The Rose of Singapore

by Peter Neville

  “Since you rang, sir, I’ve been thinking about it and don’t foresee any problems. Why don’t you go ahead with your plans for the darts match on Saturday and leave the catering to me?”

  “You’re a good man, Saunders. Do you have any idea how much you’ll charge?”

  “A dollar per person, sir.”

  “That seems far too little. You’ll never make a profit at that price.”

  “Just leave it to me, sir, and I assure you everyone will be satisfied.”

  “Good man, Saunders,” said the aging warrant officer. “Well, as the sun’s already over the yardarm, it’s time for my midday gin and tonic. “Turning, he headed towards the sergeants’ mess bar. “I’ll let you know on Friday how many to expect,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “The more the merrier, sir,” Peter sang out. And raising his teacup, he whispered, “I’ll drink to that!”

  20

  Like the wheel of life spinning out one’s destiny, young British servicemen and women were being returned daily to the United Kingdom, their tour of overseas duty completed. They were ‘tour ex’, tour expired being the official words on British governmental documents.

  The majority of departing Royal Air Force personnel had spent a full two and a half years at various RAF stations scattered throughout the Far Eastern Command. Others, the two-year National Servicemen and three-year enlisted men, spent considerably less time abroad before being returned home. However, regardless of the length of time personnel served with the Far Eastern Air Force, they were inevitably replaced by fresh personnel from home, lily-white and unacclimatized ‘moon men’ and ‘women from mars’, often straight out of RAF trade training camps in the UK.

  As for Peter Saunders, his tour of overseas duty was gradually drawing to a close, the grains of time in his hour glass steadily but surely running out. It was now the middle of May, and he only had eight months remaining to serve before he too became tour ex.

  Eager to return to the UK, the majority of service personnel stationed in the Far East were counting the days and scratching them off on calendars. Time passed too slowly for them, whereas for Peter Saunders, the days and the weeks passed far too quickly. He was not looking forward to that four-day flight home on a four-engine Hastings transport plane, and even less to the possibility of spending a twenty-six-day or more voyage back to Liverpool on one of those awful troopships such as the Empire Pride, the troopship he had sailed on from Liverpool to Hong Kong almost two years ago. He still had vivid memories of being repeatedly seasick, even within minutes of leaving every port. His major dread, however, was the unbearable thought of having to say goodbye, perhaps forever, to Rose.

  He was now a senior aircraftman, having passed the written, oral and practical SAC catering examinations the previous week with the highest possible grades. The very informal and jolly catering officer, Flight Lieutenant Rogers, visually inspected all his prepared dishes in the kitchen of the aircrew mess, where the test took place, before adjourning to the dining room where Peter had carefully laid a table for six. Two bottles of wine, both gifts from the sergeants’ mess bar, stood on a sideboard; one of the bottles, kept cool in a bucket of ice, was a white Chablis ready to be served with the fish dish. The other, a bottle of red Bordeaux, complimented the main course.

  Two Chinese waiters who were employed at the aircrew mess seated the diners. The catering officer sat at the head of the table. On his right sat Flight Sergeant Jean Kelly, the gorgeous NCO in charge of the hospital kitchen. Flight Officer Kite, chairman of the aircrew messing committee, sat at the other end of the table. The three other places were taken by Warrant Officer Beaty, the senior NCO of the catering section, Flight Sergeant Bates, the gnome-like, bald-headed, and ready-for-retirement Cornishman who ran the aircrew mess kitchen, and a very young pilot officer who had just flown in from somewhere and needed a meal. The six sat down to judge and enjoy the superb luncheon created from scratch by LAC Peter Saunders who had worked diligently at the preparation and cooking of the meal since very early that morning.

  The soup dish, consommé julienne with sorrel shredded into a fine chiffonnade floating on its surface, was judged superb. Likewise was the fish dish, fillet of sole au gratin, enhanced by the Chablis. The main course which Peter had eventually selected was a favourite of his, chicken Marengo, served with cauliflower à la Polonaise, vichy carrots and Duchess potatoes, accompanied by the very fine bottle of Bordeaux.

  “By Jove! A gastronomic delight!” exclaimed the catering officer on tasting the chicken, a remark unanimously agreed upon by all the other five diners. Peter did not mention that he had obtained the two very plump fresh chickens the previous morning from the pig swill man, who had walked them alive and clucking into the sergeants’ mess kitchen, where they were promptly dispatched and plucked and cleaned by Kah Seng for Peter’s use. At the luncheon, both chickens and the rich sauce they were cooked in were soon heartily consumed so that on all six dinner plates only bones remained of his chicken Marengo.

  A peach flan topped with chantilly cream followed the main course. And finally, coffee was served. Minutes later Peter was called into the dining room to be congratulated by the six diners on his presentation of a fine meal, and to be informed by the jovial and now well-fed catering officer that he had passed the practical test, using his words, ‘with flying colours.’

  On the written theory examination, Peter received a grade of one hundred percent, owing this unbeatable score to his having memorized the whole written works, even every recipe, of the AP87, the RAF manual of cookery. Ever since 1 April, the day Sergeant Muldoon had first mentioned the forthcoming SAC test to him, Peter had read over and over again his blue-covered RAF cookery book right up until the day of the test.

  The oral catering examination was conducted at the catering office by Warrant Officer Beaty; Peter answered every question correctly.

  Later that day, Peter was again called to the catering office, this time to be congratulated by Flight Lieutenant Rogers, Warrant Officer Beaty, Sergeant Muldoon, as well as several other members of the catering section on his success at passing the SAC catering test. And as the catering officer was saying, “By Jove, Saunders! You did an absolutely terrific job,” glasses and a full bottle of Scotch appeared as if from nowhere, and a ‘wee dram,’ as Warrant Officer Beaty called it, was drunk in celebration by all present.

  Two days later, Peter’s new rank of Senior Aircraftman came through from FEAF, which meant that, instead of a red two-bladed propeller, SAC Peter Saunders now wore a red three-bladed propeller on the sleeves of his KD uniforms. Peter was proud of achieving his new rank, and chuffed with himself at having scored one hundred percent on the theory. His next step up the ladder would be corporal.

  As can be imagined, the catering officer was extremely pleased with the results of his new SAC’s catering exam, especially the one hundred percent theory paper, which he promptly and proudly sent to the Command Catering Officer. Not only was it a feather in his own hat but it also made the whole catering section at RAF Changi look good, especially as it was extremely rare for anyone to pass the AP87 written examination with an unbeatable score.

  As for babysitting, on a number of occasions since the beginning of April, Peter had actually enjoyed visiting the Camerons’ residence in the married quarters. He found the flight sergeant’s wife to be a rather nervous but kindly person who welcomed him, and immediately put him completely at ease. He liked Mrs Cameron, and he also liked Derek and Megan, the two children. Megan insisted that he read books to her about bunny rabbits, and mice having tea parties, and other funny little stories whilst sitting on his lap. Derek wanted to show off his stamp collection and play with the impressive train set which took over the whole floor of one of the rooms. Peter, relaxing with a glass of beer in hand, would find himself fascinated by the whole layout and intricate workings of the model railway with its many engines, coaches, little railway stations and winding tracks running through countryside and villa
ges. Never before had he seen, let alone played with, such an elaborate electric train set. At first he was concerned when Derek purposely crashed the trains but as no damage seemed to occur and it kept all three of them amused, he did not interfere. In fact, he crashed a few too.

  Saturday evenings were now devoted to his fish and chips enterprise at the sergeants’ mess. It had become a fantastic success, from bringing in sixty-three dollars at a dollar-a-head the first night, to now over two hundred dollars, catering to darts matches, whist drives, bingo and dances. Every Friday morning the ration truck driver would drop off at the sergeants’ mess an ever increasing number of boxes of fish, sacks of potatoes, fourteen-pound cans of fat, cans of flour and an extra tray of eggs. And every Saturday morning the same standing order arrived from Jong Fatt’s grocery store in Changi Village; five pounds of potatoes, fish, flour, and fat and half-a-dozen eggs, paid for in cash by Peter. He kept the receipts in case his financial doings were challenged by the powers that be.

  Although his fish and chips enterprise was considered a great success by all his customers, it meant a considerable amount of extra work for Peter, who certainly earned the more than one-hundred-and-fifty Singapore dollars profit every Saturday evening, plus making between fifty and a hundred dollars in tips. The Chinese staff who helped Peter not only received overtime pay but also received an equal share of all tips. Thus, everyone was kept happy.

  On one occasion, the chairman of the messing committee asked Peter, “How do you manage by charging such a trivial amount, Saunders? I’ve spoken to several of the mess members on this matter and they are all in agreement that one dollar doesn’t seem enough for all the work that you put into it.”

  “Sir, if you are happy with our fish and chip arrangement, I’m happy. So don’t worry about it.”

  “Very well, Saunders. But if you need to raise the price, do so.”

  Saturday evenings also kept Peter from dwelling on what Rose was doing, Saturday evenings being her busiest and most lucrative period of the week. She was glad that he had the babysitting and the fish and chip business, which now occupied his mind. Refusing all offers by him of financial assistance, she had instead suggested that he invest his money in the Post Office Saving Bank at Changi, which he did, and from that day on he became a POSB member. It was his first bank account.

  Suddenly, from the bloody battlefields of Korea, and from numerous military hospitals in Japan, wounded British soldiers began arriving daily at Changi Airfield, flown in aboard RAF Hastings and York aircraft of Transport Command. At the terminal building, the wounded were met by medical personnel and driven in military ambulances the one mile to Changi Hospital where their wounds were tended and they were given a break, a period of recuperation before embarking on that final long journey home, back to the UK.

  Now, with the hospital caring for far more than its normal number of patients, extra staff, including personnel from the catering section, were drafted in. Senior Aircraftman Peter Saunders was one of the first cooks detailed to work in the hospital’s kitchen. There was now neither time for him to babysit nor to manage his fish and chips enterprise.

  The wounded were arriving in constantly greater numbers. Ambulances and blue-grey coaches were pulling into the driveway and stopping in front of the emergency entrance. From a kitchen window, Peter would watch with great sadness the new arrivals being helped into the hospital. There were so many pitiful sights.

  Every wounded man was first taken into the emergency room to be booked in, have his wounds checked and his bloodied bandages changed before being assigned and taken to one of the several airy, spacious wards. The medical officers, nurses and orderlies attending the wounded always seemed to have smiles and lots of cheerful chatter, but God only knows how they felt inwardly.

  When working at the hospital and not busy in the kitchen, Peter would visit the wounded and, where needed, offer a helping hand. Again, what heartrending sights he witnessed. Young men, really mere boys his own age, who just a short while ago had travelled out to Korea healthy and strong and completely innocent of warfare, were now in pathetic condition. Almost all had at least one limb missing, many had just stumps swathed in bandages. Some were on crutches, several on stretchers, and others pushed in wheelchairs. Heads were bandaged. Whole bodies were bandaged. There were those who were shell-shocked, those deafened, and those who had had their face partially blown away; they could not speak, and might never speak again.

  At Changi Hospital the doctors, nursing orderlies, and nursing attendants of the RAF aero-medical service were doing a magnificent job of caring for the ever increasing number of incoming wounded, who were, because of their terrible injuries, in shock and more bewildered than down physically. The nurses were assisted by members of the WVS and by WRAF and RAF personnel. Everyone had a part to play. Eyes were needed to guide the blind, hands for those with none, help for those who could not walk, and many words of encouragement.

  Senior Aircraftman Peter Saunders and several other members of the catering section, like so many other airmen and airwomen stationed at Changi, became volunteer helpers and hosts to the wounded. They assisted the medical orderlies in taking patients to the NAAFI, the camp cinema, the cricket and football field, and on short outings down to Changi Village, visiting the beach, and attending friendly gatherings at the Changi Yacht Club. But most of all they seemed to enjoy big beer-drinking parties at Changi’s Malcolm Club, where jokes were cracked and there was much talk, laughter and song. It was difficult for Peter to understand how these wounded boys remained so cheerful, their misfortunes joked about, sometimes ruefully. They had survived Korea, not quite intact, but they had survived, and now it seemed as if all stress and tension was flowing from their patched-up bodies. They were alive, and they were returning home. Life ahead of them was tomorrow. Today they celebrated. Peter could only venture a guess as to their innermost feelings. Few spoke of Korea. That in itself was a tragedy left behind, and for them, best forgotten. They spoke of home, of mother, the old man, the missus, a girlfriend, and Blighty.

  Now they were fighting a different battle, their own battle. Here, in transit at RAF Changi, they were being helped, but soon they must help themselves, both in mind and body, for the remainder of their lives. But for now, they were fighting, by singing and blotting out horrifying memories, trying to ignore pain and bouts of depression, at seeing a stump that had once been a healthy leg, or burn marks and shrapnel wounds that might never completely heal. Korea, for them, had to be forgotten. Ahead the future lay with wide open doors. It would be up to the wounded individual to make sure that those doors did not close. Peter wondered what his reaction would be if he were in the place of one of those boys. He could not answer such an awful question.

  He was glad when the radiogram was turned on and the song “Moon Above Malaya”, sung by a sweet-voiced, well-known and popular Chinese girl from Shanghai, floated soothingly through the beer fumes and cigarette smoke in that crowded great hall at the Malcolm Club. And when “Moon Above Malaya” faded away it was followed by, “Rose, Rose, I Love You”, “Tell Me Why, Why I Love You Like This?”, “Just One More Night, Alone With You I Must Create”, “The Little White Cloud That Cried” and “Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling”.

  These were the songs which headed the Hit Parade on Radio Malaya, songs that Peter Saunders enjoyed listening to. Those wounded British soldiers fresh from Korea will remember for the rest of their lives those few days spent in transit at RAF Changi, Singapore.

  Day after day the wants of the procession of arriving wounded were tended to; evenings were reserved for entertainment. Meanwhile, as the days and weeks passed, the volume of wounded slackened until it became a trickle flowing through the camp; then that trickle thinned to a mere handful, the wounded having been rerouted home to the UK.

  One of the last cases to depart from Changi, a frail, freckle-faced youngster who Peter escorted to the plane one scorching afternoon, said philosophically, “We can teach them a lot,
and they can teach us a lot. If only we could get together peacefully with our enemies, it would be a happier world.”

  Peter agreed, and said, “Good luck, John.”

  Dwelling upon John’s last words, Peter watched as the hospital plane took off for England, and he was still pondering them when it disappeared from view into a steamy haze hanging over the jungle of Johore.

  And now, after weeks of caring for the wounded, it was time for him to return to work at the sergeants’ mess, and to his profitable sergeants’ mess fish and chips shop. Also, babysitting for the Camerons. But most enjoyably, to spending more time with his adorable Lai Ming.

  21

  On 2 June 1953, throughout the world, loyal subjects of the British Empire celebrated Coronation Day—the crowning in Westminster Abbey of their sovereign, their lovely young monarch, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

  The citizens of the tiny British colonial island of Singapore celebrated this once-in-a-lifetime event in spectacular style. Boldly, and with great reverence to their new monarch, they transformed the already gay and colourful city into one bedecked with Union Jacks and buntings, red, white and blue streamers and banners, millions of glittering coloured lights and countless jewelled crowns all painted gold. Anticipating this memorable day, gardeners had worked diligently in every city park preparing the soil and planting millions of plants, which now bloomed red, white and blue in massive displays of colour. And in brightly illuminated shopfronts the message ‘Long Live The Queen’ was splashed across banners in red upon gold displaying the peoples’ respect and goodwill towards their new ruler. On this day no talk was heard of independence.

  In honour of the Coronation, Singapore’s rich diversity of ethnic groups united as one to celebrate this day joyously and with devotion towards the island’s new ruler. The British, Chinese, Indians and Malays were all her subjects, she their ruler. With warmth in their hearts towards their new monarch, the people of Singapore rejoiced.