Malayan Spymaster

by Boris Hembry

  Heath then explained that he was in charge of the Calcutta end of an organisation code-named Inter Services Liaison Department (ISLD), part of the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), which had its headquarters in New Delhi. ISLD was charged with obtaining military and civil intelligence out of Burma, Indo-China, Siam, Malaya and the Dutch East Indies. He was building up the Calcutta office to manage the various country sections but had not, so far, got anyone except Laurie for a Malayan section. Would I go to Sumatra? I pointed out that Sumatra was not Malaya. He said that he was well aware of that, but I had worked in Sumatra, and the immediate priority was Sumatra. So, on the basis of the year I had spent planting in Atjeh, 12 years before, I joined the Secret Intelligence Service.

  Heath went on to say that Winston Churchill was strongly in favour of invading Sumatra in order to set up the necessary bases from which to recapture Malaya, Sing http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_li4xtwhZC01qa3o95.gif apore and the Dutch East Indies. The chiefs of staff were not in favour of such an enterprise, and certainly not until they had knowledge of the strength and disposition of Japanese forces in Sumatra. But no intelligence of any description had been forthcoming from Sumatra since its capitulation a year earlier.

  As Heath and Laurie unfolded their plans and ideas I realised that I was now launched on something completely different, on an enterprise that would involve travelling by submarine, landing on enemy occupied shores a thousand miles from base and, if captured, being guaranteed a painful death. Whilst I did not reconsider my decision for one moment, my mind did go back to the comments of the colonel of the 4/3 Madras Regiment the previous year.

  The first result of my new venture was promotion to captain, with a monthly salary of 1,000 rupees, which was now to be paid by the Foreign Office rather than the army. I was thus able to send more money home to Jean. However, I soon found that living in Calcutta and spending more time in an office meant smarter clothing and extra expenditure on messing and renting a private billet. I even had to buy a service hat. I sent for my large suitcase that contained all the civilian clothes I had bought when first reaching India and which I had left with the Madrasis when I went to Arakan. When it eventually arrived I saw that the locks had been broken. Except for two pairs of socks it was empty. So I had to go out and buy, for the second time in a year, a complete set of clothes. It was indeed expensive fighting for King and Country.

  I was ordered to go to Darjeeling to attend a specialist signals course to learn Morse code. Naturally I was not averse to spending time in the mountains and duly presented myself to the course instructor at the Planters Club where I was to stay. The first persons I met in the bar were my friends from V Force, Frank Bullen and Gretton Foster. Not much Morse code was learnt that night. Nor by the end of the week, because all I had learned was SOS (which seemed appropriate) and V for Victory (which did not). I was hopeless. There was no question of my becoming a radio communications officer.

  After a week I received a signal from Laurie Brittain to report back to Calcutta as soon as possible. For ‘security reasons’ I was not allowed anywhere near the ISLD office or mess, but was confined to the flat we shared off Chowringhee. Here we were visited daily by various intelligence officers who endeavoured to teach us enemy ship and aircraft identification – I already knew what a Zero looked like! – and to recognise Jap insignia of all services, many of which I already knew from my time with V Force. I was soon to become proficient enough to act as an instructor for trainee agents of many nationalities; British, Dutch, Siamese, Malay, Indian and Chinese trainee agents all passed through my hands.

  The instruction lasted for about a fortnight, after which Laurie and I took the train down to Colombo. On arrival we booked into the Grand Oriental Hotel, comfortable enough but not up to the standard of the Galle Face. Laurie decided against the latter because he considered it far too conspicuous; we were on a ‘top secret mission’ and had perforce to remain out of sight as much as possible. Dear old Laurie revelled in the secrecy of it all, causing the less serious-minded members of the organisation much amusement. He was right, of course, because not only were our own lives at stake, but also the safety of submarines and their crews.

  After the usual nightcaps in the bar – no amount of security considerations would cause Laurie to miss those – Captain Hembry and Pilot Officer Brittain went to their beds. The following morning Squadron Leader Brittain appeared for breakfast. I asked whether I could put up a major’s crowns to match his new stripes. Laurie was not amused when in jest I pointed out that he had leapfrogged me in rank. He said that I must get away from the hidebound attitudes to rank of the regular forces. We were now in something altogether different, where rank did not matter. Laurie always was a little pompous. But he remained one of my dearest friends.

  That morning we had our introduction to Korps Insulinde. This was a Dutch commando-type unit formed mainly by escapees from Holland. Over the next few weeks we were to hear many stories of their daring escapades getting away from the Germans, through France, over the Pyrenees to Spain and Portugal or Gibraltar. As Sumatra was, of course, a Dutch possession it was considered only sensible to use Dutch forces for any operations there. Anyway, the only submarines then available to the Allies in the Indian Ocean and Bay of Bengal were three Dutch O-class boats. These were smaller than the Royal Navy’s T-class submarines that were to arrive from the Mediterranean in a matter of months, but were more comfortable and had the benefit of rudimentary air conditioning.

  Laurie then unfolded the plan for the forthcoming operation. In about three weeks’ time a party of eight – six Dutchmen and us two Britons – would embark on a Dutch submarine, sail to the west coast of Sumatra and make landings in the Trumon area of western Atjeh. We were to contact villagers to obtain as much information regarding the enemy’s troop strengths and dispositions as possible, and also to bring back to Colombo two intelligent and well-travelled native Atjehnese for prolonged interrogation. These unfortunates were to accompany us willingly or unwillingly, it mattered not which.

  It was then that I pointed out to Laurie that I had more actual experience of this sort of clandestine operation than all the other officers in the unit put together, and so it was imperative that I should take part in all the planning. With some reluctance Laurie agreed to see what he could do, which in the event was nothing. The senior Dutch officer at the Korps Insulinde camp was a Major Pel, an officer of the old school, thoroughly dislikable, and distrustful of everything British. Luckily the commander of the forthcoming operation, Captain Jan Scheepens, was altogether different. A really outstanding leader of men, he came from several generations of Dutch military stock. His father had won the Dutch equivalent of the VC in the Atjehnese wars, and Scheepens himself had long military experience throughout the Dutch East Indies. We all had complete confidence in him from the start. I formed a close friendship with him that lasted until he was killed by pro-Soekarno terrorists towards the end of December 1945.

  The Dutch had a very great advantage over Laurie and me as they had been undergoing full commando training for nearly six months and were at the peak of fitness. Although my war to date had been fairly strenuous, my strength had been undermined by several bouts of malaria and the jaundice. Laurie’s war thus far had been fought from behind a desk. I was 32, whereas Laurie was 41 and not much of a games player prewar, so I thought it particularly courageous of him to launch himself so wholeheartedly into the three weeks intensive training. Also, we were damned if we were going to give Major Pel anything to complain about. Scheepens was my age, the others in their mid-20s. I became fitter than I have ever been during the whole of my life, before or since.

  The day started at sunrise with PT, followed by instruction in unarmed combat and silent killing, then a swimming race over a mile. After breakfast we took to the rubber dinghies. The camp was about a mile from the open sea on the banks of a tidal river. The boat training took the form of paddling downstream when the tide was flowing and returning when it w
as ebbing. To paddle a rubber dinghy against a fast-running current, fully clothed and armed, takes every bit of strength and skill a man possesses and I shall never forget the utter exhaustion after the first three hours. As with a chain, a four-man rubber dinghy crew is only as good as its weakest member. With two men paddling each side in unison, the craft can be held to a more or less straight course. Slackening by one man will throw it off course, or even into circles. The Dutch naturally set out to show up the effete British; but Laurie and I hung on and refused to display weakness despite being many weeks’ training behind them.

  We spent the afternoons jungle trekking, and the nights once again in the rubber dinghies, paddling several miles out to sea and then paddling inshore and landing on the beach. This was particularly tricky as the breakers would tip us over unless we kept straight and end-on to them. We had to keep our weapons slung across our shoulders otherwise they would be lost when we were somersaulted overboard when the dinghy turned upside down. When we landed we would pull the dinghies up the beach and hide them, before setting off on a compass course to find a village or some other feature or RV. The object of these exercises, in addition to toughening us up, was to teach us stealth, speed, accurate landfalls, cross-country marching and teamwork.

  The three weeks passed in a flash and, although we did not achieve the standard of fitness of the Dutch, Laurie and I were more than capable of holding our own. The intensity and thoroughness of the training was to save our lives.

  The final exercises took place on a submarine. The rubber dinghies would be stored on board deflated. To launch them they would be passed through the very confined space of the forward torpedo bay and up through the forward hatch when the boat had surfaced sufficiently to allow it to be opened safely. The dinghy would then be inflated by the submarine’s crew on the forward deck, after which the shore party would clamber over the side of the conning tower and make its way forward to the inflated dinghies and lower them over the side by rope. This part of the operation was extremely hazardous as the submarine’s ballast tanks bulged out about 10 feet from the side and then curved downwards. After 10 days at sea the boat’s casing would be covered in slimy weed and be as slippery as an ice rink. To contend with these obstacles in a heavy swell required training, courage and a lot of luck.

  On the day of our departure we went on board the submarine depot ship HMS Plancius which was anchored in Colombo Harbour and were introduced to the Captain S (for submarine) who discussed the operation in some detail, reminded us that the safety of the submarine was of paramount importance and took precedence over all else – including the success or failure of our operation – stressed its importance to the Allied cause, and wished us luck. We were then introduced to the commander of our submarine, the O24, which was tied alongside the depot ship, Lieutenant Commander W. J. De Vries DSC, RNethN.

  Our party consisted of Scheepens, Van Tuyl (a future Dutch foreign minister), De Jonge (the living image of the actor Jack Hulbert), Bernard Hanauer (who had escaped from Dachau, and whom I was to meet regularly in the Special Forces Club in London over the next 30 years. He taught modern languages at Charterhouse School), two other Dutch officers whose names I forget, Laurie Brittain and myself – in my opinion the best-trained and fittest expedition ever to set out from Colombo.

  So began Operation MATRIARCH. We sailed at sundown, and within sight of the harbour and accompanied by a surface ship, we made our practice dive. Even to an experienced submariner this was an anxious time. It only required a small mistake by one of the depot ship’s crew, such as the failure to secure a torpedo tube hatch, to send us to the bottom. If the submariners were anxious, just imagine what went through a passenger’s mind on his very first dive. All went well, and after about half an hour we surfaced, signalled goodbye to the tender and set sail.

  For the first few days out of Ceylon we sailed on the surface night and day, as far as the Nicobar Islands, as we were out of range of land-based enemy aircraft. Thereafter the submarine would dive at dawn and surface at nightfall, and the whole routine would change. Night became day. Supper would be taken at 0700 hours, one slept between 1000 and 1800, breakfasted at 1900 and lunched at 0100 hours. It took me some time for my body clock to adjust to this, although Bob De Vries told me that for submariners it was usually the opposite; they tended to eat meals at very strange times when in port. The O24 had limited officer accommodation. The wardroom had six bunks only which the army party was only allowed to use when the owner was on watch (a system the Royal Navy called ‘hot bedding’), so it was unusual for one to finish the ‘night’ in the same bunk as one started it. I spread my Dunlopillo under the wardroom table which gave me some degree of comfort, but I found it very difficult to sleep. Although total heaven compared to the British T-class boats in which I later sailed, which had none, the air conditioning was not very effective. The body odours and the smell from the galley were obnoxious and accounted, I am sure, for my subsequent detestation of onions. The food was good.

  I enjoyed the utter peace when surfaced at night under the tropical moon and stars. Over the next 12 months I was to make another four such trips and by the time of the last I had become very proficient at identifying the stars and constellations, having spent many happy hours on the conning tower with the officers-of-the-watch tutoring me in astronomy and astral navigation.

  Then one day we were called to the periscope and shown the stretch of shore on which we were proposing to land. We were off the coast of Atjeh, between the Simeulue Islands and the mainland. It seemed beautiful and peaceful. We cruised up and down all day at periscope depth so that each member of the army party could survey the scene in detail and take notes. We spotted a sizeable village near the shore and Scheepens decided that this would be our target. We would land about a mile north of the village, aiming to reach the beach at about nine that night.

  The submarine surfaced at sundown as usual and steamed very slowly, using the batteries because sounds carry far at night and the diesel engines would have been far too noisy. Sometime after eight Bob De Vries took his boat in to the 10-fathom line, and stopped engines. By the time the shore party had assembled on deck the two dinghies had been inflated and launched over the side. In spite of a fairly heavy swell we all managed to get into them without accident and then, with whispered good lucks from the crew members on deck, we pushed off and started paddling towards the shore.

  We had about a mile to go to the beach and good progress was made. The breakers gave us some trouble and I nearly lost my paddle, but we touched down on the beach on time and after careful scrutiny dragged the dinghies up into the undergrowth by some coconut palms. All was quiet. We walked along the beach to the outskirts of the village, spread out and lay down and observed the scene for some minutes. Seeing nothing untoward we made our way to the centre of the village where we came across a number of the villagers squatting around a fire. They were amazed to see us and could not understand how we had got there. We told them by seaplane. We explained what we wanted and asked for the headman, only to be told that he was away but would be returning shortly. Meanwhile, we must stay for a makan besar (feast) and they would tell us all they knew about the Japanese in the district. But, they said, the headman would be in a much better position to answer all our questions when he returned, as he was constantly travelling around the area and in periodical touch with the Japanese administrator.

  The crowd of villagers had by now swollen to about 50 and each of us had our own group surrounding us, telling us all that they knew or, more likely, what they thought we wanted to know. Time dragged on and we had enjoyed their hospitality – I ate some chicken and vegetables and had a mouthful of toddy – but there was still no sign of the headman. I now realised that the villagers were behaving in their normal treacherous way towards the Dutch, and warned the others. I had seen the signs. Scheepens agreed and decided that we would return to the beach, re-embark on O24 and try another village further along the coast. We walked back along t
he beach, aware that we were being followed by a large crowd of villagers. Suddenly, about 100 yards short of where we had hidden the dinghies, they all disappeared into the shadows; there was not a villager to be seen nor heard. We cocked our guns, realising that we had been betrayed and were probably walking into a trap. When only 50 yards from the hiding place we came under fire from rifle and automatic weapons. Without waiting for any command we all rushed into the sea, plunged into the breakers and began swimming in the direction we thought that the O24 would be.

  The firing increased and something heavier joined in; I think a two-inch mortar. Scheepens called our names and all eight of us answered. How anyone had escaped the first outburst of machine gun and rifle fire remains a mystery. I am certain that none would have survived if the Japs had held their fire for another few seconds. We swam for all we were worth away from the beach. I remembered what the Captain S had said and was certain that De Vries would follow regulations and leave us to our fate. The bullets zipped around us like hailstones, and when the mortar bombs burst in the water our stomachs contracted and expanded in excruciating agony. I thought I would burst and my guts spill out. Gradually we pulled away from the shore but I was getting very tired. Laurie said afterwards that from time to time all he could see was my army cap floating in the water beside him and he would say to himself, ‘Poor old Boris, the poor sod has bought it,’ only to see my head bob up again underneath it, look around, take a breath, and go under again. We swam for about an hour as the shooting died away, and just as I was thinking that we would have to turn round and swim back to shore we saw the outline of the submarine. Utterly exhausted we were pulled aboard, and I saw that I was the only one who had retained his trousers and headgear. The others were stark naked. However, we had all still got our Sten guns.