The Rose of Singapore Read online

  Hardly believing what he had just heard, LAC Peter Saunders let out a deep sigh of relief. It was as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, and for the first time in the long four and a half months he had been stationed at KL he felt he had something to smile about. “Thank you, sir,” he said, almost in a whisper. It was if he was having a beautiful dream listening to the medical officer who had resumed speaking.

  “Your replacement should arrive today, so I suggest you report immediately to Station Headquarters, have your clearance chit signed by the end of today, and we’ll have you flown out of here tomorrow on the first plane bound for Singapore.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” said Peter, rising to his feet. “I can’t thank you enough, sir.”

  The medical officer smiled in a kindly manner. “Good luck, Saunders, and good health,” he said, rising to his feet and shaking hands with the skinny little airman. And as he ushered Peter to the door, he said, “I hear it’s an altogether different life at Changi.”

  2

  A steady hand and a heavy finger had made them; six capital letters carefully grooved into the sand a few feet above the water’s edge to form the word ‘SHEILA’. Soon, the incoming tide would wash over and erase the word but Sheila herself was still very much a sweet memory, far from being forgotten by the writer of that name in the sand.

  Midway between the name written in the sand and where the previous tide’s high water had left a thin, ragged line of seaweed twenty feet up the beach, two youths lay on their backs, soaking up the sun, their bodies, clad only in skimpy swimming costumes, facing a cloudless Singapore sky. The two were in quiet conversation, but occasionally one or the other would lift his head to speak to a third youth, LAC Peter Saunders, who was standing a few feet from them, at the water’s edge. Peter was paying scant attention to their conversation, however, his thoughts being elsewhere as his eyes roved across the sparkling blue water that stretched away into the distance to where it reached green islands and the hazy coastline of Malaya.

  Almost two months had passed since Peter Saunders had arrived at RAF Changi, a period in which his health had improved dramatically. No longer sickly white and emaciated, he was now deeply suntanned, several pounds heavier, and once again fit and full of vitality. Brimming over with newly found energy, he had not felt so well since his posting from RAF Kai Tak, Hong Kong, almost eight months ago.

  It was a Saturday afternoon in mid-November 1952. The place: Changi Beach, a popular strip of rather dirty-looking sand separating the sea from the giant air base of Royal Air Force, Changi, situated fourteen miles north-east of the main administrative centre of the island city-state. The temperature was in the eighties, the sun scorching hot. The tidal water of the Johore Strait, separating the British Crown Colony island of Singapore from the vastness of Malaya, was low, but with its swift current was coming in fast. Soon Peter would swim again. He didn’t like to swim when the tide was low because then the water was shallow and the bottom was mud in which slimy grasses grew, inhabited by poisonous water snakes. He would wait awhile, to when the water had risen enough to cover the lower slopes of the beach. Like a vast lake, the surface of the water lay shimmering and blue, ruffled only by the wash of a motorized pleasure boat streaking towards the open sea, and a cargo-laden junk plodding along in midstream, its tattered mainsail up, and its dual outboard motors fighting against the fast-moving current. The few narrow and sleek fishing boats made no wake, they were too slow; nor did the many sailing dinghies from Changi’s yacht club, dotting the water in a slow race as they tacked towards the islands in a light breeze which barely filled their sails. The only other ruffling of the water was the gentle lapping of tiny waves around Peter’s bare feet, caused by the incoming tide.

  Faintly, in the far distance, he could see the most southerly state of Malaya, Johore, its coastline just a blur on the horizon, a watery haze hanging motionless over swamplands and tangled masses of jungle wilderness.

  In the foreground, opposite Changi Beach and roughly two miles away, lay Peter’s favourite island, Pulau Ubin, a long strip of fertile land embraced by thick vegetation, knee-high green grasses and tall coconut palms. On the westerly side of Pulau Ubin, a Chinese fishing village lay nestled in a sheltered bay almost hidden in the greenery. Scattered over the rest of the island were many little homes made from palm planking and thatch, their Chinese and Malay dwellers seemingly happy with their smallholdings of chickens, ducks and goats, and their small plots of land. They could also reap a constant harvest from the bountiful sea.

  To the left of Pulau Ubin, plainly visible, looking like green molehills on a shimmering field of blue, were smaller islands basking in quiet tranquillity. To the right lay ghostly Fortress Island, and the ugly nakedness of dismantled and blown-up gun emplacements—an awful reminder of the Japanese invasion of Singapore. During World War II, all the heavy guns on Fortress Island were pointing out to sea from where, logically, an enemy would begin its invasion. But the attacking Japanese army did nothing logically; they came from the north, from Thailand, marching and riding bicycles down jungle paths in the Malay Peninsula, all the way to the Johore Strait. The guns proved useless against them. The British soldiers who had manned those guns and blown them up at the fall of the island were dead, massacred by the invaders; and this happened just ten years back, in 1942. Now, with its tragic memories partially concealed beneath a thick mantle of tropical undergrowth, the island lay as peacefully as it did before any conqueror came to its shores.

  Behind Fortress Island lay the much larger island of Pulau Tekong Besar, its towering hills seemingly always shrouded in jungle mist, and blending with the steamy coastline of Johore.

  During the past nine weeks, Peter Saunders had often explored the islands off Changi’s shores by renting a canoe-like fishing craft from Pop, a short, thick-set, very active middle-aged Chinese fisherman who never wore anything except a pair of dirty old khaki shorts, and a smile on his weather-beaten, good-natured face.

  Pop owned and operated a coffee shop on the beach, a crude shack really, made from driftwood and old sailcloth; its roof thatched palm fronds and rusty sheets of galvanized iron. It was situated roughly a hundred feet above a line of dried seaweed and little bits of refuse that had been washed ashore by the last highest tide. Here, Pop rented out four rowing boats and two primitive but very seaworthy native canoes by the hour to the beach-goers, mostly RAF personnel from Changi. His petite wife, Momma, assisted him in running the shack by selling to its patrons Green Spot orange drink, fried rice and other Chinese foods. Momma was about thirty, friendly, smiled a lot and showed off her many gold teeth. Pop and Momma had four very young children. The elder girl and two boys, happily nude and suntanned, were either getting underfoot in the shack, playing in the boats or running around on the beach laughing and making lots of noise. A newborn baby girl spent most of her time sleeping in a crib suspended by a heavy coiled spring attached to a bamboo beam supporting the roof of the shack. The family also had a friendly, skinny, brownish-coloured mongrel dog which rested its chin on the knees of patrons to the shack, and looked up at them with big brown sad eyes imploring them for a handout of whatever was being eaten. Also living in the shack was a flock of chickens, which clucked happily as they ate food dropped to them. And when there was no food being dropped, they pecked at the great variety of insects that emerged from every nook and cranny of that flotsam-built shack. Pop’s coffee shop was quite an interesting place and by visiting the beach whenever he had the opportunity, which was almost daily, Peter Saunders had become one of Pop’s best customers.

  Deep in thought, Peter now gazed across the broad expanse of water separating Singapore from Malaya. His journey from his mother and three brothers in Plymouth, England, had seen him posted first to Hong Kong and later to Kuala Lumpur in Malaya, and remustering from a fighter plotter to a cook. With twenty-eight other fighter plotters straight from the Royal Air Force radar and fighter plotter training school at
RAF Bawdsey in Suffolk, he had been en route to Korea from Liverpool on the troopship Empire Pride when, on reaching the docks at Kowloon, Hong Kong, he and the other twenty-eight were informed that there was a glut of fighter plotters in Korea. What could be done with them? They were not wanted in Korea. The RAF could not lose face by returning them the ten thousand miles or more to England. Hence, they were dumped at Kowloon docks, taken by military vehicles to RAF Kai Tak airport, and as good as told to get lost until the great minds at the top decided what to do with twenty-nine redundant fighter plotters. Peter thought of the several months he and the others had slept in tents at the edge of a runway, sleeping late, eating the finest food he had ever known, taking daily swims in the camp pool, and freely and happily sightseeing fascinating Hong Kong. He had done guard duty often, and had been given odd jobs to do from time to time. He had painted the sergeants’ mess, cleaned aircraft, and shuffled papers at SHQ. But the fun job was when he volunteered to act as a drowning man to help train aircrew on how to save their comrades should they ditch into the sea. Peter at that time was very fit, and a strong swimmer, swimming being the only physical sport at which he excelled. There were perks for being such a cheerful and friendly drowning man too. On numerous occasions pilots had taken him up on flights as supernumerary crew, enabling him to experience the thrills of flying. He had flown in training Harvards, Beaufighters, transport planes, bombers and even in the first military jet bomber assigned to Kai Tak, the two-seater Meteor, loving them all, and with never the slightest fear of flying.

  Then fate had stepped in. He had become friendly with LAC Jimmy Phillips, an officers’ mess cook, who invited him up to the officers’ mess and kitchen at Kai Tak. To the right of the officers’ mess, black-clothed Chinese peasants—men, women and children—worked the many paddy fields, which smelled strongly of human excrement, especially at night. To the left were mountains and the narrow harbour entrance. And there, in the kitchen at Kai Tak, and over a period of less than a month, LAC Jimmy Phillips had taught Peter how to ice cakes, bake bread, make soups and sauces; in fact, enough of the art of cooking that he not only enjoyed the work, but also had become quite proficient at the various tasks entrusted to him with, of course, Jimmy keeping a critical eye on him.

  It was not long before the catering officer also had his eye on him, and soon he was asked to report to the catering office, which he did. The catering officer, a man who was liked and respected by everyone in the catering section, had smiled at him in a friendly manner, told him how pleased he was with his work, and of how a promotion in rank would come his way, from airman first class to leading aircraftman if he remustered and became a cook. Thus, Peter Saunders remustered, and the catering officer took him and several of the other cooks in his car to Kowloon where they celebrated his remustering by eating at a swanky restaurant and then getting drunk as lords in a low class bar. It was the catering officer’s way of saying ‘thank you.’ Flight Lieutenant Williams was that sort of officer, a type few and far between. No wonder the men under him, the biggest drinkers and womanizers Peter had ever met, thought so highly of their officer in charge.

  Peter’s promotion in rank came, and with it, one month later, a posting to RAF Kuala Lumpur where there was a shortage of cooks. And here Peter found himself, on the island of Singapore. Since his arrival at RAF Changi he had felt very much at home with his new posting. At the request of the flight lieutenant in charge of his new section, Peter had chosen to forgo his two weeks recuperation leave in order to secure a permanent position in the sergeants’ mess under the exuberant and straight-talking Sergeant Muldoon instead of working in the regular airmens’ mess. He and Sergeant Muldoon hit it off together right from their first meeting. Sergeant Muldoon suggested that the two of them work alternate early and late shifts seven days a week. Meaning, Peter would report to the sergeants’ mess at noon to work the late shift and to supervise the running of the kitchen until about eight in the evening or until dinner was over. He would then be off duty until six the following morning when he would return to the kitchen and work until lunch was over, or whenever Sergeant Muldoon sped into the kitchen on his ancient bike and relieved him. However, Peter’s hours of duty seldom worked out in such a manner as, quite frequently, The Muldoon, (the name the sergeant was generally known by,) would take two or even three days off at a stretch, and Peter would be obliged to work double shifts throughout those days. But when the sergeant finally did show up, Peter was sure of getting at least an equal number of days off. Weekends were also arranged between the sergeant and himself to suit each other’s needs. Undoubtedly their working relationship was excellent, even though Peter found himself doing all of Sergeant Muldoon’s office work such as making out the three daily menus, keeping a daily inventory of the stores, and checking the ration deliveries. But he liked Sergeant Muldoon and had found him to be a good working partner, fair in his dealings, almost always cheerful and with a good sense of humour. Also, there was no hassle, bullshit or RAF red tape with him. The Muldoon was a sergeant who, providing no problems arose in the kitchen, preferred to live and let live.

  Peter thought of the many differences between working at KL and Changi. At KL it was all hard work, whereas at Changi’s sergeants’ mess he did very little cooking and was there mainly to supervise the running of the kitchen. Actually, the Chinese staff needed little if any supervision as all were skilled at their jobs, hardworking and completely dependable. In truth, Dai Yat, the Chinese number one cook, better known as Charlie, ran the place. Charlie could not read any English, but he could speak pidgin English. On arriving at the kitchen to begin his day’s duty, Charlie would first ask the sergeant or Peter to read him the menu. He would give his opinion, and then instruct the other cooks and kitchen hands their work for that shift.

  When Sergeant Muldoon did show up for work on his bike, he always rode it at breakneck speed into the kitchen, slamming on the brakes on reaching the door of the combined kitchen store and office, and on dismounting would invariably ask Peter, “Any complaints? Any problems?”

  If Peter admitted, “Yes,” which was seldom, and then told the sergeant the name of the complaining senior non-commissioned officer and the nature of the complaint, the fiery, ginger-haired Irishman would angrily puff himself up, hunt out the complainer, and tell him in no uncertain manner to ‘Inform me of your stupid complaints, but don’t bother my cook,’ and end by saying, ‘Get stuffed!’ which Peter found most amusing. However, when Peter answered, “No complaints, Sarge,” The Muldoon would happily make some encouraging remark such as “keep the buggers happy, Pete,” remount his bike, and sing out as he made his exit, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Pete. Then you can take the next two days off.” Sergeant Muldoon seemed very happy with his new leading aircraftman cook.

  Desiring to return to good health, Peter spent most of his free time on Changi Beach, which was about a one-mile walk from where he lived, Block 128. There he sunbathed and exercised by walking the long sandy beach, swimming for hours in the warm water, playing ball with Pop’s kids, and by his new-found hobby, canoeing. His good health had returned surprisingly fast, attributed not only to his almost daily visits to the beach but also to the nourishing food at Changi amid good company and in a healthy environment. Moreover, his work duties were light and almost stress free. Peter knew that all these factors contributed to his restored health. Since leaving Kuala Lumpur, he had experienced only one bad bout of malaria, which knocked him out for a couple of days. On his recovery the medical officer told him that he could expect recurring attacks at any time. At least he was now aware of this fact and would recognize the symptoms. The diagnosis did not particularly bother him; he was only too grateful at being away from that awful kitchen at Kuala Lumpur and from the nightmarish jungle to care about an occasional attack of malaria.

  3

  Back at Changi Beach, this being a Saturday, there were numerous people enjoying a carefree afternoon: mostly Chinese, a few Malays and Indians, also several E
uropeans, the majority British service personnel from the military camps scattered across the island. Several people were seated in Pop’s coffee shop including a group of young British army lads being chatted up by two Chinese prostitutes. One was Molly who had F.U.C.K. tattooed on the fingers of her left hand and L.O.V.E. tattooed on the fingers of her right. The other was good-natured Lucy, nicknamed ‘The Bucket’ by those military personnel who had an intimate knowledge of her. Both girls were in their mid-twenties, attractive, well known, well liked and popular with the local servicemen, mainly army lads. The two girls came to the beach on most Saturday afternoons to relax, as well as to unobtrusively advertise and boost their trade. They never caused trouble or embarrassment to anyone; in fact, quite the opposite. They played with the children, talked and laughed a lot with Pop and Momma, and almost always behaved themselves in a perfectly lady-like manner. Pop’s coffee shop was a fun place, busy too, especially on weekends and the many religious holidays.

  Peter Saunders was listening with scant interest to his two companions, who were discussing the girlfriends they had said goodbye to many months ago in the UK. He was far more interested in observing the futile efforts of a horseshoe crab, which a few moments earlier he had whisked ashore with a bare foot. The greenish-brown crab lay on its hard-shelled back, its armour-plated legs futilely kicking the air, its long spike-like tail prodding the sand in a desperate attempt to right itself.

  Peter sighed and turned his eyes from the harmless, helpless crab to where his two companions lay. How like them to be talking, always talking of the same two girls they had dated before leaving England. He himself did not have a girlfriend; in fact he had never had a girlfriend. The girls he had known had always wanted someone bigger and better looking. He looked like a little boy of fourteen wearing glasses when he joined the RAF, instead of being a seventeen-year-old. He’d had a crush on Elsie, a sixteen-year-old girl whom he had worked with at The Vineries, a South Devon horticultural firm, before joining the RAF. Elsie would meet him at the Plymouth motorcycle speedway track every Thursday evening, and there he would be thrilled by the very fact that she was standing at his side as he watched his favourite team, The Devils, captained by Pete Landsdale, and supported by Peter Robinson and Len Reed. That brief boyish romance lasted until the evening he went to meet her at the usual spot only to find her accompanied by a man ten years or more her senior. Puppy love or not, that evening Peter was very hurt, and afterwards gave girls little more thought. However, he did enjoy looking at Chinese girls here in Singapore, finding himself aroused by them, especially when they sat wearing a cheongsam, a dress revealing their legs all the way to their thighs.