Helicopters were new tools in the fight against terrorism when the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles arrived in Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya in 1952. Ours was a Sikorsky S51 which carried a pilot and four passengers. Lieut Col Joe Crewe-Read (SWB), the commanding officer used it to visit rifle companies and askaris' morale was raised when they knew that if they were injured or fell sick in deep jungle they could be lifted out within a few hours.
I was working in my signals office (tent) one day when the familiar noise of the Sikorsky was heard. It sounded a bit rough so I got up, went outside and watched it as it prepared to land. I began to think I was imagining things, as all helicopters sound rough when the blades are angled for landing. But then, as it hovered about fifty feet from the ground, it dropped like a stone; I watched helplessly as it hit the ground. Fortunately, it landed squarely and when the blades stopped rotating I ran forward to see if I could help. The pilot looked shaken but, otherwise, was in good order.
“You must be in need of a cold beer to come in at that speed,” I said. He gave me a jaundiced look and said: “That’s not the usual way I land. When I put it into hover, it just dropped; there was nothing I could do about it.” Later that day, when he had examined the undercarriage and found it to be serviceable, he took off once more. He flew around the camp and then brought the machine to the landing pad again. This time he maintained forward movement until he was only a few feet above the ground, but when he put it into hover, it dropped again. The following day the pilot and his mechanic caught the weekly RAF ‘milk-run’ aircraft back to their base in Kuala Lumpur.
The chopper was left in our care alongside other vehicles on the motor transport park. A week passed and then two new crew members arrived by air from Kuala Lumpur. I met the pilot in the mess and we had lunch together. Afterwards, as we were taking coffee, I told him I had been witness to the two occasions when the chopper had fallen out of the sky; he gave me a patronising look when I told him it was something to do with ‘hovering’.
An hour later, I saw him and the mechanic inspecting the helicopter. Minutes later the engine was switched on and the blades started to rotate. The chopper taxied to the centre of the MT park, took off and flew in a westerly direction over Kuantan town. The new pilot was obviously giving it a thorough work-out and everything seemed to be in order until he made his approach to land on the MT park. He was about 50 feet up, the same height as his predecessor, when the Sikorsky dropped like a stone. This time the undercarriage collapsed and I flung myself to the ground just in case the whirling blades detached themselves. Fortunately, this did not happen but the damage was considerable and it was obvious that the chopper was going to be out of action for some time. The pilot eased himself through the door and surveyed the broken undercarriage. I had no wish to embarrass him but could not resist saying: “I told you not to hover."
A few days later a low-loader arrived from Kuala Lumpur. The Sikorsky, along with the pilot and the mechanic, set off on the return journey and we never saw them again.
Colonel Crewe-Read who had been in Penang for a week with his wife, was appalled to find that his helicopter had gone when he returned. He asked the Brigade Commander if he could get him another one, without success. When he learnt that I had witnessed all three incidents, he wanted to know why I had allowed the pilot to take off. I respectfully told the Colonel that it was not up to me to stop the pilot from flying his helicopter. “But you knew it wouldn't hover!” he bellowed. “Yes, sir,” I replied, “and I told him so.” “Well, you didn’t tell him strongly enough,” said the irate Colonel. I was about to say that he might have lost his signals officer if those blades had come off but I realised that he was just blowing off steam and that there was nothing personal in it.
In May 1953, shortly before 3/KAR returned to Kenya, a huge operation against communist terrorists took place in central Pahang. Units of infantry battalions from all over Malaya converged on Mentakab, home of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment. Top grade information had been received from Police Special Branch that a printing press had been set up in the jungle south west of Mentakab and was already churning out posters and pamphlets. The police must have had an informer as we were given nominal rolls of the organisation and a plan of the camp.
The Commanding Officer decided to establish a tactical headquarters in the jungle so that he could keep in touch with the 3/KAR element taking part in the operation. He told me that I would accompany him.
We arrived in Mentakab on a Sunday afternoon and soon after breakfast the following morning we went to the airstrip from where we were to be flown into the jungle. There were many people there including a squadron of Special Air Service. Colonel Joe Crewe-Read received his orders from the Brigadier ( Franky Brooke – late Welch Regiment) and told me that I and ten askaris were to go in with the SAS squadron on the first flight. He instructed me to choose a suitable place for tactical headquarters not far from where the helicopter would drop me. I had never met anyone from the SAS before, let alone operated with them. I can well remember being part of that impressive formation of ten Sikorsky S55 helicopters heading for a large clearing about twenty miles away in deep jungle. I did not know at the time that Lieut Col Oliver Brooke (one of the two Brooke brothers of the Welch Regiment) was the CO of 22 SAS. Oliver had developed the technique of parachuting into jungle, letting the canopy become entangled in the trees and using a rope for the remainder of the descent.
When we reached the clearing, the SAS were deposited at one end while the pilot of my helicopter selected another spot for us about two hundred yards away. I opted to go first in the conventional manner by sliding down a rope. I eased myself out of the fuselage, clung to the rope and started to lower myself to the ground. In addition to my rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition, I was carrying five days rations plus spare clothing, a poncho cape and a blanket.
I had practised helicopter drills many times but I had never carried so much weight before. I dropped like a stone and to make matters worse, knots in the rope were spaced every few feet. Instead of assisting me to hang on they tore even more skin from my fingers. Finally, the end of the rope looped itself around my ankle and I was left hanging with my shoulders touching the ground with my legs in the air.
There were about ten askaris still in the helicopter and I knew that the last one would give a signal to the pilot by tapping him on his foot before he left. After allowing sufficient time for the last man to descend, the pilot would then fly away. I also knew that if I did not untangle myself I would be carried back upside down on the end of the rope to Mentakab. This terrifying experience only lasted a few seconds but in that time I somehow managed to jettison my rifle, which I had hung by its sling around my shoulders, unbuckle my belt and remove my heavy pack I can’t remember anyone helping me but I can recall freeing myself with only a second or two to spare before the chopper tilted its nose and swung away over the clearing on its way back to Mentakab.
My orderly, Kipleli arap Kindurwa, was soon at my side and helped me assemble my kit. I was in considerable pain and when I looked at my hands I saw there was no skin on the inside of the palms and fingers. Injuries of this sort soon fester and despite liberal applications of foot powder, which was the only substance available, my hands became infected.
The Colonel and I plus a few signallers and orderlies spent five days in the jungle while the area was combed by hundreds of soldiers. If there ever was a bandit news press it must have been built underground as nothing was found.
I learnt an important lesson the day I slid down that rope and when, ten years later, I returned to Malaya as Second-in-Command of the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers, one of the first things I did was arrange for a mock-up helicopter fuselage to be built thirty feet up in a tree. I made sure all our recruits, and even veterans like myself, practised descents on a rope carrying full equipment and rations for five days.
The third and last of my helicopter stories is about a trip my cameraman and I made from Lubbecke, in north Germany to Denmark in 1969. I was Public Relations officer of 2nd Division of the British (Rhine) Army and I was tasked to make a film for Westward Television featuring the 1st Battalion The Devonshire and Dorset Regiment training in Denmark. The helicopter that picked us up in Tunis Barracks, Lubbecke that September day had sufficient room for the pilot, the two of us and our kit.
The first stage of our journey was due north to an airfield somewhere near Wilhelmshaven, on the North Sea coast of Germany. When we landed and the blades had stopped rotating the pilot asked me if I had felt any vibration during the trip. I have yet to travel in a helicopter that does not vibrate, so I gave him an affirmative. “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “You’ve confirmed my worst fear,” whereupon he took out a large bag of spanners from under his seat, climbed on top of the cockpit and started to tighten the nuts on the blades.
Whenever I travel by air I try not to think of things that might go wrong. I trust whoever is in charge to deal with problems and certainly do not expect to be involved in matters affecting safety.
All three of us walked across to the airport building where we had coffee. The pilot detached himself and went into one of the offices. A few minutes later he came out with an RAF officer who was giving him an update on weather conditions. There was a lot of technical jargon but I understood the last bit when he said: “There's nothing to worry about, the cloud base is not less than five hundred feet and rain is already clearing from Denmark.” The pilot bit his nails, looked across at me and said: “I don’t like the sound of it. What do you think?” I began to wish I had used the Land Rover to get to Denmark but then the weather-man spoke again and poured scorn on the pilot’s reluctance to continue the journey. “Come on. Let’s get going.” I said. As we walked across the tarmac to the helicopter my cameraman tugged my jacket and said: “I’m all for staying here and getting someone else to take us back. I don’t have any faith in this bloke.” He echoed my sentiments entirely but I did not tell him so.
The rest of the journey to Denmark was uneventful but as soon as we landed the pilot clambered on top of the cockpit with his bag of spanners and started tightening the nuts again.
I do not know where he went during the next two days we were making our film but the thought of travelling back to Lubbecke with him on the third day occupied my thoughts. I saw him at breakfast and we travelled together in a Land Rover to the helicopter. I did not ask him if the machine was serviceable, that would be tempting providence, so we climbed aboard and strapped ourselves in. It was a fine day, there were no problems with weather and vibration was minimal.
Soon after crossing the German border, we landed at a small airfield near Kiel. The pilot grabbed his brief case and legged it across the tarmac to the control tower. The cameraman and I got out to stretch our legs and within a few minutes a German police car with a flashing light on the roof pulled up alongside us. “OK, where is the porn,” said one of the coppers in a thick German accent. “I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that?” I said, not having the faintest idea what he wanted. He repeated what he had said and then, to make things clearer, he emphasised the last word: “PORN - PORNO - PORNOGRAPHY!” The penny took some time to drop but, eventually, I gathered he thought we had a consignment of literature and/or photographs, freely available in Denmark, but then classed as contraband in Germany. One look at our faces must have satisfied him that we were not smugglers of pornography so he joined his mate in the car and drove off. The pilot returned a few minutes later and we resumed our journey to Lubbecke. The remainder of the flight was uneventful but my cameraman and I were relieved when we disembarked and waved good-bye to the pilot.
There is a sad twist to this story. I was talking to someone involved with helicopters a few months later and I casually mentioned the name of the pilot who had flown me to and from Denmark. I was told he had been taken off flying duties and was presently undergoing psychiatric treatment in a miliatary hospital in UK.
Showing posts with label Mentakab. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mentakab. Show all posts
Monday, 9 June 2008
Saturday, 7 June 2008
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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