The Rose of Singapore (41 page)

There was a grimmer reason, too, why seven of these airmen, all marksmen with a rifle, were making the journey. During the past months, Communist terrorists had, with increasing frequency, ambushed not only military vehicles but also private cars making the journey up jungle-clad Fraser's Hill. Seldom showing mercy, the terrorists robbed and murdered those they ambushed, especially British men, both civilian and service personnel, regardless of their rank or status. This period of terrorism began in the late 1940s, and from then on had gradually escalated. One of the most vicious acts took place on 6 October 1951, when Sir Henry Gurney, the High Commissioner of Malaya, was forced out of his chauffeur-driven car at gunpoint, and there, at the side of the road, halfway up Fraser's Hill, he was shot dead. His wife and chauffeur were ordered to remain in the car, and after Sir Henry was murdered they were allowed to proceed unharmed.

In order to counteract the intensifying violence of the terrorists, armed convoys were being formed before making journeys through known Communist terrorist danger zones in Malaya. For their protection, private vehicles mingled with military vehicles in the convoys, the latter carrying armed guards. Now, all military personnel making the trip to Fraser's Hill carried weapons, but in this convoy the seven airmen who were marksmen were considered more able to spot and pick off any aggressor.

Also, it was rumoured that the powers that be were considering using these seven RAF marksmen, plus scores of British army marksmen, in a massive seek-and-destroy manhunt for those responsible for the recent murder of a high-ranking British officer and three British soldiers.

SAC Peter Saunders and LAC Gerald Rickie arrived at the armoury just as both Pilot Officer Graham and Warrant Officer Perkins were each being issued a service revolver and a carton of ammunition. Corporal Hicks signed out a Sten gun and a dozen magazines, and every airman was being issued a .303 Enfield rifle and a belt of ammunition. Immediately on issue, both SAC Saunders and LAC Rickie thoroughly checked their rifles, especially the bolt action and the forward sight. Satisfied, each made sure that the safety catch was on and clipped a ten-round magazine into place. Just like old times, thought Peter Saunders grimly.

While the airmen had been at breakfast, a Bren gun had been mounted and secured to the cab roof of each Bedford lorry. Now, manned by a corporal of the tough RAF Regiment, each gun, loaded with twenty-eight rounds of .303 ammunition was ready to spit death at any foe.

The military transport drivers, with loaded Sten guns at their side, were seated in their cabs, impatiently waiting to get started; they preferred to be moving. Only too well did they know that if the convoy should be ambushed, they would almost certainly be the first to die. The drivers were almost always the first to be shot at. These two drivers, though, showed no apprehension towards the hazardous journey ahead. To them it was just one more trip, one more duty to perform. Both had driven this same route without incident many times before. Actually, they gave their safety little thought, both preferring to think of the pints of draught beer served at the Rose and Crown, a little English pub that had suddenly materialized near the golf course at the summit of Fraser's Hill.

Clutching their weapons, the airmen again clambered up into the back of the first lorry. Some were apprehensive, others wondered what was going on, and a few thought it a big joke; but all were interested, even excited, just at the thought of the nearly seventy-mile journey that lay ahead. A few knew what to expect geographically—native villages and farmlands, rubber plantations and vast acres of jungle in the lowlands, followed by a winding road up green, jungle-clad Fraser's Hill. Only a few of the airmen had visited the mainland of Malaya before this day. Several wondered what lay ahead, but all were perspiring freely and wanting to be moving. The jungle was completely foreign to the majority of them, its beauty, the strange and exotic noises exuding from it, the contrasting colours. Likewise, only a few of the RAF personnel journeying to Fraser's Hill that day knew of the jungle's treacherousness, where one seldom sees the enemy, and the hunter often becomes the hunted. But not one of these airmen was afraid, although some were troubled at seeing such a great amount of arms and ammunition issued. The lorry they were in fairly bristled with weapons, not only from both sides of it but also from its front and rear, like quills on a porcupine, only infinitely more deadly.

Peter Saunders sat at the rear of the lorry, at the side of his friend Rick. Both of them, as well as the few other veterans of the jungle, had very mixed emotions. They had experienced the cruel, neutral jungle, and were not ignorant of the potentialities that lay concealed amidst its tranquillity. During this period of time, danger always seemed to lurk there. As for Peter Saunders, the sense of foreboding he had felt when with Rose yesterday evening remained. But, except for this nagging feeling and the thoughts of being away from Rose, on looking at Rick, he felt both happy and thankful at having him at his side. Not only would it be a pleasant trip together, he told himself, but also they would enjoy a happy-go-lucky month at Fraser's Hill. He had heard that at the camp there was an archery range and a small sports section where one could borrow a bow and a quiver of arrows. He smiled to himself as he thought of Rick and himself playing at being Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, although it was no Sherwood Forest surrounding the small village and RAF camp at the summit of Fraser's Hill, but instead the almost impenetrable jungle.

Guarding the rear, both Peter and Rick rested their weapons on a pile of new mattresses bound for the camp at Fraser's Hill. Again Peter checked the safety catch on his rifle to make sure it was on. A flick of the finger, rapid bolt action and a squeeze on the trigger was all it needed for instant action. He was about to speak to Gerald Rickie, who was squinting towards the guardroom and camp exit, when, in a cloud of dust, a jeep drew up at the armoury and out climbed a tough-looking flying officer of the RAF Regiment. A heavy service revolver hung in its holster from the officer's hip, and an impressive bushy black moustache hid neither the scowl nor the deep scar on the man's weather-beaten face. Drawing on a black cheroot, he strode between the two lorries in which the men waited, puffed out a cloud of smoke and stood there, almost menacingly, his long arms hanging down his sides like those of an ape.

Looking up at the many inquiring faces peering down at him, he greeted them with, “Good morning one and all,” in a loud, regimental tone of voice.

“Good morning, sir,” came mumbled replies from both lorries.

“I'm your officer in charge of this party. My name's Morgan. Flying Officer Henry Morgan. No relation to Henry Morgan the pirate but just as much a bastard to anyone who don't follow my orders. Is that understood?”

Murmuring followed among the men in the back of the lorries, and a few said, “Yes, sir.”

Again they became silent as the flying officer exhaled more smoke and gave a dry sort of cough, as if clearing his throat, before continuing in a loud voice, “OK, chaps, just a little pep talk before we move off. As your officer in charge, I expect each and everyone of you to obey any and all commands I give without question, and at the double. This must be understood by all, right from the beginning. You must pay attention to everything I'm about to say. If you don't, lives may be at risk, perhaps your own. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” answered many voices in unison.

“Good. As you probably know, we are bound for Fraser's Hill. The route can become quite sticky at times, and when I say sticky, I mean downright dangerous. We shall be travelling through areas occupied by terrorists whose sole aim is to kill you. Therefore, I expect every one of you to keep your eyes open. And when I say open, I mean for you to be fully alert from the moment we leave here until we arrive at our destination. Once we are on the road, you will look outward the whole time. You will note everyone and everything, and you will consider everyone and everything a potential life-threatening danger. So remember, you must remain alert.”

“He's no joker,” whispered Peter Saunders to Rick.

“Silence,” roared the flying officer. “Once we're moving, there'll be no smoking, as little yapping as possible and keep your hands on your weapons. But no rounds in the breech, not yet. Those with rounds already in the breech, unload them. Now!”

Peter and Rick looked at each other and shrugged. An airman sitting next to Peter withdrew a round from the breech of his rifle. Other airmen were doing the same.

“OK. Next!” Swivelling around, Flying Officer Morgan indicated with a wave of his cheroot the stoic corporal of the RAF Regiment standing behind each of the two Bren guns. “Both you Bren gunners are old hands at this job,” he continued, “but you must not be complacent. I need not remind you that you must remain behind your weapons at all times. Remember, peoples' lives depend upon you.” He turned to young Pilot Officer Graham who was standing at the cab door of the first lorry, a bored and indifferent look on his face. “You, sir, will be the driver's mate in the first vehicle. Forget your revolver. You'll keep the Sten gun in your hands ready at all times for instant action. Is that clear, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” said Pilot Officer Graham. “But I don't know how to use a, what did you call it?”

“A Sten gun,” barked Flying Officer Morgan. “Don't worry, you'll learn how to use it when and if the time comes. Just point the weapon at the enemy and squeeze the trigger.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the young officer. Forcing a smile, he said, “I hope there'll be no reason for me to use it. Shall I climb aboard now?”

“Yes, by all means, but please stay alert.” Then, turning his attention to the riflemen who lined the sides and rear of both lorries, he said,” I want your rifles at the ready as soon as we're the other side of KL. Each lorry must have a complete circle of armament protection, also a complete circle of visual protection, so stay alert. There will be no sleeping. Anyone I catch sleeping I'll deal with immediately on reaching our destination. Is that fully understood?”

Answers of, “Yes, sir,” came from the ranks.

Nodding his approval and with his bushy moustache twitching, Flying Officer Morgan pushed forward a square, stone-like chin as he surveyed the two lorry loads of men he was about to conduct up Fraser's Hill. All were greenhorns as far as he was concerned; just little boys recently weaned from their mothers' titties. They were not like him, and never would be. Life in the Regiment had certainly given him the sort of life he loved during the five years he had served in the toughest section of the Royal Air Force. Previously, in World War II, he had worn a red beret, had parachuted into Arnhem, and there, single-handed, had destroyed three German Tiger tanks and killed twenty or more German soldiers before being captured and imprisoned. Then came the end of the war, his release from a POW camp, and his return to England as a civilian, only to find his wife of four years seeking a divorce from him and living in luxury with a top politician. Disgusted with his homecoming and with the feeling that never again could he settle down to England's boring lifestyle, he had, within weeks of his demob from the parachute regiment, enlisted in the RAF Regiment. He had no regrets. The Regiment gave him the chance to make use of his power of command, and his shrewdness and coolness when in action and facing danger. Long ago he had realized that there was something about him that all those under his command admired, respected and trusted, even though he did appear to some of his men as a five-foot-six, broad shouldered, arrogant little ape in an RAF uniform. His ex-wife had called him a bald-headed, bombastic little bastard. But, nevertheless, he was a genuine leader of men, so much so that all those in the two lorries that morning immediately felt safer by having him in command. Their eyes were riveted on him, his weather-beaten face, and the heavy service revolver hanging loosely in its holster almost to the man's knee. For the most part he wore an RAF uniform, meaning khaki drill long pants and jacket. But instead of an RAF blue beret adorned with a shiny brass badge, he wore his old red beret with his paratrooper badge still pinned to it, plus a black metal RAF badge that would not glint in the sunlight.

“By Jove, he's another little Napoleon,” someone quipped.

There were titters of laughter, followed by another roar of, “Silence,” from Flying Officer Morgan, which brought immediate results.

“OK, men, you've had your little joke, now pay attention.” Flying Officer Morgan then continued by saying, “We shall be travelling north from here, just our two trucks, to an army unit at a place called Kuala Kubu Baru. There, we shall join a convoy of both military and civilian vehicles, and from thereon we shall be ascending Fraser's Hill where the likelihood of meeting trouble will be at its highest. Regardless, immediately after passing the guardroom of this camp, I want you to be on your toes. Then, once we've passed through KL, you must remember that every tree, every shrub or bush, every patch of tall grass, every hillock, slope or even a ditch by the roadside, all are potential ambush positions. When we pass through rubber plantations or areas of jungle you must be even more vigilant. Remember, in any of these places may lurk the man who is about to kill you or the man sitting next to you. It is up to every individual here to study all he sees, quickly, taking in every detail, every movement. Where there is jungle, your eyes must attempt to penetrate it, to seek a hidden enemy. Any questions so far?”

There was a silence among the men at first, then a rather timid voice asked, “Sir, if we see something suspicious, a movement for example that we believe is or could be the enemy, what should we do? Do we report to you, or do we fire at it?”

“Good question! If you believe it's a man attempting to conceal himself, or if you should see someone in the jungle, immediately open fire on him. He should not be there. And shoot to kill. OK! Are there any more questions?”