Malayan Spymaster

by Boris Hembry

  Charles Knaggs had died a month earlier from river fever, a form of typhus. He was buried by Donald Gray in secondary jungle about 40 miles north of KL. When I went north to find out what was keeping Douglas Lee-Hunter so busy that he was unable to obey my orders to come to Singapore, I found the grave, marked it prominently, and was able to advise the war graves people of its whereabouts. Charles now lies at Kranji, in Singapore, along with several others mentioned in this book. He, John Hart, and the two young British officers who disappeared near Trinco while out training in a folboat early in 1945, were the only casualties that we had during my time in the Malayan Country Section of ISLD.

  The first two weeks were very hectic. I personally debriefed all my teams, compiled lengthy reports on their activities and the intelligence they had gathered, and began making arrangements for them to fly back to Calcutta prior to leave and demob. The Asians were paid off and travel arrangements were made for them to return to their homes, either in Malaya or, in the case of my two Tamil friends, to Madras.

  As soon as I could get away I took the best of the ‘liberated’ cars and drove up to KL where I was reunited with Bob Chrystal. He was very thin, but otherwise appeared to be reasonably fit. We had a marvellous evening together with so much to talk about. But I was astonished to learn that Force 136 was not going to fly him to Australia. I telephoned Harry Hays and instructed him to arrange a flight without delay. Bob was off within 48 hours. I was delighted to accomplish something which Force 136 was either unable or unwilling to do.

  Having got Bob transport down to Singapore I drove north to Ipoh, booked myself in at the Station Hotel and walked across to the Ipoh Club where I met Bill Ferguson, whom I had last seen with his brother Freddy in the Great Eastern Hotel, Calcutta, immediately before I joined ISLD. He was with the Rubber Unit of the British Military Administration, in my view one of their very few sensible appointments. The club steward had somehow conjured up several bottles of Scotch, which were consumed in fairly short time. The following morning I drove out to Kamuning Estate where I received a wonderful reception from those who remained of my prewar staff. I saw our bungalow. It was in a sorry state. I found a torn snapshot of Jean and Ronald Graham in our swimming pool, which I remembered having taken in 1941. The old manager’s bungalow was not much better. I told Kandasamy, the office head clerk, that I intended to move in there but he advised against it as the Kempeitai had used it for their interrogation and execution centre for the district, and he doubted whether we could get any servants to work there. In fact, when I returned to Kamuning I had it pulled down and used a lot of the materials to rebuild my old senior assistant’s bungalow, which then became the manager’s. Kandasamy told me that he had kept a trunk containing some of our belongings which had been packed by our Tamil boy when Jean had left in haste in December 1941.I told him to retain the trunk until I returned, which I thought would be early in 1946. As luck would have it, Kandasamy’s house was completely destroyed by fire soon after I left, so I never found out what was in the trunk. So Jean and I had lost absolutely everything. Everything except our opium stool which I found in a coolie’s house. It remains a most treasured possession.

  My car broke down, so I abandoned it and got a lift back to Ipoh on a passing army lorry. I telephoned Douglas Lee-Hunter in KL to send up one of the many cars that he seemed to have at his disposal. Meanwhile I stayed at the Station Hotel until it arrived the next day, and was driven down to KL. I never found out exactly what Lee-Hunter was really up to. He pretended that he had a ring of agents working in the political and economic field, but it was obvious to me that he was involved in some lucrative racket – more like a Mafia boss than a major in British Intelligence. I got him back to India as soon as I could, but, because of his outstanding war record in Burma, with some reluctance I decided against further investigations into his recent activities.

  From KL I flew back to Singapore in an RAF plane. Harry Hays was busy winding up our affairs. All the time I was being cabled by Guthrie’s requesting that I should arrange to be demobilised in Singapore, and as soon as possible. They had offered me a senior position, which I had accepted. They were also pulling strings to get my release. The majority of Guthrie estate managers had either been ‘put in the bag’, or killed, or were in the forces elsewhere in the world. The fact that I had had only a three and a half month break in nearly four years did not seem to occur to them. Unfortunately, at the time, it did not occur to me either what I was missing. For instance, 90 days home leave on full pay. A demob outfit. And, above all, reunion with my family. These received no consideration at all from Guthrie’s. I wondered at times, in the years to come, why I should have felt so much loyalty to that firm.

  The death of John Hart was still weighing heavily on my mind when we nearly had another unnecessary tragedy on our hands. Colin Park had somehow got hold of some locally brewed ‘hooch’, a particularly poisonous form of toddy. Many British ORs were in hospital having drunk it, some had gone blind, others had actually died. Colin had disappeared, but I tracked him down to the BMH (British Military Hospital). He was in a sorry state, but recovered sufficiently in a fortnight to be packed off back to India.

  By the end of November most of the winding up had been completed and I had filed the last of my reports. The penultimate paragraph warned that the Communists intended to take over Malaya at the first opportunity. My officers and agents were all off my hands, paid off or at home enjoying well-earned leave. Only Harry Hays, a couple of clerks and my FANY secretary remained. As we did not have a great deal of work, Harry and I took one of the several cars at our disposal and drove up to Kuala Lumpur. It was a large Humber Snipe, which did not run very well because the Japs had used a mixture of spirit and oil made from rubber instead of petrol. However, it got us there. Just. We left it at a Chinese garage, no doubt to be used as spares. We stayed at the SOCFIN mess with John Sketchley and Jock Campbell, who had been demobbed in Australia, and caught up with each other’s news. Peter Taylor and several other Guthrie directors had arrived and were living in the Station Hotel. Peter was anxious that I joined them, but I declined. But I promised to go down to Port Dickson to open up the Guthrie estates in the area in December, whether or not my release had come through.

  Harry and I then flew back to Singapore. For the past year I had been able to order, almost at will, if not my own aircraft, at least priority air passages. Henceforth I had to join the queue and take my turn after the top brass, civil servants of quite lowly rank, and absolutely everyone in the British Military Administration (BMA). The last-named, even in the short time they had been in Malaya, was already gaining a reputation for maladministration, extreme arrogance and high-handedness, and corruption.

  Whilst finally packing up the office I saw Harry repeatedly eyeing a tin box which I always kept firmly locked under my desk, whether in Calcutta, Colombo or Singapore. Eventually he had been unable to resist asking what was in it. I, too, had been giving much thought to its contents for a month or more. We had had two abortive drops when, as the normal practice, all the aircrafts’ cargoes had been jettisoned, except the case containing the radio. My tin box contained $52,000 in brand new notes, together with several yards of gold wire. The equivalent of £10,000 – a great deal of money in 1945 – was mine for the taking, with no questions asked. Harry’s face, when I finally opened the box, was a picture of disbelief. I explained where it had come from and the dilemma I was in. Should we keep half each or hand it in? We were sorely tempted, but agreed that we would not wish to have it on our consciences. I took it around to the Treasury Department where the official I saw was most annoyed. It appeared that the money and gold would have been written off months ago, and it would be a difficult accounting exercise, and there would probably have to be an official enquiry, if it had to be reinstated. Did I really wish to return it? With reluctance, I said yes. It was a decision that I have regretted ever since – the more so as I am certain that the official, a member of the BMA, kept it hi
mself.

  I must not omit to mention the chow dog I took over from a surrendered Japanese army officer. Kim was to remain my faithful companion and shadow until his death in 1950.I had to learn some Japanese in order to talk to him. He had sabre slashes on his side where the Japs used to ‘play’ with him with their swords.

  My release came through with effect from 12 December 1945.I said my farewells to my staff, loaded my belongings into my commandeered car, and set off for Port Dickson, Kim on the front seat beside me, after what I like to think was honest (too honest!) endeavour, and with a letter in Brigadier Bowden-Smith’s own hand in my pocket.

  He wrote:

  Dear Boris,

  Thank you very much for your letter of the 29th. It is very gratifying to know that you can look back on your days with ISLD with no regrets, for never would I have believed that any man could have been flung unseen and unknown into such a maelstrom of difficulties and oppositions both from above and below. If it hadn’t been so absorbingly interesting and of such vital importance I could never have stood it. I can also say, quite truthfully, that I have had more drive, determination and support from you than from any other Head of Section.

  I have always tried to improve our relations with 136 and Malaya was one of the hardest areas to get co-operation, but your arrival as Head of the Section immediately eased that task and between us in the end we had won through.

  Whether you will be granted any visible proof of gratitude for your services I do not know, but you have definitely got mine.

  A happy 1946 and all good luck. Hope to see you at Ascot next summer, whether I get the job or not.

  Yours sincerely,

  J. L. Bowden-Smith

  Kamuning Again (December 1945 – September 1947)

  My worldly possessions consisted of a suitcase of clothes, my officer’s valise, a wind-up gramophone and some records, an American .30 carbine, a .22 rifle with silencer, a German Luger automatic pistol, a few boxes of ammunition and a Japanese officer’s sword. The carbine was supplied by the OSS (Office of Strategic Services, the forerunner of the CIA), the rifle by ISLD, and the Luger and sword by His Imperial Japanese Majesty. The OSS did excellent service in many theatres of war, but what it was doing in our theatre puzzled me at first. However, I became friendly with several of their officers and very frequently went to beg some piece of equipment or other as they had large quantities of everything imaginable. The reason for their presence in India, Ceylon and eventually Malaya became obvious the nearer we got to VJ Day. Their ranks multiplied threefold, with men carrying briefcases rather than weapons. They were the spearhead of American big business, salesmen determined to get in on the ground floor of the vast South East Asian markets that had been starved of both everyday essentials and luxuries for so long. European factories were non-existent or, as in the case of Britain, fully geared to producing for the war effort. The Americans, of course, had spare capacity which they were eager to use. It did not endear them to us.

  I had already made a recce of the Port Dickson area and arranged to move into the old APC (Asiatic Petroleum Company) mess – one of the very few bungalows that had not been vandalised, and right on the coast. The other occupants were the local British Military Administration officer who was acting as the district officer, a Royal Engineers officer who was assisting the Public Works Department, and Freddy Cunnyngham, an elderly proprietary planter of many years standing and something of an institution. I was made most welcome.

  After four years of army life it seemed strange to be a civilian again, but a very great relief. Responsibility for the lives of others may sharpen the wits but it plays havoc with the nerves. I now looked forward to finding out how much of my old skills I had retained. My first task was to visit each estate in turn, and then to compose long reports describing their state and immediate requirements. These would be cabled to London as the KL offices were not yet functioning.

  One day on Linggi Estate, as I was driving up to the office, I was smartly saluted by two very unkempt and obviously half-starved men. I stopped because of the salute, and even in their present state their bearing seemed soldierly. Astonishingly, they were two Gurkha riflemen left behind, badly wounded, in 1942! They had been taken in by Rajahdorai, the Linggi office clerk, nursed back to health, hidden and succoured for the duration of the war. I gave them some money, arranged for them to have a square meal in our mess, and then to be driven over to the nearest British Army camp, where the FMS Volunteers had been camped when I joined Freddy Spencer Chapman almost exactly four years previously. Rajahdorai was rewarded, but I have no doubt inadequately, as is the British custom. We still correspond at Christmas. He is now a millionaire, having invested in property, and lives in Seremban.

  The estates in the Port Dickson area had suffered little damage other than by neglect. During the interval between the surrender and the actual landing of British troops the Chinese had removed many of the aluminium slats from the latex settling tanks, and until these were recovered – either by threats or payment – or replaced, factories could not resume production. Also, there were scarcely any latex buckets left. I got over this by approaching APC who sold me hundreds of empty four-gallon kerosene tins which I had cut in two.

  I spent Christmas 1945 quietly in Port Dickson and New Year’s Eve at the Station Hotel, KL, with Peter Taylor, now managing director designate of Guthrie’s, Malaya, and a few other Guthrie box wallahs. They had all recently arrived back from England, so henceforth I was to deal with the KL office rather than directly with London. Everyone seemed to have had leave except myself.

  I was dumbfounded when I learnt that Bob Chrystal had returned to Malaya, not even waiting to have Christmas with his family. He had returned at the Government’s request to help round up the Kuomintang guerrillas still roaming around Pahang and the other eastern states and falling prey to MPAJA, who were murdering them for having been traitors to the communist cause. The supporters of Chiang Kai-Shek had helped him survive so, naturally, he wished to assist them now. The next thing I heard was that Bob had reached Fraser’s Hill where he had collapsed and had been admitted to KL Hospital. As soon as he was fit enough to leave he came to stay with me at Port Dickson. It was wonderful to be reunited and we had a most rewarding month together, talking about the old happy days, his life in the jungle, and the enmity between the MPAJA and his Kuomintang friends. He then went back into the jungle, despite my repeated requests that he call it a day. He collapsed again soon afterwards and Peter Taylor asked me to accompany him down to Singapore to put him on a flight to Australia. Unfortunately there was a mix up over timings and I missed him. We were not to meet again until he and Babs came to stay with us in Suffolk in 1959.

  The early days after the war were intensely interesting and very challenging. Everything was in short supply: food, clothing, medical services, common sense and integrity. This last was particularly lacking in the British Military Administration, who quickly became known far and wide as the British Mal Administration. Many of its members openly boasted that they were in it for ‘a quick buck’, to set themselves up for retirement at home. It was my misfortune to meet some of these types, members seconded to the Rubber Section of the BMA, one in particular on Kamuning, as I shall relate later. Only a few planters had managed to escape from Malaya in February 1942. Of those who did, those of military age who were not already in the Forces immediately joined up; those of middle age were usually posted to appointments in the civil service, and were spread far and wide. It is estimated that nearly 300 planters were killed, or died as POWs or internees – over a quarter of the entire prewar total. Thus, until the survivors started to drift back after home leave and recuperation, planters were thin on the ground. The numbers were made up by the BMA.

  Such was the reputation for dishonesty and corruption surrounding the BMA name that, for example, many former employees of the Tanglin Club, in Singapore, which in those early post-war days was being managed by the NAAFI, part of the BMA, did not ap
ply for their old jobs again until it was returned to civilian management at the end of March 1946. They thought that even to be associated with the BMA would damage their chances of re-employment.

  Reid Tweedie told me that, when the prison gates were opened, his cellmate in Changi Gaol immediately went to his bungalow on Claymore Hill, where many tuans besar had lived, and was both amazed and overjoyed to find it exactly as he had left it three and a half years previously, even to the extent that his gramophone records and copies of The Field were in the same order as when he had departed. The house and contents had been well looked after by his servants and the occupiers, senior officers of the Imperial Japanese Navy (many of whom would most probably have trained at Dartmouth). Reid’s friend returned to Changi for the night, to collect his few possessions and to say goodbye to his fellow inmates. When he got back to his bungalow the following morning his servants greeted him in tears. His house was empty, ransacked by the British Army. One of the uniformed vandals was even wearing a major’s crowns on his shoulders! When it comes to looting, the British Army has few peers.