol flowed freely. I looked at my watch and saw it was getting on for three o’clock. Planters get up early in the morning and soon after dawn they supervise the collection of latex from thousands of rubber trees. After checking all is well in the processing sheds and smokehouse, they usually go home at about 9am and have a large breakfast. This keeps them going until 2pm'ish when they have ‘tiffin’ (light lunch) and then snooze through the hottest part of the day. During the comparative coolness of the late afternoon, they put in another couple of hours work on the estate. The ones I met at the party were 'letting their hair down' and enjoying a break from their normal routine; we sat down to eat at about 5 pm.
When darkness fell, I began to feel uneasy and wondered if Guy Reardon had forgotten about his offer to take me back to Triang. He had been drinking heavily since mid-day and was looking the worse for wear. At the risk of sounding a spoil-sport I impressed upon him my need to get back. He looked at me with glazed eyes and said: “The party’s just starting old boy. Let’s have another drink and enjoy ourselves.” I then asked Mike and Mary to help me but it was evident they also thought the party had some way to go. Guy took another glass of whisky but before he drank any there was a crash and he collapsed on the floor. Mary took one look at him and said: “Well, that’s him out for the night." Guy had hit his head on the corner of a coffee table and a pool of blood was spreading over the floor. “He’s always doing that,” grumbled Mike. “The last time he was here he put his head through that bamboo screen.” Mary brought a bandage and when the blood stopped flowing, Guy was carried to a bedroom and unceremoniously dumped on a bed. If only I had been able to pick up a telephone and speak to someone in battalion headquarters it would have been alright, but there was no way I could get through and going AWOL (absent without leave) on ‘active service’ is a serious matter.
I shared a bedroom with the drunken planter who was sleeping soundly when I turned in. When I awoke the following day, his pillow was covered in blood. I thought the wound on his head had opened but it turned out he had had a nose-bleed. Mary Malone told me it was not the first time he had made a mess of her bedding.
Guy was nursing a hangover when he joined us on the veranda and a bump on his forehead added to his discomfort. When he was offered a choice of corn flakes or fresh fruit he called for some ‘hair of the dog’, otherwise a brandy and ginger.
I was all for making an early start for Triang, but the Malones and Guy Reardon were intent upon attending another lunch party at a place called Bukit Dinding (Malay for ‘Valley Between the Mountain’); they could not understand why I was so anxious to return to a grotty little railway station on a Sunday morning. Once again, I tried to explain we worked every day of the week in 3/KAR but as far as they were concerned, Sunday was a day of rest. Instead, they promised me it would be a quick visit and that I would be back in base before the Colonel had woken up from his afternoon snooze.
I travelled to the manager’s bungalow on Bukit Dinding rubber estate with Guy in his armour plated Chevrolet saloon. It was a monster of a vehicle designed to protect anyone inside from rifle fire and hand grenades. He was very proud of his ‘Chevy’ which, he said, had proved its reliability when he had been ambushed by bandits a few months previously. He tried to impress me by hurling the thing around corners but it lurched so violently it only made me feel sick.
When we arrived at Bukit Dinding, I recognised a few of the people who had been at the Malone’s house the day before. I think most of them were feeling ‘fragile’ and we all sat down for lunch at the reasonable hour of one o’clock. I began to feel there was a chance I would be back in Triang, with a bit of luck, by late afternoon.
At three o’clock, guests started to thin out and Guy asked me if I was ready to make a move. We said our farewells and I climbed into the Chevy alongside him. When we reached the main road, instead of turning right, Guy swung the car in the opposite direction. “Where are we going now?” I yelped. “Just remembered, I’ve got to see a fellow in Bentong,” he replied. “Bentong!” I gasped. “Christ, that’s half way to Kuala Lumpur.” He put his foot down and the ‘tank’ hurtled down the jungle-fringed road. “It’s not that far. We’ll be there in half an hour and it will only take me a few minutes to do my business. You’ll still be back in Triang by six o’clock,” he said. I was none too pleased with this change of plan and I began to feel worried again.
We reached Bentong within the hour and Guy drew up alongside a Chinese general store and suggested I follow him inside. We climbed over some sacks of rice and dried fish and went upstairs where four Chinese men were playing mah-jong in a dimly lit room. Guy greeted them in Cantonese and introduced me. I had no idea what they were saying but I had the impression that Guy was being given a hard time. After about half an hour he stood up and I gathered that business had been completed.
We took the road back to Mentakab and I tried not to think what the CO would say when he saw me. He would be angry, for sure, but I hoped he would understand I was a victim of circumstances. The Chevrolet roared down the deserted highway and rolled alarmingly around corners. Still, we were making good time and I didn’t complain about Guy driving so fast.
During the Malayan emergency you got into the habit of looking for enemy ambush positions: I searched the jungle on each side of the road and kept my sub-machine gun ready for action - just in case! We entered a stretch of road with a number of bends and, to my horror, after negotiating a series of twists and turns, I saw a tree across the road. That usually spelt ‘Ambush’, but Guy had no intention of stopping. With a cry of: “Hold on!” he aimed the Chevy at the leafiest part of the tree. There was an almighty crash as the vehicle tore through branches and leaves and the collision almost halted the vehicle, but Guy put his foot down and the Chevy began to pick up speed again. We never knew if there were bandits near the tree and when we inspected the car later there were no obvious bullet holes. The suspension had been damaged though and we limped into Mentakab with a list to starboard and ominous groans coming from under the bonnet.
It was obvious the car was in no state to take us to Triang and the only course was to head for Glugor rubber estate and ask the Malones to put us up for another night. Mike and Mary were delighted to see us and soon we were tucking into a meal. Thereafter, we calmed our nerves with Irish whiskey while the clock ticked towards midnight. Guy had another nose-bleed during the night and when I awoke his face was covered in blood. I wondered why Mary didn't keep an old pillow so he could indulge himself as much as he liked whenever he stayed with them.
As soon as we had finished breakfast we went into Mentakab to see about getting the car repaired. The damage was more serious than we thought and Guy was told it would not be ready until about four o’clock that afternoon. Mary accompanied us so we left the Chevy at the garage and returned to the estate in her car. Later that morning she showed me around her flower garden and took me into a special place where she grew orchids. I told her my Commanding Officer loved flowers and that he had surrounded his basha (thatched hut) with a variety of plants. She knew I was worried about what he was going to say when I returned, so she suggested I take him a bunch of flowers and some potted plants. It could do no harm and might even cool him down - so I accepted her offer.
The foreman at the garage was still working on the Chevy when we arrived at 4pm and it took another two hours before it was ready for the road. We eventually got back to the Glugor estate at 6.30pm and were invited to have supper. Guy would have stayed another night if I had not insisted he take me home. I gathered the Colonel’s flowers and potted plants, slung my sub-machine gun on my shoulder and enlisted the help of Mary Malone to remove the bottle of Irish whiskey from Guy’s reach. Reluctantly, at about 7.30pm, he climbed into the driving seat of the Chevy and we set off for Triang.
Once we had crossed the Sungei Pahang (river), Guy turned off the main road and took a route through an overgrown rubber estate. To venture into such country at night without an escort seemed madness to me but Guy said he knew what he was doing and eventually we turned up at his estate. He told me that Triang was only a few miles away across country and that as soon as he had had a word with his houseboy he would drive me to the officers’ mess. I felt I was nearly ‘home and dry’ so I accepted a drink before embarking on the last lap of the journey. I had a tankard of beer and Guy poured himself a large whisky which he drank in one gulp.
While he poured himself another one, he told me about his business. He looked after three Chinese owned rubber estates and had to pay 'blood money' to the local communist terrorist organisation (Min Yuen) in order to stay alive. The worry of it all was driving him mad and he broke down in tears, which led to another nose-bleed. He collapsed on the floor and I shouted for help to get him into the bathroom. His servants were well practised in knowing what to do and while they were cleaning him up and putting him to bed I pondered on the latest situation in which I found myself. Here I was, not more than six miles from Triang, with no telephone and no way to get help. I strolled on to the veranda and wondered if I should drive the Chevy myself through the maze of tracks that criss-crossed each other on the huge rubber estate. I had almost made up my mind to do this when I saw the lights of a vehicle some distance away heading in my direction. It was another armoured saloon car and as it drew up alongside the bungalow I recognised the driver as Archie Richardson who occasionally came to battalion HQ to play bridge with the Colonel. “Hello Bob,” he said, “what are you doing here? “ I gave him a resume of the previous three days I had spent in Guy Reardon’s company and then asked him if he could take me back to Triang. “No problem,” he said. "Hang on a few minutes and I’ll run you home.”
I followed him into the bungalow and we checked on Guy, now tucked in bed inside a mosquito net. “This is par for the course,” said Archie. “He’s going to kill himself if he doesn’t stop drinking.” Archie found what he wanted and within a few minutes I had removed the flowers etc. from the Chevy and stowed them in the boot of the other vehicle. It took only twenty minutes to get to Triang and the sentry opened the gate when he saw me sitting in the passenger seat. Archie carried the box of plants and I took the bucket of flowers as we made our way to the officers’ mess.
I could see the Colonel and three other officers playing bridge, but they were so intent on their game that they did not look up until I said: “Good evening Colonel, I’m back.” The bucket of flowers was large and heavy and my face was hidden from view but the Colonel recognised my voice and would have blasted me if it had not been for Archie who was handing over the box of plants to the mess sergeant. I put the flowers on the card table but quickly removed them when I saw the acid look the Colonel gave me. Archie accepted the offer of a drink and this eased the situation somewhat. In fact, the Colonel was, as usual, the perfect host and he accepted Archie’s invitation to attend a pig shoot the following Sunday. I walked back to the car and Archie said: “I don’t know what you were worried about. The Colonel seemed alright to me.” I was under no illusion about being 'let off' but I went to bed thankful I was home at last.
After breakfast the following morning, I went to my office to see what had happened since I had been away. Warrant Officer Kathuka was bringing me up to date when Major Tony Lynch-Staunton, my company commander, walked in and told me to put my hat on. “The Colonel wants to see you - NOW,” he said.
I was marched into the CO's office by Tony and we both stood rigidly to attention as the Colonel said in a steely voice: “I want you to tell me exactly where you have been and what you have been doing since I saw you last Saturday morning.” I told him every detail of what had happened and ended up by apologising for acting in such an irresponsible way.
The Colonel's fingers drummed a tattoo on his desk top, and then he spoke in that deep voice with measured tones which I knew spelt trouble: “You have been very unfortunate in your selection of friends. They have let you down and you must pay the price for being absent without leave.” He then told me I would be confined to camp for a month (except when I was on duty - which was every day) and that I would not be allowed to go on leave for three months. (I did not have any leave during the twenty months I spent in Malaya, except for one week end when I visited some old friends in Bahau). It sounded like a severe punishment but, in fact, my routine was unaltered.
What hurt me most was causing my Commanding Officer to worry about me. I thought the world of him and was deeply ashamed about what had happened. But time has a way of sorting things out and years later at a regimental reunion tears of mirth ran down his face as he recalled the memory of me staggering into the mess at Triang and peeping at him through a large bunch of flowers.
Post script: I never saw Guy Reardon again; he committed suicide, or someone else blew his brains out, six weeks later. Rubber planters in the area closed ranks and the official line was that ‘drink’ had finally proved too much for him. But I remember the look on the faces of those sinister Chinese men playing mah-jong in Bentong and what Guy said about ‘paying the price to stay alive'.
The names of Guy Reardon, Mike and Mary Malone, Archie Richardson and the Glugor Rubber Estate are fictitious, but otherwise the story is true.
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