The Rose of Singapore (40 page)

“No, sir. That's it,” the flight sergeant said, pointing a finger towards the Bedford lorry.

“Oh well!”

“As I've already said, sir, I hope you'll have a good trip. But don't keep the boys awake at Fraser's Hill with that violin of yours. And mind you don't lose your balls.”

“I beg your pardon, Flight Sergeant?”

“Your golf balls, sir. Mind you don't lose them in the
ulu.
”

“The
ulu
?”

“The jungle.”

“Ah! Yes! The neutral jungle.”

Muttering to himself, “Some mothers do ‘ave ‘em,” the flight sergeant strode over to where a couple of hefty-looking airmen were smoking, sitting on the tarmac near the officer's luggage. “You! Airmen! Get rid of those fags and stow those four pieces of gear up on the wagon,” he ordered.

The officer's luggage, including the beat-up violin case and the bag of golf clubs were tossed unceremoniously aboard the lorry by the two hefty airmen, where they fell on top of all the other pieces of luggage stacked behind the cab of the three-tonner.

“OK lads, all those going to Fraser's Hill get aboard,” shouted the flight sergeant.

A rush followed, the airmen clambering up over the sides and rear of the lorry, a few swearing on knocking themselves against metal parts, others swearing because of the heat and the humidity, and some because of not knowing where they were going or what to expect. Several had suddenly become apprehensive on seeing the driver with a Sten gun, and more so at having seen him nonchalantly load the weapon. Keyed up, they were letting off steam.

The young pilot officer, aloof and alone, approached the lorry driver. But before he could utter a word, the driver said to him, “If you take a seat up in the cab, sir, I'll first take you to the officers' mess.”

“Oh, thank you, airman. Is it far?”

“The officers' mess? No, sir. It's just up the hill past them rubber trees,” he said, jerking a thumb towards a distant rise. Turning his attention again to the airmen seated in the back of the lorry, he shouted, “OK chaps, after I drop off the officer, our first stop will be the airmens' mess. It's not the best of grub up there. It was until the cooks fucked it up. Now listen carefully. As soon as you've finished your meal, you're to collect arms from the armoury. That's over there,” he said, jerking the same thumb towards some single storey buildings, which appeared to be at the entrance to the airfield. “I'll be picking you up there in exactly one hour from now, so eat fast. There ain't no latrines along the route, so take a shit if you need to before we head out. Some miles outside KL we'll be joining a convoy. That convoy can not be delayed by us or by anyone else. So remember, no one must be late getting to the armoury. Is that clear?”

Much muttering followed among the airmen seated on two rows of slotted wooden benches facing outward and running down the length of each side of the open lorry. A few questions were shot at the driver, who shot back only the one answer, “You'll find out soon enough.” Returning to his cab, he sat down next to the young pilot officer, and with everyone seated, restored the engine to life. The Bedford three-tonner moved away from the parked Valletta and headed towards the exit of the airfield, and to the officers' mess and the airmens' mess, both being situated upon the hillside half a mile or so away.

Memories flooded Peter Saunders as he sat next to Gerald Rickie on a bench at the rear of the lorry, where both gazed out over the closed tailboard.

Peter knew that a modern RAF camp was in the process of being built at KL but he was not too interested in seeing it, just curious. And as the lorry drove away from the airstrip, he could see numerous remains of the old camp but as yet nothing of the new. Very little seemed to have changed since that day, just over a year ago, when he had departed from RAF Kuala Lumpur. Now, the weather was just as hot and humid as it had been then, and he travelled the same narrow, dusty road lined on his left by tall, rank grasses, and on his right the abandoned rubber plantation; land which was already being reclaimed by fast-growing jungle. There must be some life left in those gnarled, shapeless old rubber trees, though, he thought, because he had spotted an aged Tamil Indian woman among the greenery carving a downward curve in the lower part of a tree trunk and setting a crescent-shaped cup beneath the fresh wound. By morning that old lady rubber tapper could be rewarded by perhaps half a cup of pure latex for her efforts from that one tree and, most probably, she would have tapped many of the trees during the course of the day.

Peter noticed that there were still some remains of the old camp. Among undergrowth to his right he could see two of the old bashas as the chaps called them, dirt-floored huts made out of rough-cut, bug-infested palm planking. The rotting doors were made of the same material and hanging on rusted hinges. There were no glass windows, just square openings in the sides of the huts, with heavy wooden shutters, which were supposed to keep out the torrential afternoon rains. However, these shutters, equally bug-ridden and hanging on rusted hinges, were rarely closed. The shutters were literally alive, the myriad holes and crevices in the woodwork swarming with inch-long black ants, maggots galore, and huge hairy spiders with bodies the size of a man's thumb nail. The many lizards that scuttled hungrily through the palm-thatched roof and among the woodwork were man's best friends at the old camp at KL, Peter recalled, and were often kept as pets in mens' jacket pockets, and in their lockers, too.

Originally, the bashas had been built to house native rubber tappers. Much later, during the brutal Japanese occupation of Malaya, the huts had housed British and Australian prisoners of war, many of whom died there from brutality, starvation and neglect. And after the war ended the same run-down huts were used to house RAF other ranks stationed at Kuala Lumpur. Now, though, the few huts that Peter saw appeared to be uninhabited. He would have burnt the lot to the ground, bugs and all, if he'd had his way. The hut on the hillside that he had lived in was obscured from his view by jungle that had taken over the old rubber plantation. But he could see the beginning of the rutted, muddy path that led to it, winding its way along the mosquito-infested hillside.

The lorry passed close to a derelict shack considerably larger than the other shacks, its palm-frond roof caved in. This bigger shack had once been the SHQ, the nerve centre of the old camp. Its innards had been partitioned off to form hot and smelly offices with very little ventilation. A beehive that had outlived its usefulness, it had become quite inadequate for the many and varied tasks the clerks had had to cope with to meet the demands placed upon them by the Communist uprising.

Peter well remembered how he had felt that last day when he walked down this same dusty road to the airstrip with his suitcase and kitbag, to board the aircraft which took him to RAF Changi and to a completely new life in Singapore.

At the time of his leaving, the camp at KL had begun to be revolutionized. Architects had already designed a new, modern camp, and builders were busily beginning its construction.

Now, as the lorry left the remnants of the old camp behind, Peter caught his first glimpse of the new RAF Kuala Lumpur. Through the sweat and toil of Chinese coolies, much had already been completed within that one year; a modern military base had risen out of cleared swampland, jungle and a part of the abandoned rubber plantation. RAF Kuala Lumpur could finally feel proud of itself, thought Peter. The majority of those journeying with him would see only the new camp. They would not know of the old SHQ, the health-breaking kitchen and dining room, the filthy old bashas, all of which were now covered by living growth but which soon would be demolished, the land and everything on it cleared to make way for progress.

The lorry stopped outside a modern, white, two-storey brick building in front of which proudly fluttered the blue RAF flag from the yardarm of a tall flagpole. The driver got out and, pushing his way through a mosquito-proof screen door, entered Kuala Lumpur's new Station Headquarters. Through screen-protected open windows Peter could see clerks busy at their desks, and he could hear telephones ringing, and the fast clickety-clack of typewriters. There was an imposing air of efficiency about the whole place.

Within minutes, the driver returned, climbed back into his cab and the lorry resumed its short journey. It stopped next at the officers' mess, where Pilot Officer Graham alighted, before proceeding to the airmens' mess, passing new, white, brick bungalows that Peter guessed had to be the airmens' billets.

Even though Peter could not see inside these bungalows, he had learned from a cook recently posted from KL to Changi that each spacious room had sleeping accommodation for four airmen. Every modern comfort had been installed in them such as bedside reading lamps, electric fans, wardrobes, bookshelves, shoe cupboards, easy chairs and a writing table in every room. There were even bedside mats, ashtrays and coat-hangers provided. What a vast difference to those bad old days that he had experienced, he thought. And as for the toilets, he had heard that they were as good as at any first class hotel. Hot and cold water, tiled floors, towel racks, soap trays, mirrors above washbasins. Take your pick as far as baths were concerned. He had heard that there was a foot bath per bungalow to soak one's weary feet, a shower bath for those who felt hot and sticky with sweat, and a deep, full-length bath in which one could wallow in soapsuds. One could even use the lavatory without a mosquito biting one's ass or seeing a snake slithering across one's feet. The RAF chaps had never had it so good as now at KL, thought Peter.

Even with all its modern buildings, the camp was not yet fully complete. A sports centre and a NAAFI was halfway constructed, and a library and a swimming pool was in the planning stage. RAF Kuala Lumpur was becoming quite a holiday camp.

The lorry drew up at a pathway leading into the airmens' mess dining room. The driver, as he had done on both previous occasions, jumped down from his cab, backwards.

“OK men, this is the airmens' mess,” he shouted. “Remember what I told you. Meet me in an hour at the armoury. And don't be late.”

The men jumped down from the lorry onto the hot tarmacked road. On entering the mess they lined up at the servery, taking from their small packs RAF issued brown enamel mugs, and their eating irons comprising knives, forks and spoons. Peter noted how sullen the two cooks appeared to be who were standing behind the gleaming, stainless steel servery waiting to serve the incoming men in transit. Perhaps, thought Peter, these in-coming men needing early lunches were delaying the cooks from getting on with the preparation and cooking of the main lunch. Perhaps there was still a shortage of cooks at KL. Without a hint of a smile between them the two cooks sloshed food onto outstretched plates. Soon, all those bound for Fraser's Hill were served and seated.

Rick gulped a dollop of powdered potato down his throat and swallowed hard. He prodded the leathery roast beef with his knife, and then attempted to cut it but could not. “God, either my knife is blunt or this beef is damned tough,” he complained. Pushing sickly-looking dehydrated cabbage to one side of his plate, he then tried the dehydrated turnip. That too he found unappetizing. In disgust he pushed the plate aside. Peter did likewise. In silence, both then ate their serving of a few cold prunes and stodgy rice pudding.

When both had finished eating, Rick grumbled, “If that's a sample of lunch at KL, roll on teatime at Fraser's Hill.”

“I agree,” said Peter. “I wouldn't give that stuff to my pig-swill man.”

They both cleaned their knife, fork and spoon by wiping them off on pieces of bread before returning them to their small packs.

“Fucking ironic, isn't it, Pete?”

“What is?”

“Here they have a brand new, all-electric kitchen, and the cooks have the audacity to lash up worse muck than you and the other cooks ever did up at that pigsty on the hill. Come on. Let's go.”

Together they rose from the table and made for the exit.

“Just like home cooking,” Rick remarked to a sour-faced corporal cook standing in the exit doorway. For a moment a smile flickered on the corporal's face as the remark sank in. “Yeah, my mother can't cook either,” continued Rick, and he was out of that dining hall, and gone, fast, with Peter Saunders hot on his heels.

24

The party of twenty-two airmen, that was about to depart from Kuala Lumpur on the dangerous journey to the summit of Fraser's Hill, comprised Pilot Officer Graham, Warrant Officer Jack Perkins, Corporal Hicks and seventeen airmen, plus two motor-transport drivers, both senior aircraftmen. One lorry was insufficient to carry the men, their luggage, necessary stores, plus equipment requested by the out-going officer in charge of the radar unit at Fraser's Hill, so an additional Bedford three-tonne open lorry had been laid on. Both were now pulled up on the dusty road outside the armoury.

There were a number of reasons why the two lorries and twenty-two RAF personnel were making the sixty-three mile journey from Kuala Lumpur to the isolated RAF camp at Fraser's Hill. Relieving the officer in charge at Fraser's Hill, who was tour expired, was one. Airmen due leave and who were being replaced was another. Also, foodstuffs, stores and equipment had to be delivered there.

Transporting airmen who had spent at least a year down in the hot and humid lowlands, up into the renowned, temperate and healthy climate constant on Fraser's Hill, where the air is free from humidity and always bracingly cool was another reason. Hence, for some considerable time now, the lonely radar station also served as a health spa and recuperation centre for RAF personnel of all ranks. For the duration of one month, it was a place where one was supposed to relax, where one's vigour was expected to be restored, and one's blood thickened back to normal after being thinned during a prolonged stay in the heat of the East. The airmen who were sent to Fraser's Hill were considered ‘lucky bastards' by those sweating their guts out down in the tropical lowlands of Malaya. These few were getting a break in their two-and-a-half year overseas tour, a break from work, from the incessant heat, even from culture shock and the excitement of the mind brought on by the mystic environment of the East, which is so vastly different from that of their homeland.