He looked at the calendar in his office and noted that on the 25th was Christmas Day which the British always celebrated. Was there any local who worked in the battalion who would be likely to throw a party for the officers, at his own place? If so, who? He racked his brain and came up with the idea of the fresh-ration contactor, Chow Hoong Biu, a friend of his. He knew that, in spite of his working for the British Army, his heart was not in it because the comrades in the jungle felt it was against their Cause. I’ll put it to him in such a way he can’t refuse.

Deng Bing Yi went to see Chow Hoong Biu one evening and, ever so gently, brought the conversation round to the comrades wanting information on operations. ‘Tell you what, I’ve just had an idea,’ he dissembled with an air of sagacity. ‘Why not invite some of the officers to a Christmas party at your place, get them drunk and talkative. The comrades will put less pressure on you for that and on me for suggesting it to you,’ he added dismissively. ‘Also do you know of anyone who would like to know what Captain Rance looks like from close quarters? If so, as a friendship gesture, ask a couple or so to come along also.’

Chow Hoong Biu considered that for a while, remembering how he had been approached by Wang the Collector – why not him as well? – and said, ‘yes, I like it. I do know someone who’d like to see him. When I next go to the battalion I’ll see the Adjutant and ask him to come along and bring a friend.’

‘Suggest he comes along with Captain Rance in the captain’s car. I know he has one as I service it for him.’

And, that being agreed upon, Chow Hoong Biu rang Deng Bing Yi at his garage and told him so. He also sent a letter to Wang the Collector telling him about it. Wang was keen. He knew how to drive, slowly. He could borrow a car so need not worry about a bus.

It was now incumbent on Deng Bing Yi. He knew how to make a bomb that would cause the petrol tank to explode and the car to go up in flames and be completely gutted when it hit a bump in the road. He knew what ingredients he needed. Basically some plastic explosive and as the car was a pre-war model, half a pound would be enough and two electrical detonators.

He had managed to steal some explosive from the Japanese when they were trying to quarry stone for some defences against an expected invasion. He had looked after it and it would still be usable. As for the electrical detonators, he doubted that the ones he had stolen at the same time, all those years ago, could be relied on. He knew Lee Kheng and, taking his two electrical detonators, surreptitiously managed to change them for two new ones. No worry now!

He had his own soldering iron and a small stick of solder, a roll of black insulating tape, a yard of thin wire and a pair of cutters. He needed something sticky and opted for some plumber’s putty. If he were to finish the bomb on the morning of the party it would not become too stiff.

Getting a nine-volt transistor battery, a small bulb one inch in diameter and two lengths of fine, single-strand, five-amp plastic-coated wire, each three yards long, one coloured red and the other blue, was no trouble. None was banned material, nor were some erasers to act as ‘jammers’.

He had his own supply of condoms to keep the active ingredients dry and all he now needed was an air-tight tin. His wife had one of tea she had not thrown away.

Now to make his bomb: in the lid of the tin he made a hole and cut enough of two pieces of wire to solder to both positive and negative terminals of the battery. Battery and wires went into the base of the tin and he inserted the detonator deeply into the plastic explosive. He filled the tin up so that it was full and the charge from the battery would fire the detonator and the plastic would then explode to ruin the car.

He then had fixed the trigger mechanism with a snapped hacksaw blade. He made a block of rubber with the erasers with the ends of the blade just wide enough to join when the car jolted so, with the wires in place the bomb, already live, was activated.

The possibility of Captain Rance not joining the party was something he had to accept but, no, on the night in question, he and the Adjutant, the latter driving, reached Chow Hoong Biu’s house and, with other guests ‘who didn’t matter’ as far as the bomb maker was concerned, gathered in force as the liquor flowed.

The bomb maker, from an advantage point, saw the Adjutant park his car under a lamp post. That was for Jason to get out. He did not see the car drive on as he was ‘nursing’ his stuff so did not see another car, very like the Adjutant’s drive up and park where the first had, momentarily, been. The Collector, who had borrowed the car, unwisely left it unlocked and the ignition key in place so there was no problem for Deng Bing Yi to open the bonnet, nor to shut it later when he had placed the bomb.

He had brought the bomb from his garage in his own car. With bonnet open, and no passer-by would take any notice of someone looking at the engine, it took no time to strap the explosive charge opposite the steering wheel. Two for the price of one he thought cavalierly. In his excitement the only extraneous thought that passed through his mind was that the car was overdue its regular servicing. He lowered the trigger mechanism, connected to the main charge by two wires, down through the engine space to the ground beneath.

He then had to wriggle under the car, again nothing worthy of notice to any passer-by. Using his torch he found the front suspension and tightly wired the rear end of the trigger to a bracing-bar. The bomb would now explode the first time the car hit a hump or a pot-hole with the positive and negative wires joining. He got up, dusted himself down, closed the bonnet and drove himself off, highly delighted for his niece’s sake.

The party at Chow Hoong Biu’s was a lively affair. Drink flowed and the tidbits that circulated were delicious. One of the guests was the ebullient Teochew, Tay Wang Teik. Standing next to him with a drink in his hand was Wang the Collector and Jason came up behind the pair of them in time to hear Wang lean over to his right and ask who the tall gwai lo was. Unable to resist the opportunity and as Wang took a sip of his drink, a voice came from Wang’s left, ‘Lee Soong’s bodyguard.’ So startled was the hapless Wang that he did the nose trick, coughing and spluttering. By the time he looked to his left there was nobody.

Before the meal Chow Hoong Biu introduced Wang and Jason. There was nothing more banal than the ‘how are you’ type of talk, Jason using ‘basic’ Malay. ‘Tau cakap Cina?’ asked Wang. Jason shook his head, ‘Ta’ tau,’ no, I don’t know how to speak Chinese.

The Collector soon had enough and, having seen Rance at close quarters was still not sure if he was the man who had delivered the message that night or the voice he had heard speaking Gurkhali on Radio Malaya, felt he had had enough for one night, excused himself, left the party and drove off, slowly, after all, it was dark and the car was not his. When well south of Seremban he was dazzled by a car coming the other way, swerved, drove the car into a ditch. The bomb exploded. The car’s petrol tank immediately caught fire and the car, along with Wang the Collector, was unrecognisable.

Not long after the Collector had left, the Adjutant came up to Jason and said, ‘I think it is time we left. Let’s say our thank yous to Chow Hoong Biu and go home.’

Once outside the house Jason said, ‘Where’s the car? I thought you left it under this lamp post.’

‘I did but I thought better of it so parked it over there,’ indicating with his head, ‘in the shade. Less likely any urchin muck it up.’

On reaching the car the Adjutant said, ‘It looks all right. I doubt anything untoward would have happened had I left it where it was when you got out.’ That remark was, neither of them were ever to know, the understatement of the evening.

When Siu Tae’s uncle heard no news about the death of two British officers he was at a loss. He just could not understand how the bomb had not exploded. He had been so sure it would have. He did not know who to ask to find out where he had gone wrong. It was a few days before the remains of the burnt-out car were found and reported to the police. The disappearance of Wang the Collector was never commented upon and Deng Bing Yi never heard about it so, for him, the car’s non-explosion remained an unsolved mystery. When it was time for the Adjutant’s car to go to his garage for servicing he was utterly bewildered at finding nothing. When he again did meet up with the old schoolmaster and tell him how hard he had worked and what had happened, Ngai Hiu Ching felt it would do Deng Bing Yi’s self-esteem no good if he suggested he had put the bomb in the wrong car, nor would he believe it, so tactfully he said nothing.

As for Siu Tae, she inwardly raved when she learnt that nothing had happened to ‘that’ officer: it will have to be my unborn son … 

Sometime in 1954

A Company, 1/12 Gurkha Rifles, was one of many, many rifle companies engaged in a shooting war against the Communist Terrorists. For Malaya there were Malay infantry battalions, Police Jungle Squads, a Home Guard and some aborigine orang asli fighters as well as a squadron of armoured cars manned by any Malayan acceptable. From overseas there were eight Gurkha battalions, a Fiji battalion, a Rhodesian African Rifles representation and a Nigerian Regiment unit to say nothing of British battalions, made up of National Service and regular soldiers, and sometimes units with a specialist role. They were backed up by artillery and air reconnaissance, helicopter transport and supply planes, as well as an extensive staff, all of whom went back to their home country after three years, except for Malayans, Gurkhas and their British officers. Against them there was a diminishing band of guerrillas with no three-year limit, battle-hardened whose existence was tougher than any soldier’s. Their tenacity was, in its way, inspirational, but history was not on their side yet even after six years of such an effort, no end of the conflict was in sight.

For both sides, sometimes good luck came its way, at other times bad luck but the unending slog of jungle work was common to all.

A stroke of good luck combined with clever tactical sense came to the commander of 2 Regiment, MRLA, Tan Fook Leong, on Friday, 13 August, when his ambush killed the CO of 1/12 Gurkha Rifles but his luck ran out a couple of months later when his camp was bombed and he was killed. His camp had been found by Special Branch putting a minute contrivance into his hand-held radio which, when switched on, could be picked up and the position located by a bomber flying to a flank. The Director of Operations in Kuala Lumpur had felt that such a ruse was unsporting and had suggested a really fluent Chinese speaker go to his camp masquerading as a surrendered terrorist to try and persuade Tan Fook Leong to surrender and lead a normal life. Commonly known among British troops as ‘Ten Foot Long’, the guerrilla had earned himself a good name and it seemed a shame not to give him the chance of living longer.

The person thought best to carry out this delicate task was Captain Jason Rance, well known, if only by a relatively few people, for being able to speak Chinese like a native. However, before he took his company into the jungle on this gruesome task, he remembered he had Tan Fook Leong’s home number, wife’s and son’s names in Penang. Although he felt he was, in fact, wasting his time in so doing, he felt it worth his while to ring the number so he phoned the house.

After several rings a male voice answered, giving the phone number, not his name.

‘Wei, is that Tan Wing Bun, Tan Fook Leong’s son?’ Jason hoped that a Penang youth was a Cantonese speaker. He was.

‘Yes, who are you?’

‘Is your mother, Chen Yok Lan there?’

‘What is that to you whether she is or she is not? Who are you?’

‘Just someone telling you that shortly I am going into the jungle to talk to your father and unless you or your mother tells me to tell him you want him back home alive, he’ll be dead within the week.’

Jason heard a loud intake of breath at this harsh and unexpected ultimatum. Silence. This man cannot be a comrade. He’ll be a government man, probably a turncoat. If I can recognise his voice and find out where he lives, maybe I can eliminate him if he is responsible for eliminating my father.

‘May I know if you have Politburo permission to address a comrade’s family so abruptly?’

‘I’m afraid there is neither any time nor any sense it contacting the Politburo on such a matter.’

‘Who are you? Can’t you tell me that?’

‘I am just a simple foot soldier whose name would mean nothing to you or the Politburo. Paan chue sek lo fuu.’

Feigning to be a pig he vanquishes tigers! Who can that be? ‘I am puzzled, say that again.’

‘No, why should I. You obviously understood it. Here’s another for you: “convenient water, push boat”.’

By now Tan Wing Bun’s mind was working overtime. He had another proverb ready, ‘“a soft-hearted person is liable to be victimised as a tame horse is to be ridden”. No. Let my father suffer for his belief. For him to abandon all he has fought for since he was a youth is unthinkable.’ As Tan Wing Bun put the phone down he told himself he’d never forget that voice but whose is it?

The announcement, on Radio Malaya and in the newspapers, English-language and vernacular of Tan Fook Leong’s death caused cursing among the Communist Terrorists, especially in the Politburo now safely in south Thailand and relief, rather than joy among the Security Forces, although only a few knew how he was killed. One who did was Chan Man Yee, the woman Registry Clerk in Police HQ, a long-time Politburo mole. When Xi Zhan Yang, a special courier between Chan Man Yee and the Politburo next met up one evening after her work, he was told about how Tan Fook Leong’s demise had happened. The commander of 2 Regiment was a personal friend of the MCP Chairman, Chin Peng. Both of them had marched in the Victory Parade in London in 1946 and both esteemed one another.

‘His wife and son will have to know how that happened,’ Chan Man Yee said, then asked, ‘Do you go back to MCP HQ by way of Penang where they live?’

Xi Zhan Yang considered that. ‘I’d rather not, you know. Somehow I wouldn’t feel safe.‘Could you fight with the electric speech?’ That phrase meant to ‘telephone’.

‘I don’t have the number.’

‘I can get it from the office when I go tomorrow. Stay safe in my flat. You can phone from here.’

That was agreed upon.