Malayan Spymaster

by Boris Hembry

  Should there be extra work laid on for the afternoon, for example extra weeding or tapping, or road or bridge repairs, the assistant would be required to supervise this too. There were many days when I worked from 5.30 am until nightfall at about 7 pm, with only a hour or so off in the day. And then there were the infernal check rolls.

  Once a week the assistant supervised the distribution of rice to the labour force. The amount varied with the size of the family. Rice was purchased on the open market in bulk, and sold to the workers at cost.

  It would take about three months for a new assistant to settle down and learn something of what it was all about, and about six before he began to earn his keep. Language was a difficulty. Not only did one have to learn Tamil, but also Malay. In India there was a system whereby junior officers, in both the civil and military services, were provided with ‘munshis’ (teachers), but not so in Malaya. Consequently one studied books, asked the conductors and clerks to translate, and generally picked up the languages as one went along. I think it was in the mid-1930s that most companies in Malaya introduced language exams for their European recruits, which, if passed, meant additional pay. In the event I soon became fluent in both Malay and Tamil, and was later to learn to speak passable Hakka (the Chinese dialect spoken around Taiping, in Perak), even though I did not have the help of a ‘sleeping dictionary’, as many young men did.

  In a man’s lifetime there are turning points or landmarks, often several, which have a definite bearing on one’s future. One which affected me happened about four months after my arrival at Sungei Plentong Estate, probably in August 1930.

  A wide stream ran through the middle of the estate and this often used to flood, and as the main estate road ran over this stream there were constant difficulties. It had been decided to change the course of the stream, and to sink three large pre-cast concrete culverts to replace the, by now, somewhat rickety bridge, and its quagmire approaches. As this was a comparatively major project it had to receive Board approval, and this was only forthcoming after Barton had left to go on leave. The work was carried out under my supervision, but in all honesty I did nothing except shout the occasional ‘surrukka veile’ (‘work quickly’ in Tamil), while trying to look managerial but, of course, fooling no one. I still lacked confidence and was hesitant to initiate anything, even when it was obvious what was required.

  When the rains came the lack of an intelligent approach to the new road and bridge building very soon became obvious, the quagmire returned and the road became almost impassable. I was in the office one afternoon and happened to mention the problem to Peters. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and what the fucking hell are you going to do about it?’ I was so incensed that I stalked out of the office and strode up and down wondering how I should react. No one had ever spoken to me like this before. Should I complain? Luckily I was unable to decide what to say, so I went back to the bungalow, collected my motorbike, summoned the divisional clerk and, with him on the pillion, set off for the trouble spot. Together we observed the scene, and, not for the first or the last time, my surveyor’s training stood me in good stead. We had not built up the approach roads sufficiently on either side of the culverts. We had not built up the crown of the road. We had not dug ditches either side of the road to take away the water. In fact, the whole thing was a perfect example of how not to remedy the problem.

  I took the clerk back to the lines and ordered him to collect about 20 men to work until dark to drain the water away from the pot holes and ruts, and to make a start on digging the side drains, on overtime. The following morning he was to bring the same gang, continue with the drainage work and to start excavating laterite (red-coloured gravel). He was also to tow the heaviest roller he could find down to the site. In the afternoon, when the sun had had time to dry out the surface, the coolies were to build up the approach roads with a crown of at least six inches with the laterite, and then to roll and roll the surface until it was as hard as concrete. This was done, with the final touches completed the next day. The results were first class, and the culvert was still functioning satisfactorily when I visited the estate on government security business in 1951.

  Peters never said a word. But I had done something off my own bat, used my initiative. From that moment on I walked around the estate with a degree of confidence, dealing with problems, such as cutting out a diseased tree or upbraiding a tapper for sloppy work, as I saw them. I was now earning my keep. In fact I was no longer a creeper. In retrospect, I owed Peters a great deal for his snarling remark.

  The manufacturing process of rubber was primitive in those days compared to the present, laughably so. In the early Thirties, production was generally limited to ribbed smoke sheet and scrap. Only the largest estates had creping batteries.

  The process was simplicity itself. After being weighed, the latex was tipped through a strainer into a large aluminium-lined coagulating tank, approximately fifteen feet by three by one foot deep. When the tank had been filled, the density would be measured and recorded, and either formic or sulphuric acid added. The frothy scum was then removed and aluminium slats slotted into the tank at one and a half inch intervals. The following morning the slats would be removed, the wet flabby sheets removed and passed through a series of rollers, rather like an old-fashioned mangle, which would squeeze out the water, flatten and impress a ribbed diamond-shaped pattern onto the sheets, which would then be hung in the smoke houses to dry, for about 10 days. After which one had what the rubber industry knew as RSS – ribbed smoked sheet.

  Next the rubber was graded into categories. If the greater proportion of an estate’s production was not graded No. 1, questions of the management would be asked not only by the local agents but also by the secretaries in London. Most rubber was sold by tender in London, much of it ‘forward’. It was a very serious matter, again leading to a close investigation of the estate management concerned, if a consignment was subsequently rejected as not being of the specified standard.

  Barton went on leave within a very few weeks of my arrival. After his departure I had the large bungalow to myself and felt very lonely. In the evenings, when not engrossed with my check rolls, I read a lot and studied my Malay and Tamil language books. The famous one was Wells’ Cooly Tamil. I remember saying over and over again ‘ompath airati tolairati tonnut ompathu’, Tamil for nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. Not desperately useful, but it allowed me to get my Rs rolling, as one must do in Tamil.

  I was bothered by mosquitoes at first, and later by flying ants and stink bugs. After a dry spell the ants would fly out of the ground and make for the nearest light, so that the room would soon become ankle deep with their corpses. Stink bugs, the shape of ladybirds but larger, would drop into one’s drink and would taste quite abominable, quite apart from the smell. Other than the mosquito nets around the beds, the Sungei Plentong bungalow was not mosquito-proofed.

  In addition to all the flying bugs, the ceilings were the playground for little lizards called cicak (pronounced ‘cheechah’). They are attractive little creatures whose favourite pastimes, when not devouring mosquitoes and other insects, are ensuring the survival of the species, and defecating. They also have the disturbing habit of shedding their tail when frightened.

  My catering and housekeeping was done by my cook/boy, whom I placed on contract. For so much a month he would feed me and keep his wages from the balance. It was the common system for bachelors, and worked well. The tuan always bought his drinks and the ice. Refrigerators, even kerosene-powered ones, were unheard of. About once a week the estate lorry would go into JB and bring back a 50-pound block of ice in a tin-lined box, with the butter, soft drinks, beer, etc piled around the ice.

  Only one estate bungalow in 50 had electricity, although it was usually available in the towns. We had oil lamps, or power lamps, fed from a cylinder. The snag with the latter was that the first flying ant to arrive usually broke the mantle. There were no radios either. These came on the scene in 1934 or 1935. I rec
all listening to the Queen launching the Queen Mary on Clydeside when I was back again on Sungei Plentong as acting manager.

  Soon after Barton’s departure the Peters invited me round to their bungalow for dinner and to meet Easter’s mother, Lady Fraser, a most attractive and charming widow of a high court judge in India. Easter, too, was a very pretty girl. I looked forward to my invitations to spend time with them, as they were also very witty and good company.

  It was the normal practice for an acting manager, even if he was the senior assistant from the same estate, rather than from another, to move into the manager’s bungalow. Peters decided to remain in his own senior assistant’s bungalow, rather than go through the upheaval of two moves in six months. This was understandable as Easter had made a very charming home and garden, whereas the manager’s bungalow, although spacious, was modern and rather stark.

  A week or so later Pete suggested that I should accompany them to Johore Bahru to visit the club, and to begin to meet some of the other Europeans of the district. One of the first I met was S. V. Jones, a senior civil servant. He was captain of the Johore Bahru Cricket Club, and was keen for me to play. As I had arranged to buy Pete’s old AJS motorbike the travelling would present no problem. Jones eventually became colonial secretary to the Governor in Singapore, Sir Shenton Thomas, and was in this position at the outbreak of war with Japan. Unfortunately, Duff Cooper, who had been sent out by Churchill as co-ordinator of countries under the British flag, or some such extravagant title, took an instant dislike to Jones and he was forced to resign. Although extremely able, Jones was a very taciturn man, and his rather austere outlook on life would not have endeared him to such bon vivants as Duff and Lady Diana Cooper.

  Churchill later compounded his error by promoting Duff Cooper to resident minister for Far Eastern Affairs, with cabinet rank. This appointment was a near disaster. He upset everyone, civil and services alike, even more than before, which would have been no bad thing if done several years earlier, but by then it was far too late, and only compounded their problems.

  Through cricket especially I made several friends, one in particular named Fielding, a junior assistant manager with the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank in JB. He had an MG sports car and we used to go into Singapore once a month for dinner, or to watch cricket on the Padang at the Singapore Cricket Club, and meet other young cricket enthusiasts. I went out to Malaya on a salary of $225 (Straits dollars) a month, plus $25 servant and $12 motorcycle allowances. Two hundred and sixty-two dollars a month, about £30 sterling, was good pay. A good meal in a first-class hotel, say the Raffles, would cost about $5, including a few drinks.

  For young men of my age, after work was done, games loomed large in our lives. The most popular games amongst the Europeans were cricket, rugby, hockey, tennis and golf. With the Asians it was cricket, hockey, soccer and badminton.

  All races played all games with and against each other. When I played rugger for Perak the most ferocious forward in the side was a Sikh solicitor from Ipoh. He removed his turban for the match and played with ribbons in his hair. Had he lived in England I am sure he would have won a cap. I understand that he died on the Burma Railway, one of very many thousands, including several of my friends and many of my acquaintances. And, of course, many Indians played cricket to a very high standard.

  I am glad to say there was no colour bar as such in Malaya. The bar was not colour but financial. If one’s water carrier could afford to he could sit next to you at the cinema or on the night mail train. Contrary to headlines I read many years later in the British gutter press, there were Asian members of many clubs throughout Malaya, although most preferred their own sports and social clubs. And, of course, the royal families in the states were ex-officio members of all the clubs. Jean and I were to become friends with several members of the Johore royal family when we were on Ulu Remis Estate in the 1950s.

  At school I had concentrated on cricket and athletics, and did not take up rugger until I got to Malaya. It was Pete who introduced me to the game, and before long I was playing for Johore, the first season on the wing, thereafter at wing forward. Except for my sojourn in Sumatra I was to play rugger every season until the outbreak of war. I played for the state sides of Johore, Penang & Province Wellesley, Kedah and Perak against all the other states, with much enjoyment both on and off the pitch. Throughout my life I have always found that games players, particularly of team games, were more often than not reliable and dependable people. But the concept that team games build character is considered very doubtful nowadays, if not positively dangerous.

  The captain of the Johore side during my first season was a police officer named John Dalley. He was to gain fame later by leading a force of irregulars, mainly released political detainees, known as Dalforce, during the defence of Singapore. These Chinese Communists were later to form the nucleus of the Malayan Peoples’ Anti-Japanese Army (MPAJA) which operated throughout the War from their camps deep in the jungles of Malaya, supplied and trained by Force 136. Unfortunately, they would later be the enemy during the civil war known as the Malayan Emergency which began in 1948.

  I learned a very salutary and painful lesson early on in my rugby career. When I was playing on the wing for Johore against the United Services and going hell bent for the line, ball in hand, I saw my opposite number coming for me with arms outstretched for a tackle. I jumped to clear his arms, but not high enough. I crashed to the ground, completely knocked out, and very lucky to have escaped a broken neck.

  My tackler was a Lt G. J. Bryan, one of the large family of sporting Bryans, all of whom were of county or international calibre. I met him next when we were both feeling the effects of a most enjoyable New Year’s party at the Hotel Europe in Singapore, he considerably the worse for wear and collapsed in the washroom. I joined him in one or two choruses of newly learned rugger songs, before calling a rickshaw for him. In 1945 I had to visit Army Headquarters in Singapore and was able to remind Brigadier Bryan of the previous occasions we had met.

  There was, of course, no airmail to the East in the early 1930s. Mail took the best part of a month to reach us by sea. But letters arrived as regularly as clockwork. Jean wrote long and very dear letters, full of news of what she was doing, and getting these was really the highlight of my week. My father, too, although very busy as chairman of Alfa Laval, wrote every week until he was killed by a flying bomb in 1944.

  Nineteen thirty was not only the start of a great adventure for me, but was also the year when the world depression really hit us in Malaya. In October our salaries were reduced. It was a case of take it or leave it. Most of us took it, and were grateful to have a job. My pay went down to $215 a month, about £25. But this was still sufficient to live comfortably, as I did not drink excessively, and as long as I had access to the JB Club library and could play cricket and rugger, and the letters from home arrived regularly, I was happy.

  One night I went crocodile shooting with Pete and two Malays. We hired a sampan and, armed with rifles, paddled out into the Strait of Johore. The Malays had torches. These they shone along the mud flats and shallows, and very quickly reflected the yellow eyes of the crocodiles, which were either resting on the flats or gliding along just below the surface of the water. We aimed between the eyes, and shot four, three rather small and young ones, not more than four feet long, but the fourth was an eight footer. What particularly amazed me was the way that the Malays would jump out of the boat, grab the crocodile by its tail, and sling it over into the bottom of the boat before climbing back in again. I was very frightened for them, because every time we fired several crocodiles would take off from the banks, with a tremendous thwack of their tail, and come towards us. I half expected the sampan to be overturned at any moment.

  After a couple of hours we returned to the jetty, and were starting to put our catch into the boot of the car when the large one suddenly came to life and knocked one of the Malays sideways with a swish of its tail. Pete put another shot into its head. Onl
y the belly of a crocodile is used for shoes or handbags. No doubt Easter got a pair of shoes from our night’s work, but I was disappointed that I was not offered even one of the smaller ones as I would have liked to have been able to send the skin home to Jean.

  While on the subject of crocodiles, when I was back in Johore in 1934 a young planter from a neighbouring estate disappeared without a trace. About a month after his disappearance I was on my way to JB in my car when, passing over a bridge, I noticed some Malays excitedly pointing to something below them. I stopped to look, and saw that someone had killed quite the largest crocodile I had ever seen. He must have been a good 18 feet in length. When the Malays opened him up they found the missing planter’s watch and wallet in his stomach. If this had occurred four years previously, I do not think I would have been quite so keen to go out on the crocodile shoot!

  Having Pete’s AJS motorbike I was able to get around several of the nearby estates and began to have quite a social life. I have to say now that my experience does not bear out Somerset Maugham’s comments, in A Writer’s Notebook, that all us planters were ‘whisky-swilling, rough and common men’ who spoke English ‘with a vile accent or broad Scotch’. Although some undoubtedly did speak broad Glaswegian Scots, many more spoke the beautiful soft lilt of the Highlander or Aberdonian. And, of course, many of us had been educated at public school and university.