The Rose of Singapore (44 page)

Among the airmen in that fourth vehicle there was scant conversation. Only eyes, and fingers on triggers, betrayed some nervousness. Glinting muzzles were aimed to where eyes could not penetrate.

All vehicles had now engaged lower gears, the faster hanging back for the slower in order for positions to be maintained. Slowly, the convoy wound its way upward, around hairpin bend after hairpin bend. Those in the vehicles ahead could frequently look down a hillside of jungle and see six or seven vehicles on the winding, narrow road below. Far down the mountainside the road could be seen again, with vehicles travelling upon it that were perhaps twentieth or more in place, all winding their way up the face of that hill, skirting ravines, edging between great gaps, clinging upon that hillside road hundreds of feet above the lowlands. Far below, how green and fertile the valleys appeared to be from the mountainside. Up here, there was not a house to be seen, nor sound or movement of man or animal. An occasional bird winged its way overhead, singing a greeting, it seemed, to those travelling the road below. But those birds were the only show of life. Except for them life in that green hell remained silent. Even snakes and rodents remained hidden whilst the noises from many engines passed them by.

Two miles from the Gap the convoy drew to a halt at a police outpost, where, nearby, a huge palm-thatched shack advertised coffee and orange drinks for sale. Here the sweating men were allowed to leave their vehicles to stretch and relax awhile. Many trooped into the shack and soon a queue formed. Peter and Rick were two of the first to enter the shack, to be served by an aged Chinese woman help by a girl who appeared to be her daughter. They both ordered a Green Spot orange drink, and stroked a big ginger tomcat that sat aloof upon a stool. No one thought of moving the cat, and it purred contentedly when allowed to lap lukewarm coffee from someone's mug. Much fuss was made of that ginger tomcat.

Far above the outpost loomed Fraser's Hill; the road could be seen only until it disappeared into the jungle less than a hundred yards further on. A silence hung over the hill. It's too quiet, Peter Saunders thought. There was no chatter of monkeys to be heard, neither squeaks nor squeals from other smaller animals, no buzzing noises from grasshoppers, and not even the honking of bullfrogs in the nearby grasses. Even the birds were without song. The quietness was suspiciously ominous to country boy Peter Saunders. Here, the grown-over hillside should be full of animal and insect noise. Glancing apprehensively at Flying Officer Morgan, he noticed a definite state of nervousness written on the man's rugged face as the officer's eyes searched through binoculars the side of the hill for movement. Turning suddenly, the officer espied the young airman watching him.

“What the hell are you staring at?” he snapped.

“Sorry, sir,” said Peter Saunders, not knowing what else to say.

“Get back up on the wagon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Noticing the experienced way the young airman carried his rifle, Flying Officer Morgan asked, “Airman, are you one of the marksmen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I thought you were. Now remember, from now on make sure you've a round in the breech. And once we're moving, keep a finger on the trigger and your eyes alert for the slightest sign of movement.”

“Yes, sir.”

“OK! Good man! Now get back up into the wagon,” Flying Officer Morgan ordered. He then shouted, “All right men, all aboard. And remember, keep a damned good look-out from now on until we reach the summit.”

Following Rick up into the back of the lorry, Peter sat down beside him and checked his rifle, making sure the safety catch was off. Intuition, a sixth sense; casting his eyes upon those green slopes once again, he shuddered, suddenly fearful of the journey that lay ahead.

26

A stirring in the undergrowth was all that betrayed his presence; a few leaves rustled, and beneath his feet dead twigs crackled as Fong Fook, hiding behind a low bush, stealthily changed his uncomfortable squatting position. Whispering curses, there were more agitated movements as he massaged a cramped foot, and then, after awhile, quietness returned, so that the jungle-clad hillside appeared devoid of human life.

With nothing but the faintest of breezes stirring the hillside, several minutes passed before movement again disturbed concealing leaves and thin branches as a wizened human face, barely visible, cautiously rose from among the tangled mass of greenery growing entwined and around the low bush. Peering between its twigs, furtive eyes scanned the winding narrow road that lay a hundred feet or so below. As regular as clockwork, the convoy would be on time today; three-thirty, zero hour. The ambush was set, there would be no slip-up; no mercy given and none expected, neither by himself nor by any of his thirty-five men hiding in the undergrowth fifty to a hundred feet apart upon the hillside overlooking the road.

Fong Fook, the senior area committee member of the Malayan Communist Party for the State of Pahang, gripped his rifle in readiness, a grim, vengeful look on his face as he waited to kill and destroy more of those who had brought his downfall, and who now ruled Malaya. Not one iota of love or goodwill towards mankind showed in those peering eyes; instead there was hate and a burning desire to kill. Killing had long become Fong Fook's single pleasure. Indeed, killing had become an obsession as well as his profession. No longer did he find passion in loving a woman, not since the last woman he had loved, more than two years ago, had given him the gift of syphilis. And now, through living in the jungle, a wanted man with such a high price on his head that he dared not visit civilization, the disease, remaining untreated, was assisting in killing him. The yearning he once had for women had long turned to bitterness, and any feelings of sexual want brought only pain. Now, deeply implanted into his crazed mind was the need to kill. He lived only to kill.

Though not quite twenty-seven years of age, already Fong Fook was an aged-looking, sick and dying man. Living, hunting and being hunted in the jungle these past twelve years had completely ruined him, mind, body and soul. Often he suffered from deep, black depressions to the point of his being on the brink of insanity. His body, emaciated through years of neglect and undernourishment, was covered with festering sores on parchment-like skin. His hollow cheeks and sunken dark eyes revealed the other deadly disease he suffered from that was already advanced and obviously killing him, tuberculosis. A filthy army beret, taken from a British soldier he had killed, did not conceal his tangled mass of unwashed black hair. Protecting his feet were worn-out sandals held on by dried
lalang
grass, and covering his body he wore a pair of sun-bleached, ripped and filthy blue trousers and a matching sleeveless jacket. Back at his base camp there were several pairs of boots and many items of clothing taken from the dead—mostly British military personnel they had killed. But neither he nor any of his fellow guerillas would wear military clothing on this day and risk mistaking each other for the enemy.

Thus, Fong Fook, the notorious Communist Party leader and head of a gang of terrorists and murderers, had become the grand possessor of the clothes he stood up in and those stolen from the dead. Gripped in bony hands he held a .303 Enfield rifle, and strapped to his waist he carried an old Malay
kris,
a short, wavy-bladed dagger, its bone handle chipped and seemingly ready to part company from the pitted and badly rusted blade. At his feet lay a pile of hand grenades and a box of .303 ammunition. Only the government's price on Fong Fook's head gave him worth, whether brought in alive or dead.

This was the great Fong Fook, the ruthless bandit who, at the height of his fame controlled over two hundred men, all Communist Party members. Now he was leader of the remnants of his brigade, all the others having been wiped out by the relentless bombing by the RAF, the bullets from the guns of British servicemen, and the knives of Dyak headhunters and the fearless Gurkhas. Many more had been hanged in the gaols at Penang, Kuala Lumpur and Changi in Singapore. Also, there were those who had died from untreated wounds and diseases. Each and every one of Fong Fook's remaining men was wanted for murder and numerous other offences by the ruling British authorities, and all had prices on their heads. Here, under wretched conditions, as outcasts, they lived in makeshift camps hidden in the pitiless jungle; just one step away from a fate, which they all knew would eventually catch up with them, as it had their brethren. Fong Fook did not fear a violent and quick death. He was more afraid of dying from malaria, which often wracked his body, from malnutrition or from starving to death, or from that constant dull ache in his chest which at times burst into great pain as if within him a fire had been kindled. He knew the lower portion of his body was being eaten away by the syphilis he had contracted, but he had no penicillin with which to check the devastation going on in his body; he also knew that it was unthinkable for him to visit a clinic for treatment. Being far too notorious to show his face in a public place, someone would surely recognize him, inform the authorities and collect the very high reward for his capture. He could only wait for death in the jungle, as could his fellow terrorists, tuberculosis and venereal diseases being rife among them and as frequent a killer as the security forces themselves.

One might ask, why would Fong Fook wish to kill? Fong Fook himself believed he had every good reason for his actions. Certainly he was no coward, nor did he consider himself braver than any other member of his remaining miserable body of men. Receiving his orders from a higher-ranking party official, he carried them out as efficiently as he knew how. He was a mere pawn to this killing art, but there was much more to it than that. He had been no murderer, no thief, no arsonist, not until the Japanese invasion of his homeland in that disastrous year of 1941, when so many fled before the advancing hordes of yellow men from the islands away to the east. Those who did not flee from these ruthless men were killed by bullets or by the sword and the less fortunate were tortured and butchered.

At the beginning of that tragic period Fong Fook was a mere sixteen years old, a farmer's son who diligently tended the family's two water buffalo, fed the pigs and chickens, planted rice, and caught fish from both the sea and from the clear, sparkling river that flowed passed his family's home, on its way to the sea. He had been a handsome youth, with big brown intelligent eyes, and a square face, proud and honest. His parents had two other sons very much like him in appearance but older and of heavier build; and they had a daughter who was named Lily, because her skin was white and unblemished like the flowers growing in great profusion on the village pond. His father, old Tak Wah, and his father's wife, Mei Ling, were in their teens when they had journeyed together from Shantung in China to settle in Malaya. Quite rightly, they became proud of their four children and the home and farm they had created out of the swamps bordering the river which flows past Lumut, a little town nestling on the west coast of Malaya. Around their farm a village of Chinese houses had gradually formed, and with it a market place and a temple. And nearby, was a great square of green, close to the beach, where the children played and upon which a school was built.

Then came the Japanese armies, invaders who were not interested in hospitality, but instead dealt out brutality and death, and lay total destruction in their wake. Fong Fook's memory served him well. Fong Man, his eldest brother, had killed a Malayan traitor who had caused the death of several of the Chinese men in the village. The Japanese dug out his brother's eyes and slashed off his ears with their bayonets in front of the villagers, then, still not satisfied, and with the tide being low, they lashed him to the base of the village wire and bamboo fish trap. How they laughed at his tormented cries. But they did not bother to watch as the tide rose slowly about and above his head, to finally cover and drown his screams; the Japanese soldiers were much too interested in other bestial acts they could and did commit.

Fong Fook had gone fishing that day the Japanese army arrived. He lay hidden in tall grass by the side of the river and had watched horrified as the males of the village were rounded up and tied to palm trees. Helplessly he witnessed mothers and daughters being raped by that horde of evil men time and time again on the village green in front of their menfolk. And when the females were half-dead and useless to the Japanese soldiers, they were slashed to death, writhing and screaming, by ceremonial swords and bayonets streaming with blood. Then the boys of the village were stripped naked and used as women before being bayoneted or beheaded. Babies were fixed upon bayonets and whirled out to sea, the soldiers laughing fiendishly and shouting to one another, wagering bets of money on who could toss the dead and dying babies the furthest. Then, every man in the village was put to death by various barbaric means. Some were buried alive in the sand until only their heads were showing. The incoming tide soon stifled their cries. Some had their innards ripped from them, screaming in agony and terror while still lashed to the palm trees. The invaders used others in gruesome games of tug of war, the victim's hands being secured by ropes attached to two tanks, which were then driven slowly, in opposite directions, tearing the wretched person's body apart. Finally, after cutting the bonds of those remaining alive, they then ran them down with their tanks. They murdered everyone in that village, and then they burnt every building to the ground. Everyone in the village was dead, everyone, that is, except for Fong Fook who, after the Japanese had departed, wandered away, completely insane by all that he had witnessed.

Three days later he returned to the village, and to his burned-out home. The carnage was incredible. He found the body of his brother, Fong Man, black and swollen, half-eaten by crabs and other sea life, still lashed to the fish trap. He found what had been his mother, naked and split almost in two. He failed to recognize any other member of his family among the torn and dismembered bodies that lay grotesquely everywhere; on the beach, the green where he had so recently played, and within and without the burned shells that had once been homes. Many had also died within the destroyed temple. The smell from the dead was awful, but Fong Fook knew the smell would soon be gone and the air as he had known it would be clear and sweet again. Birds of prey, carrion-eating birds, dogs and even pigs that had escaped slaughter were busily feeding on the already putrid flesh of the villagers. Soon, there would be only bones remaining of those he had known and loved.