by Boris Hembry
The Lancashire gunners were a severe handicap to the three of us, for they limited our progress. There was no question of moving quickly and stealthily with 20 cursing and farting Tommies. But common humanity dictated that we could not desert them. Whilst their discipline was good, we felt that they would rather give themselves up and take what was coming. They got into huddles whenever we halted and stopped talking when Frank, Ronald or I approached. I could not really blame them, for we were fighting for different things. Malaya was our country, the local inhabitants, of whatever race, were our people who, with only very few exceptions, displayed great loyalty to us. For the conscript British soldier, and in spite of the fact that it was part of their great British Empire, Malaya was thousands of miles away from home, hot, smelly, full of mosquitoes and leeches, snakes, malaria and natives whose languages they did not understand. We sympathised, but our patience at times was sorely tried.
We decided that we had remained there long enough, so persuaded the old Chinese that it was time to move. He complained of aches and pains in his legs and begged for a little whisky. Ronald handed him the bottle and, to our horror and before we could grab back the bottle, he emptied half what remained on to his hands and proceeded to rub it into his legs.
We set off as soon as it was dark, and immediately got lost. We had to cross a river and the old Chinese had forgotten the whereabouts of the bridge. We lay up in the undergrowth while he went off to look for it. After three hours he had failed to return so we settled down for the night and agreed that we would move off at dawn as it became obvious that the old man had deserted us, despite being owed $500. The three of us took turns to stand guard, just in case we had been betrayed, which we doubted.
At first light we were on the move, not at all certain which direction to take, but were soon very lucky to meet up with a friendly Malay who gave us much helpful information regarding our exact whereabouts, possible escape routes, distances and where the Japs were most active locally. He also told us that, after a fierce battle, our troops were withdrawing southwards from the Seremban area. We realised that this news had effectively dissipated any hopes we had of reaching our own lines, now over 100 miles away. So here we were, in the third week of January, having been on the run for nearly three weeks, severely handicapped by lack of maps, nearly 200 miles south of the part of Malaya that we knew, physically exhausted and starving, and responsible for the safety of 20 British soldiers. Incidentally, we did begin to wonder exactly how they had become separated from their unit and seriously considered accusing them of desertion, but did not, as our suspicions could well have been completely unjustified, and anyway there was nothing we could have done about it.
So we decided to make for the Klang area on the coast where we thought we could commandeer a boat or get a friendly fisherman to take us either down the coast towards Singapore or across the strait to Sumatra. At about midday we came to the hydroelectric power lines that the Malay had told us led to Klang. These went in a straight line for miles; the rentice, the cleared strip underneath, consisted mainly of secondary jungle, sheet lalang and the occasional padi field, with an inspection path running through the centre. To either side was jungle, with occasional clearings of orchards, but virtually no habitation. For some time we were close to a main road and saw several Jap patrols both on foot and in lorries. On one occasion we hid in a banana grove and saw a plane land on a straight stretch of road. The pilot did not get out, even to stretch his legs or to pee, and after an hour took off again and headed south. Perhaps he was lost and was trying to get his bearings. Or just tired.
It took four days to march down the hydro line. The going was very steep in parts and, because of our exhausted state, we were seldom able to make more than five or six miles a day. We had no food except a few wild bananas and sweet potatoes. All the orchards were either out of season or the fruit had already been gathered. Morale was surprisingly good, and Frank, as ever, was a tower of strength, often helping a straggler along by his pack straps. Our packs, of course, were practically empty. I carried a razor, toothbrush and paste, towel and soap, spare socks and one or two odds and ends. True to British Army tradition we scarcely went a day without shaving. We washed our socks and underpants whenever the opportunity rose, and tried to relax while they dried in the sun.
The nights were particularly unpleasant, with what seemed to be extra heavy dews, which made it almost impossible to sleep because of the extreme cold. The days were exhausting, too, although the drenching rain helped to offset the heat. I suppose that our very poor state of physical health made the hardships more difficult to bear. But, in spite of everything, we were usually in good spirits and very rarely was a cross word heard. By now we had sorted out the cheerful from the grumblers, and had brought the NCOs into our discussions. We had lost all idea of dates and time; all we thought about was where the next meal was coming from, and getting a good night’s rest. Our bowels were in a very poor state. Ronald’s had gone for over 10 days without working. Our ulcers, and especially the one on my bottom, were suppurating worse than ever, and the stench was sickening. But we just had to press on.
On the second or third day we reached a kongsi occupied by Chinese hydroelectric power line maintenance workers. Here we were kindly supplied with tins of milk, sweet potatoes and hard-baked biscuits, which we shared out equally amongst the whole party, and instructed the gunners to take themselves off into the cover of a nearby orchard to eat whilst we three remained drinking coffee with the kepala (headman), discussing our predicament and trying to find out the war situation, of which our host knew very little. Our discussions were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of three Japanese soldiers in a car. We beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen at the rear, and then, when the car stopped at the front, into the blukar (tall grass) at the back of the kongsi. The Japs left after about 10 minutes, and we returned to finish our coffee and conversation. They had been checking up on the hydro line and had instructed the labour force to continue working as usual.
We collected the rest of our party and pushed on down the power line path towards the village of Kapar where we met some friendly Tamil estate workers. One said that he had a friend who owned a boat and was sure that, for a reward, he would agree to take us down to Batu Pahat, in Johore. Between the three of us we had nearly $100, the last of our money, and Frank took it to pay the Tamil boatman to help us. The rest of us went to ground and Frank went off alone with the Tamils. It was by now about seven, and night had fallen. When, by midnight, Frank had not returned Ronald and I became very anxious and imagined the worst: that he had run into Japanese and had been captured. But we decided that nothing could be done before dawn, so tried to get some sleep where we were.
At about six the following morning, to our very great relief, we heard the ‘Lambeth Walk’ and, after I had replied in kind, Frank arrived, exhausted almost beyond belief, having had a most frightening experience. He had been walking into the village, talking to the Tamil, when a torch suddenly flashed on him and, before he knew what was happening, was overpowered by two Japanese soldiers and frog-marched to the police station. The Malay police had long since disappeared but there was another Jap in the office. Frank was searched and relieved of all our money. Fortunately, there were no cells so he was kept in the charge room. At about nine o’clock terrific explosions were heard from the direction of KL, with much tracer fire in the sky. (We also had heard the noise, and learned later that it was the RAF mounting their largest raid of the campaign.) The three guards became very excited and stood jabbering and gesticulating in the doorway, forgetting about their prisoner. This was unwise. Frank grabbed the table lamp, threw it at his captors, hitting one of them full in the face. He punched the two others, knocking them both out cold, and fled. He had then spent several hours trying to find us in the dark, all the while whistling our tune.
By the greatest of good fortune he had then fallen in with a Malay who recognised him as the tuan for whom he had caddied at the Mala
yan Golf Championship at KL the previous year. The Malay took him back to his house, fed him and gave him a blanket and a charpoy for what remained of the night. At first light he and the Malay set out to find us, succeeding without too much trouble. Frank apologised for having lost the last of our money. Ronald suggested that the real reason was that he had found an expensive woman for the night.
The Malay and his friends rallied around and produced fresh bread, fish and fruit and we all gorged ourselves, with the result that our mouth and lips became so raw with pineapple that many of us could scarcely speak. The fruit, however, was the best of aperients, even working on Ronald.
We had a long talk with the Malays, during which it became obvious that we should abandon all ideas of making it back to our front line. Quite apart from the fact that the only bridge over the River Klang, which was wide at that point and crocodile-infested, would be strongly guarded day and night, they told us of incidents where the Japs had rounded up British Army stragglers and had simply shot them out of hand. This also meant there was little point in sailing down the coast. We would have to aim for Sumatra. One Malay said he knew of a fishing village about 17 miles to the north where he felt sure we could get a boat, and that he would lead us there, even though we told him that we were now without funds to reward him.
We had a long march that night, although the going was considerably easier than of late, and decided to lay up for the day in the abandoned manager’s bungalow of a rubber estate. Our Malay guide was disappointed that we were not able to reach our destination, said that he could only spare a day for us, and disappeared. Whilst we rested and tried to remember what our guide had told us about where we were going, before continuing at nightfall, we saw five British soldiers walking along an estate road, about a hundred yards away. They were most reluctant to stop when I called out, but had second thoughts and came over. They were Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, an officer, a sergeant and three ORs. They had been cut off many miles to the north and had been on the move for three weeks. They had spent the last few days hidden in a Chinese temple beside the river and had several times tried to persuade fishermen to take them to Sumatra. As they did not speak Malay it was hardly surprising that they were unsuccessful. But it was a miracle that they had managed to get this far without capture.
The officer was full of useful information, but was most reluctant to throw in his lot with us. They had been part of a much larger contingent which had gradually split up and gone their separate ways. We agreed that large parties stood little chance of getting away, but persuaded him to stay with us, at least until we had been able to speak to the local fishermen and sampan owners. Leaving the Argyll officer in charge, Frank, Ronald and I went off on our recce.
We soon found a creek with several sea sampans tied to the bank. We spotted what looked like a couple of likely looking craft and decided that, if we could not find the owners to sail us across to Sumatra, we would commandeer them and make the attempt ourselves. Our difficulty was that none of we three were yachtsmen, and we doubted whether any of the soldiers were either, so knew nothing about winds and tides, or how to operate the sails and ropes. But we were willing to give it a go.
When we got back to the bungalow and explained the situation, we found that most of the gunners did not wish to risk the sea crossing but preferred to try their luck on dry land, keeping to the coast on the principle that they would eventually arrive at the southern tip of Johore, only a few hundred yards from Singapore, which the British were sure to be holding. We pointed out that, in our opinion, this would have even less of a chance of succeeding than what we proposed; how were they to cross the River Klang and at least four other major rivers, and how were they to get on without the knowledge of the Malay and Tamil languages? But, except for two of them who beseeched us to take them with us, they were adamant. We were secretly rather relieved that the Argyll officer was not prepared to order the rest of the gunners to accompany us, as we felt we had a far better chance of escape without them. I must say the Argylls were magnificent. They obviously took great pride in their regiment, and it came as no surprise to learn after the war of the good account they had given of themselves in many rearguard actions during the retreat.
We gave the gunners all the information that we could, our compass, the map of Malaya that I had picked up from the estate school, a list of a few Malay words that we felt may be of use, all our food (very little of this), and also the whereabouts of the boats, in case they changed their minds. We agreed to give them 24 hours start before we began our own attempt to get away. It was a sad parting, because we had become used to each other. Their gratitude was quite embarrassing, particularly as, in our hearts, we knew that their chance of survival was slim. At best they would end up as POWs – we were not to know of the Siam Railway then – or at worst they would be shot or bayoneted to death. We never saw nor heard of them again.
The next day we moved down to the temple where the Argylls had been before, covering the five miles by daylight. We marched through a village, much to the astonishment of the locals. I bought some tea and milk at the village kedai with, quite literally, the last few cents that the Argyll officer possessed, and Ronald cadged some fish from a passing fisherman, so we had a good meal when we reached the temple. This was on a narrow track which led down to the river, so a lookout could give us good warning of anyone hostile approaching from landwards, and the seaward approach was mostly mangrove, so safe.
But we did have several callers, more from inquisitiveness than a desire to help, from whom we learned that a Jap patrol came twice a day. This made us wonder how long it would be before we were betrayed, but we felt it important to maintain an air of confidence at all times, making it apparent that they were our friends, so that we knew we were perfectly safe.
The next day Frank, I and the Argyll officer decided to look over the available boats. We spotted one that seemed suitable, large enough to take the 10 of us, and with lots of sails folded up on board. We still preferred to be taken over the strait so went back into the village to try to find the owner of the sampan in question. We walked down the main street, much to the consternation of most of the villagers. The exceptions were one old Chinese and an even older Javanese who insisted on taking us to the coffee shop and standing us tea and biscuits. We were tucking into these and learning the local gossip when the Jap patrol arrived on motorcycles, so we were hustled into the rear whilst the Japs had some coffee too, sitting at the same table as we had been a minute before – the seats must have been still warm. After half an hour they left – without paying for their refreshments – and we resumed our places at the table.
The old Chinese said that he would be willing to help us get away and would make the necessary arrangements. We never saw him again, but that same evening two Chinese fisherman came up the creek and gave us some fish, pineapple, rice and milk, and said they would return the following day with a larger vessel, to sail us across to Sumatra, for $500. We readily agreed, although we had not one cent between us, confident that we could get the money from the Dutch authorities.
After a quiet night and rather an anxious day the fishermen arrived just before nightfall with a sailing sampan, and we all piled in even though it was only built to take six at the most, almost euphoric at the prospect of freedom and a hot bath. It was then that one of the fishermen told us that our old Chinese had been shot that afternoon for giving incorrect information about the number of powered sampans he owned.
It was a lovely tropical night. The crew paddled out into the channel and hoisted the sail, before preparing a meal of pork and vegetables. They even produced a bottle of samsu (rice wine). Early the following morning we had a mild panic when a Japanese aircraft appeared flying low over the sea. We scrambled under sails and old sacks whilst it circled overhead two or three times before disappearing southwards. Soon afterwards the wind dropped completely and we were becalmed. With no shade at all the heat was terrific and we were all prostrate from the sun,
heat exhaustion and under-nourishment. To make matters worse, I went down with malaria. My temperature soared and I started rambling. I learned later that the others took turns to shade me and to splash water over me to try to cool me down. Apparently Ronald went over the side for a dip but very soon clambered aboard when a shark was spotted. At nightfall a slight breeze got up and we were able to make way again. Around midnight a sumatra sprang up – a sudden squall of gale force wind, thunder and lightning, and sheets of solid rain, all combining to make the Strait of Malacca, because of its shallowness, an extremely dangerous place for small craft, especially when overloaded as we were. The seas were mountainous and we came near to capsizing several times. It must have been terrifying, even to the fishermen. I was only barely conscious, lying awash in the water that we had taken aboard, but just aware of the unpleasantness around. The following morning the sumatra disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and we were back to the broiling sun. It would appear that this state of affairs lasted for three days and nights, during which my temperature, measured by the thermometer that Ronald had somehow conjured from his haversack, approached 104 degrees Fahrenheit, as I lay in the scuppers, unable to move and wishing to die.
On the fourth day we arrived within sight of Bagan Siapiapi, a large fishing village on the Sumatra coast, but our agony was not to be assuaged, as the tide was ebbing at a faster rate than the light wind was taking us in and, before we could reach port, we were left high and dry on the mud flats close to a fishing blaht. The stench of dried fish, offal, bird excrement and rotting seaweed, in tropical heat, is to be avoided.
That evening, with a rising tide and an onshore breeze, we finally made it into Bagan Siapiapi harbour. I staggered out of the boat and immediately collapsed. The others were not in much better shape, except for Frank who was his usual indomitable self. We had each lost over two stones in weight over the month. Frank immediately arranged for the Dutch administrator to pay off the boatman who set sail back to Malaya the next day. The local Dutch took us up to the rest house where we were soon tucking in to the first real meal we had had for a month – porridge, eggs and bacon, bread and jam – with the disastrous results that can be imagined. We were relieved of all our filthy clothes, and those worth saving were sent to the dhobi whilst we were given sarongs to wear. Our wounds and bites were attended to by the local doctor. I was given a massive injection of quinine and my ulcerated posterior dosed liberally with sulphanide ointment, and dressed.