“Rock on, Killer! But first, Sergeant, let’s get our vehicles under cover,” said Lieutenant Gates.
“Yes, sir!”
“And keep the bloody smoke rising from that fire so that they’ll see it. The smell of cooked pig and monkeys will tempt them in fast enough.
The gunfire and sharp crack of exploding grenades had intensified, and for almost twenty minutes there was a continuous din coming from the direction of the Gap. Eventually, however, the noise gradually subsided, and it was not too long before the hiding, waiting, commando-trained men of the SAD unit heard the approach of the first returning Communist terrorists.
Tired and hungry, unsuspecting and carrying their rifles unconcernedly at their side, three terrorists walked single file along a path and into the trap.
During a lull in the gunfire, Fong Fook eased himself stealthily upward, on his back, through tall grass and low shrubs, like a snake slithering silently away from danger. Once again he heard the faint cries of a child in distress. Pausing and sinking his skinny body flat to the ground, he listened. There followed more heavy gunfire, then another lull during which time he distinctly heard the plaintive cries of a child, a baby girl calling out in Chinese, but in a dialect which he could not understand except for one word, “Amah!” Was the old woman he had killed the child’s amah, he wondered.
Fong Fook resumed his snake-like glide through the concealing undergrowth, slithering on his stomach now whilst dragging his rifle at his side. Full well he knew that beyond the road below him, searching the hillside with alert eyes, were many angry men, with nervous trigger fingers ready to fire at anything that dared move on the facing hillside. Sliding among more tall grasses, he eventually came upon a narrow, rarely used path, so overgrown that it had become tunnel-shaped by masses of foliage. Fong Fook knew all the paths in this part of the country. Tired and hungry, his body wracked with pain from his diseases, he gave a long sigh of relief, and stood up, knowing that now he was well concealed from the eyes of those below. From here on he had only to follow the correct zigzagging path through the maze of paths in the surrounding jungle to be far enough away to escape entrapment by the security forces. He knew only too well that soon they would throw a cordon of their men, the head-hunting Dyaks and the blood-thirsty, fearless Gurkhas included, around the whole area, with orders to search and destroy.
Yet, he was curious as to whose child now cried for her amah from the jungle. Had she travelled in the shiny, expensive-looking car? Dare he attempt to find her? He cursed himself for being such a fool, realizing that it would be as good as suicide to attempt such a crazy venture. To risk crossing the road safely would be madness. And should he manage to cross the road unseen, it would necessitate him moving among the enemy. The risk was too great. He hurried onward, his rifle in hand, along the narrow, overgrown path, in the direction of the setting sun slipping from sight behind far hills.
Thus Fong Fook made his retreat, crouching to avoid thorny overhanging branches whilst jogging at a half run along the narrow path.
After covering a hundred yards or so, he suddenly stopped and listened as more heavy gunfire broke out behind him. It would be gunfire from the security forces now. His men would have already left the ambush area and would be making their way in ones and twos back to camp. Seating himself upon the trunk of a fallen tree, he relaxed and gloated over this day’s work. The ambush had succeeded better than even he had anticipated; his ego was enormous.
Fools! Fools! How could such greenhorns to the jungle hope to win over him and his men who were such veterans of this form of warfare? Were not the majority of the oppressors mere boys who had never been tried in battle; who had never before faced death? Contemptuous of his enemies, he spat on the ground, a supercilious smirk appearing on his gaunt face. Yes, he would go among the enemy, and he would seek and find the child. He would gain nothing from the foolhardy venture, he knew, but this would be his supreme test. Very soon he would learn whether or not he had lost his former hunting skills acquired when tracking-down and killing jungle-trained Japanese soldiers.
Refilling the magazine of his rifle with ten rounds of .303 ammunition, he clipped it back into its place. Satisfied, he got up from the fallen tree trunk and jogged onward. Now he must take a different path, but like all others in the area, it was a path he knew. On reaching the junction of that path, he looked both to the left and to the right but saw no one. So far, so good, he thought. The path, tunnel-shaped, was lined by tall creepers which had woven themselves together overhead so thick the matting of foliage blocked out even the sunlight. Carpeted by spongy moss and dead leaves, it ran for a hundred yards or more parallel with the road.
Bent almost double, Fong Fook ran along this path which would take him past the rear of the convoy. He knew that he must cross the road somewhere behind the last vehicle in the convoy, then stealthily double back to where he had heard the crying child.
On and on he ran, pausing occasionally to listen and then cautiously peer between creepers to see if the road was clear. Finally, parting creepers and tall grasses overlooking the road, he saw that he had reached the rear of the convoy. To his right the stopped convoy trailed its way up the hill. He could see men manning gun positions; but here their guns were silent. Immediately below him was the light tank, its turret gun pointed straight at him, its gunners staring through narrow slits seeking the invisible foe. A hatch in the light tank opened and a head emerged, followed by broad shoulders with ‘pips’ on each epaulette. The head wore earphones and was speaking into a walky-talky, loud and very clear. Fong Fook heard every word, but not knowing English, understood nothing. This was his chance of a lifetime, he thought, drawing back the bolt of his rifle and pushing a round into the breech. Just the click of the bolt action was audible; nothing more. Grinning evilly, he levelled the rifle and squinted down the sights until he had them aimed between the man’s eyes. This was just too easy, he told himself. This officer was about to earn himself a medal, posthumously.
Fong Fook’s finger slid to the trigger the very same moment that the head and shoulders withdrew back into the turret, and the hatch clanged shut.
Cursing to himself, Fong Fook relaxed his grip on the rifle. The hatch remained closed. He cursed again at having missed the chance to avenge fallen comrades killed by the murderous tank crews who had blasted jungle hide-outs into heaps of rubble with their terrible cannon fire, and who had swept whole areas clear of human life by their deadly machine guns.
Shaking his head in annoyance, he flipped on the rifle’s safety catch and then crept back to the tunnel-like path. Cautiously looking in both directions, with no one in sight, he resumed a crouching, jogging run, and covered another hundred feet or more when he arrived at another bend in the path. Here he halted, and for several seconds listened intently. Hearing nothing, he carefully parted bushes and tall grass so that again he could look down and see the road.
To his left the road was empty, and to his right the road was equally deserted all the way to the distant bend; a high bank, stony and cleared of vegetation at the bend shielded the tank from his view, as it also shielded him from the whole convoy.
There was still the occasional sharp crack of rifle fire, also spasmodic short bursts from Bren guns to be heard coming from beyond the bend in the road. His nerves being on edge, Fong Fook suddenly jumped in alarm as a bullfrog honked within inches of his face, the loud rasping noise momentarily startling him. Yet, except for the myriad of mosquitoes whining all around him, all else where he hid remained silent. Even the many colourful birds held their songs in check, or had long sped from the shattered silence of their sanctuary. Nothing but mosquitoes stirred near him, and no human voice broke the silence where he now hid. He surveyed the greenness of the jungle on the other side of the road. There, not even a leaf seemed to stir. Now was his opportunity to cross the road.
Pushing concealing undergrowth aside, he emerged cautiously into sunlight to find himself at the topmost edge of a cleared, stony
embankment, which slanted downward until it reached the mountain’s narrow road. Completely exposed now, Fong Fook had to act swiftly. First he ran, and then he slid as if skiing down a snow-covered slope, sliding on dry dirt, shale and stones down the steep embankment until, tripping up at the bottom, he fell, sprawled out upon the road. Regaining his feet, and without looking to his left or right, he quickly ran across the road and noiselessly entered the jungle’s green covering. Once there, pressing himself against the trunk of a tree, he panted heavily, his bony chest heaving in and out from all the exertion, his eyes nervously darting in all directions; yet he saw nothing to cause him alarm. He gave a smile of satisfaction. He had safely crossed the road.
Carefully and quietly parting sticky wet creepers, he slipped among them and began edging his way back towards the stalled convoy and to enemy occupied terrain. Now, with no path for him to scurry along nor tunnel of foliage to conceal his movements, the going would be much more difficult than before. With every yard covered his heart seemed to miss a beat as dead twigs crackled beneath his feet, and leaves and creepers rustled in protest at being parted and pushed aside. Suddenly, he stopped, startled at hearing the loud and clear voice of the tank commander again, speaking into his walky-talky from his stationary tank positioned on the road above. Silently Fong Fook cursed the man. The fool was simply asking to be eliminated. But he dared not take a shot at him from the lower side of the road.
Sinking deeper into cover, Fong Fook inched his way stealthily forward, hardly daring to breath, his eyes darting in all directions. Hearing voices approaching, he sank out of sight amid creepers and watched as armed men in military uniform slashed their way through the jungle, so close to him he could have hit one by a throw of his kris if the jungle had not been so dense. Other armed, uniformed men followed, passing within feet of where he was hiding, and he could hear voices coming from the edge of the road. He cursed himself for his rash action. Crossing the road had been a foolish move. By now he could have been almost back at the camp where he knew hot food awaited him. A wild suckling pig, two wild cats and several monkeys on spits would be roasting over an open fire, and freshly dug yams would be baking in the fire. Also, there would be a giant pot of white rice, all prepared and cooked by a faithful old woman camp guard, to feed the returning famished men. Next to monkey, wild cat was his favourite dish. Now, though, he was not hungry but angry with himself. To allow himself to be just a few feet away from so many of the hated enemy had been foolhardy. He waited until a second lot of men had distanced themselves from him before wiping a grimy hand across a sweating brow and thinking, ‘Dare I go onward, or should I quietly retreat?’ Brushing a big black spider from his leg, he rubbed a growing spot of redness where the spider had bitten him.
Onward he would go, he decided. Perhaps a fool, but he was no coward, and he was too near his goal to turn and run. He would reach his objective. He would seek and find that child now crying for help in the jungle.
30
A frightened girl dressed in a torn and bloodied white silk dress stood looking up at him out of big brown unblinking eyes, wide with both fear and wonderment. Filled with mingled awe and helplessness, she was uncertain; the unfamiliar man towering over her had rescued her from the treetops, and he was not angry with her or using loud words of reprimand.
Puzzled and shaking his head in disbelief, Peter Saunders stared down at the little girl. He tried to smile, wanting to reassure her and gain her confidence. Then, because the top of her head reached only to just above his knees, he squatted down in front of her so that their faces were level.
The little girl’s face was coated in dirt, bloodied where scratched and swollen from weeping, yet by her delicate features and ivory-white skin, she could very well be the daughter of a Chinese aristocrat, thought Peter. Also, although now dirty and dishevelled, her hair obviously had been groomed by caring hands. It was as black as ebony and flowed in soft and shiny waves around delicate shoulders. She had cute little dimples and a tiny heart-shaped mouth, but it was her eyes, which impressed Peter the most. Almond shaped, they were brown and beautiful, and they reminded him of how his Chinese girlfriend Rose looked when perplexed or appealing to him when wanting her own way.
“Hello, little girl,” Peter said to her, in English.
The little girl, not understanding and looking obviously puzzled, simply stared back at him and said nothing.
“So you don’t speak English, eh? In that case let’s try Cantonese. Ne hou ma, siu mui mui?” (How are you, little girl?)
Unblinking and watching his every move, the little girl, still not seeming to understand him, remained silent.
“So, you don’t speak Cantonese either. That’s damned odd. I suppose you speak Mandarin,” said Peter Saunders. “Well, I don’t, so we’ll have to stick to Malay.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“Boleh cakap Melayu?” (Do you speak Malay?) he asked.
Instantly, the little girl’s face brightened. “Boleh,” she answered.
Wanting to reassure her that he was a friend and not going to harm her, Peter said, “Saya kawan. Orang Ingerris.” He smiled to himself. He did not know too many words in Malay, but speaking to this little girl, his vocabulary seemed adequate. He told her that he was a friend and an Englishman.
The girl nodded her head in understanding. “Saya Cina,” she whispered shyly.
“Bagus. That’s good. Now we’re getting somewhere. I can see that you’re a little Chinese girl, but I find it strange that you speak Malay and not Cantonese.”
Having understood not a word of the last long sentence, the little girl gave him a coy look and shrugged her shoulders. Peter then asked her name, saying, “Nama siapa?”
This drew an immediate response. In the same shy whisper, the little girl replied, “Ho Li Li.”
“Ho Li Li, eh!” said Peter. “Well, that is a lovely name. Ho Li Li,” he repeated.
The girl nodded her head.
“Well, Miss Ho, I shall call you Li Li. How’s that?”
She was smiling at him now, almost to the point of giggling “I suppose I do look a funny sight,” Peter said, forgetting for the moment his throbbing head-wound, the chaos all around him and the horrifying sights he had just witnessed. But now, at long last, the din was subsiding. Ammunition exploded in a burning vehicle at the rear of the convoy, and orders in English were being shouted from another direction. But except for the occasional rifle shot and some short bursts from a Bren gun coming from somewhere in the distance, the gunfire had ceased. Now, the stillness of the air was broken only by a whispering breeze that rustled the topmost leaves of the trees surrounding the odd couple facing each other among the greenery.
“I must see if we can get back onto the road. If we can, then I’ll try to find out who you belong to.”
Rising to his feet, and whilst stooping to pick up the child, he was startled by the sound of snapping dry twigs behind him, as if from under someone’s feet. Turning, he gasped in dismay. His hands dropped from the girl. Already it was too late to take defensive action, much too late. He had committed the cardinal sin of allowing his rifle out of his hands. It stood where he had propped it, against the skinny trunk of that rotting tree six feet away; it may well have been six miles for all its usefulness to him now.
Fong Fook had reached his objective. Not only had he found the crying child but also a defenceless military enemy. Stepping out from behind a covering of jungle vegetation, he smirked and, forgetting the child for the moment levelled his rifle at this easy kill.
Realizing the hopelessness of his predicament, Peter Saunders did not move a muscle but instead stared stonily back into a villainous face full of hate. He saw the skinny man’s cobra-like eyes dart to where his own rifle stood propped against the tree. He saw the man’s lips part and heard a low snarl coming from the mouth of a sallow, shrunken face leering evilly at his helplessness. Peter Saunders stood as if stone. There seemed nothing he could do except await c
ertain death.
It was Li Li who gave him his chance. Both he and Fong Fook had momentarily forgotten her presence. Sensing and fearing great animosity between the two men facing each other, she gave a loud fearful cry and ran whimpering to hide behind a mass of tangled creepers.
Fong Fook’s eyes followed Li Li’s passage for just those few fleeting moments but not so those of Peter Saunders. He dived forward, straight at the man, at the gaping muzzle of the rifle, with his hands outstretched ready to grasp and slew the weapon to one side. But he was not fast enough. Too late, he saw the finger squeezing the trigger. Then he saw the finger fumbling with the trigger. He could not understand why there was no exploding report, no pain. His mind would not allow him to believe it as he reached his adversary, was upon him, grappling with him and throwing him to the ground. There, the two combatants writhed and rolled, wrestling and clawing at each other, each seeking the other’s throat for a strangle hold. And except for Li Li’s loud sobbing, the jungle surrounding the two men locked in mortal combat became strangely quiet.
Fong Fook, his rifle lying on the ground where it had fallen, now attempted to reach his kris; so did Peter Saunders. Suddenly seeing his chance, Fong Fook kneed Peter in the groin and sprang to his feet. Lashing out a foot, he kicked him in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Gasping for breath, Peter rolled over, hauled himself to his knees and desperately crawled towards his own rifle.
By now Fong Fook had not only regained his rifle but also knew the reason why it had previously failed him. He had clipped on the safety catch after the tank commander’s head had disappeared down into the turret and had forgotten to release it. Snapping the catch forward, he fired at Peter and then drew back the bolt, freeing the spent cartridge. Violently he slammed the bolt forward again, so violently a round jammed across the open breech.
Peter Saunders felt a searing pain in his thigh as the bullet tore into flesh and bone, the impact jarring him, spinning him around and knocking him on his back. Clutching at the wound, he gasped in agony and for moments could do nothing to help himself. Horrified, he watched as the veteran Chinese terrorist fumbled with his rifle. He heard the man cursing in Cantonese, saw his own blood soaking through the hem of his KD jacket, and all the while seeing his rifle so near, almost within reach. Desperately he flung himself upon it. It was in his hands, but too late. Fong Fook had already managed to clear the breech, had slipped another round into it and fired at point-blank range, the bullet tearing into and embedding itself in Peter’s chest. Peter collapsed, writhed in agony for some moments, then lay still, almost unconscious and as if dead.
The Rose of Singapore Page 39