Malayan Spymaster

by Boris Hembry

  I did have several visitors while in hospital, including the Treanors, Joan Yates and a Mr Falkener. He was a retired tea planter who did his bit by visiting the hospital and chatting to the patients. He was most interested to learn that I came from Malaya, and revealed that he too had been a rubber planter there. He started naming planters he had known and became rather angry when I had to say that I had not heard of any of the first six he had named. It was obvious that he was beginning to doubt that I had been anywhere near Malaya, at least as a planter. Finally, in exasperation, he said, ‘But you must know Tommy Menzies.’ With much relief I could say, yes, I did indeed know of Tommy Menzies. He was an old planter of many years standing, married to Marie Ney, a famous stage actress in her time. I then asked Falkner when he had last been in Malaya. He thought for a bit and said, ‘Let me see. I think I left there in 1910.’ I had to explain that 1910 was the year in which I was born.

  I made a rapid recovery at the Treanors. The complete change of surroundings, good nursing and improved diet did the trick. I was even permitted a few weak whiskies. After a week or so Colonel Treanor had a committee meeting at the Gymkana Club in Darjeeling and I went along with him. Having read the newspapers in the library I wandered into the bar and was quietly contemplating a chota peg when a distinguished looking man came in, wished me a good evening, and asked me if I would care to join him in a drink. I explained that I had to be careful and why, and limited myself to another small whisky with lots of water. We chatted for some time and he began to question me about my more recent past and the Malayan campaign. After a while he said, ‘How would you like to go to Arakan?’ I said, ‘Very much.’ Anything was better than Barrackpore. ‘Where is it?’ He replied, ‘Burma. When you get back to Barrackpore go and see my military secretary and he will fix it up.’ Military secretary? Alarm bells rang. I asked, ‘Excuse me, Sir, but who are you?’ ‘Irwin. General.’ My bar companion was Lieutenant General Noel Irwin, Eastern Army commander. We chatted for a few minutes more, when he excused himself and left. He explained that there was a clandestine unit called ‘V Force’ operating behind the enemy lines in Burma, under the command of a Brigadier Felix-Williams, and that he thought I would be suitable for it. Then I remembered Treanor’s suggestion of a month before.

  When I got back to Barrackpore I was summoned to see the colonel who questioned me about my meeting with the Army commander; the military secretary had already told him that he was to lose me. My commanding officer told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of me. ‘Hembry, you bloody fool. Why do you want to volunteer for such a dangerous job? You are a married man with a family and this is a training battalion and you could stay with it for the rest of the war.’

  A week later I was on a train bound for Chittagong and Arakan.

  V Force (August 1942 – February 1943)

  Chittagong was a day and a night’s rail and ferry journey from Calcutta. At that time it was the only railhead and port through which XV Corps, on the southern Burma front, could be supplied. XV Corps consisted of the 14th Indian Division, much enlarged with several additional brigades, commanded by Major General Lloyd. It was mobile on a mixed mule and mechanical basis, but was generally not battle-hardened nor, as yet, jungle trained. It was concentrated around Comilla and Chittagong, inside Bengal, with forward elements further southwards into Arakan. Further south still and eastwards was the operational area of V Force, whose task it was to provide warning of enemy activity and intentions. V Force was already operating around Imphal, to the north.

  The RTO at Chittagaong directed me to the rear headquarters of V Force. This was in a large bungalow and was manned by one elderly officer who was expecting me, and a small signals section. I was ordered to proceed at once to Cox’s Bazaar, a fishing village further down the coast and another short voyage from Chittagaong. The officer was also the unit’s quartermaster so was able to issue me with a revolver and Thompson submachine gun. Now I felt more like a soldier. He also handed me the unit’s mail to deliver. He told me that the unit’s forward base was at Bawli Bazaar, in Burma, about 30 miles south-east of Cox’s Bazaar, and only reachable on foot as the road-making had been delayed for weeks because of the monsoon. Not that that mattered as V Force had not been issued with transport of any kind. Later it was to get a jeep and a motorbike.

  I duly embarked on a small coaster, not much larger than a tugboat. I had by this time accumulated several essential items of kit all of which were packed into a bedroll which went under the name of an officer’s valise. This was a wonderful article of inestimable usefulness. The outside covering was of canvas and leather. Inside were a mattress, a pillow, and several large pockets for clothing and other articles, and it rolled up into one neat bundle. An officer in the Indian Army was never without one; next to his weapon it was the one essential piece of kit. Later on I made it even more comfortable by acquiring an inflatable li-lo. On the trip to Cox’s Bazaar I spread my valise out on the deck and slept under the stars.

  At Cox’s Bazaar I was met by a Lt Colonel Calvert – not ‘Mad’ Mike Calvert of Chindit fame – who was also in V Force but was stationed in Calcutta where he was lucky enough to live with his wife in a flat on Chowringhee. Calvert informed me that Brigadier Felix-Williams was expected in a day or so and would be going forward to Bawli Bazaar and I was to act as escort. The Brigadier would ride a horse. I would walk. That suited me because I would rather be footsore than bumsore. It had taken me some time to recover from my rides in Darjeeling.

  It was arranged that I would mess with a battery of Mountain Artillery. It was equipped with guns that could be dismantled and carried on Missouri mules. Most of the gunners seemed to be huge Sikhs. A young gunner officer showed me where to dump my kit and then took me along to the mess to introduce me to the battery commander and the rest of the officers. They were all regular soldiers with long service in various North West Frontier wars and skirmishes and they kept me enthralled over dinner with their reminiscences. I had two very pleasant days with them before the Brigadier arrived.

  I took an instant liking to Brigadier Felix-Williams – ‘Felix-Bill’. Pukka Indian Army, his regiment was the elite Tochi Scouts with whom he had served in the wilder sections of the Frontier, and with distinction in France in the Great War. He spent the night with friends in a neighbouring Punjabi mess, and the next morning we set out for Bawli Bazaar, Felix-Bill astride his horse and I trailing along some 10 yards behind. Marauding Japanese occasionally mounted ambushes along the track to Bawli, so I took my escort duty seriously. Progress was good, until late afternoon when it started to rain. Coming from Malaya I thought that I knew all about rain, but rain in Arakan is something altogether different, where 150 inches in three months in the wet season is common.

  Felix-Bill, who had made this journey on several occasions, said that there was a dak bungalow (government rest house) some few miles further on where we would dry out and rest up for the night. What he did not mention was that it was on the other side of a chaung (river). When we reached the chaung we found the ferry on our side – the ferry was a punt, not much larger than those used by Cambridge undergraduates on the Cam. The Brigadier tethered his horse to a tree and we were poled across by the Burmese ferryman. Getting in and out of the ferry was almost impossible because the rain had made the chaung banks very muddy and slippery. We struggled up the opposite bank and made it to the dak bungalow. The wooden bungalow was built on stilts, as in Malaya, with a corrugated iron roof. The incessant rain beating down on it sounded like machine-gun fire. The dak wallah was a Maug (people who lived astride the borders of Bengal and Burma) who said that he would prepare hot baths and a meal straight away. The Brigadier sat down and I thankfully dropped my kit and valise on to the floor when, to my utter astonishment, he said, ‘Now go back and get my horse.’ I could not believe my ears and when I did I thought he was joking. He was not. I considered mutiny, as the punt could barely carry three people, let alone a horse. And it was not me who had been ridin
g it. And, if anything, the rain had worsened.

  In great disgruntlement I made my way back to the chaung, rousted out an equally disgruntled ferryman from his basha, and slid down the bank on my backside into the punt, and was poled across to the other side, where the horse was patiently waiting. I wondered whether he knew what was in store. Then the fun began. I untethered the creature and began to lead it down towards the water when we both slipped and landed on our respective posteriors. I thought for one moment that it would roll on top of me. Struggling to our feet we reached the water only to find that the boat had drifted off down stream. So we made our way to it, up to our hocks in slimy mud, and brought it back. How to get the horse on to the punt? I thought that, as Felix-Bill had made the journey before, perhaps I should go back across the chaung to ask him. But it occurred to me that this might be some form of initiative test, which, if failed, would mean my being RTUed (returned to unit), and I did not relish the idea of serving with the 4/3 Madras Regiment at Barrackpore for the duration.

  We tried keeping the ferry broadside to the bank, but the horse could not or would not mount the craft and turn 90 degrees at the same time. Every time we got its forelegs on to the craft it drifted away from the bank and we would all end up in the chaung, and neither the ferryman nor I was strong enough to hold the punt steady. So I got the boatman to wade into the water and ram the punt end-on into the muddy bank. That way we got some stability whilst I coaxed the horse to embark. He gave every impression of having done it before, because, in spite of the boat rocking during the crossing, he remained calm. And all the time it continued to bucket down. The whole operation took well over two hours. When I reached the dak bungalow I thankfully handed the horse over to the dak wallah to dry off and feed and climbed the stairs soaked through, covered in mud from head to toe, and in a vile temper which I made no effort to disguise. But I swear I saw a glint of amusement in Felix-Bill’s eye when he thanked me and passed over the bottle of Scotch.

  The rain had stopped during the night and the weather was hot and steamy. We made an early start and arrived at Bawli Bazaar at midday. Felix-Bill introduced me to my commanding officer and those officers in camp. The CO was Lieutenant Colonel Archie Donald, well over six feet in height, as hard as nails and utterly fearless – the winner of two King’s Police Medals for gallantry. Frank Bullen was a Malayan policeman, a Scot of frightening aspect with a red beard, who wore crossed cartridge belts like a Mexican bandit, hard drinking and hard swearing. He was seldom in camp and so I saw very little of him. Then there was Lieutenant Gretton Foster, a farmer’s son from Coggeshall, in Essex. As I knew the area well, we had much in common and became firm friends. We spent many an evening talking about home, mutual acquaintances and, above all, the birds. The group was completed by a former Burma Forestry Service officer, and a doctor.

  Donald had been in the Burma Police for many years, most of the time in Arakan, so knew the whole area and its various tribes and languages intimately. He wore a bush shirt, always outside his shorts, socks and chaplis (Pathan sandals), 1914–18 ribbons, was armed with revolver and kukri, always carried a broken polo stick, and topped it all with an old-fashioned khaki pith helmet. He had a hooked nose, a fierce moustache and a bark much worse than his bite.

  The first afternoon was spent listening to the Brigadier questioning Donald, and I was amazed at the colossal amount of information V Force had collected about Japanese movements, positions, units and their spy networks. I was to learn later that sometimes these were the same as ours. But we paid better. Donald’s agents were everywhere and his sources of intelligence were legion. To my amusement the agents were all referred to as ‘CFs’ – Chittagonian Fuckers – even in official reports to Corps Headquarters.

  The camp consisted of several large and well-made bashas with atap thatching. Each officer had his own bearer and the mess employed a good Maug cook. Rations were extremely generous; V Force was obviously considered a special unit judging by the ‘officers’ comforts’ issue, for in every five gallon stores container was a bottle of Scotch. This in addition to rice, dried fruit, packets of potatoes and onions, tinned stores, tinned milk, tea and coffee and packets of cigarettes. The latest batch of containers had been badly packed, for the pungent smell of onions penetrated everything, especially the cigarettes, and one would have to be very hard up for a smoke to try one. But the CFs loved them. Compared to ordinary infantry soldiers we lived like fighting cocks.

  That evening we had a sort of mess night, a little indulgence in alcohol loosened tongues, and I got to know my new companions a little better. The Brigadier told us some of his plans to extend V Force operations, and then dropped – so far as I was concerned – his bombshell. Having just completed a march of over 30 miles, in appalling conditions, I was to accompany him back to Chittagong, starting the next morning, using the same method of transport. I was very far from amused, started to remonstrate but thought better of it, so merely asked what the form was.

  Having escorted the Brigadier on his return journey to Cox’s Bazaar, I was to collect a party of six Pathans who had recently been recruited into V Force but found to be totally unsuitable, and escort them back to Chittagong. It would appear that, when they were not actually working, they were seducing the local village maidens which infuriated their menfolk. There were no complaints from the women, but some of our agents would not leave their villages for fear that the Pathans would get up to mischief in their absence. Having handed over these brigands I was to collect stores and large amounts of cash to pay our agents. I would then be allotted a reliable Pathan to help guard the treasure on the return journey, and porters.

  The trek to Cox’s was uneventful, and we made it by nightfall. This time it did not rain and Felix-Bill handled his horse crossing the river. We messed that night with the Punjabis and the following morning I bade goodbye to the Brigadier, who was heading north to another V Force unit, and went in search of my recalcitrant Pathans. I found them under military detention but still heavily armed, which struck me as strange. Apparently those in charge had tried to take away their rifles and knives but had thought better of it when the Pathans got angry. They then had given their word not to escape and honour on both sides was satisfied. I led the way down to the jetty and we sailed at nightfall. The peaceful, beautiful starry tropical night, the quiet lapping of the waves on the bow, and frequent recourse to the whisky bottle – happily shared and enjoyed by my Muslim brigands – made for a long and refreshing night’s sleep.

  I was woken the next morning with a cheerful ‘chota hazri, sahib?’, a mug of scalding tea put on the deck beside me, and a brown hand on which were several freshly made chappatis was held out towards me. Having breakfasted I rolled up my bedroll, and, hearing a lot of laughter, mug in hand I wandered aft to find my Pathan friends playing marbles on the deck – with live hand grenades. I beat a hasty retreat as far forward as I could get, expecting an explosion at any moment. But the pins stayed in place.

  They were a great bunch of rogues and would have been wonderful in combat, but were totally unsuited to the work required by V Force, and I am surprised that they were ever recruited. It was probably the hare-brained idea of some box wallah at Barrackpore. But I was sorry to say goodbye to them when they were collected by the RTO at Chittagong.

  I reported to V Force Headquarters and had made the arrangements to collect the stores and money and my Pathan personal escort, in time to begin the return journey the following evening, when I went down with a savage attack of malaria. I awoke the next day in a comfortable bed in the spare bedroom of the bungalow of the Chittagong Hospital doctor. With his help, and that of a particularly attractive Eurasian nurse, I fully recovered in 10 days. Meanwhile Donald had been informed of the delay.

  I made the return journey to Chittagong, landed the stores, and spent the night with my friends the Mountain Gunners, whilst my escort set about recruiting porters. Once more we set off to walk to Bawli. I was becoming used to this 30-mile hike, but
was still weak from the malaria and had to rest fairly frequently, which pleased the Chittagonians, but not the Pathan who made it pretty plain that he thought we were all sissies. He was tall and stout, with a truly wicked countenance and a large moustache. He dressed as if on the Frontier, with large baggy white (grey!) trousers, pullover and long top coat, woollen cap, and carried an old Lee Enfield, kukri, stabbing dagger, two Mills bombs and the usual crossed bandoleers. Our conversation was limited, but we got on well. I shared my whisky with him and ate with him, and he managed the porters. One of us always stood guard on the money.

  We were given a boisterous welcome by Donald and the others, and my return with the money, official mail and stores for the next three months was celebrated by quite a party.

  So far Donald had given me very little information about my job, so the next morning he called me into his office basha and took several hours briefing me about the Force, its current activities, its methods, its shortcomings, his future plans and my part in them. Our job was to be the eyes and ears of the 14th Indian Division. The division was spread out over tens of scores of miles, much of which was jungle. The RAF was unable to provide the necessary intelligence by reconnaissance as, in those early days, they did not enjoy air supremacy, and anyway the Japanese usually moved at night and, where possible, kept to the jungle.

  I went on my first patrol two or three days later, with three CFs. My experience of the past months in Malaya stood me in good stead. The terrain over which we operated was similar, but the jungle was less dense. From Bawli down to the Teknaf Peninsula there was a coastal plain which was heavily planted with padi, and innumerable habitations – in Malaya we have would called them kampongs – scattered around on islands. I could have been back in Kedah. One had to be extremely circumspect in one’s movements as the Jap was known to be in large numbers in the Arakan Yoma, a range of jungle-covered hills running north-south along the length of Arakan, and could spot us crossing the open padi fields. Also, they patrolled constantly and often in force.