Jason took a gamble: ‘Comrade Ah Fat gave them to you, didn’t he?’
A look of amazement crossed Ah Chong’s face. ‘How can you know that?’
‘I know many things you think I don’t know,’ was Jason’s equivocal answer. I haven’t heard of Ah Fat for ages. Moby and C C Too will have to learn about this as soon as I get back.
Flicking through the pages of the paper Jason found a surrender leaflet. He called over to Ah Chong and asked him why he had not carried it in his hand in case he bumped into the Security Forces?
Motioning to the other guerrilla, he mumbled ‘he didn’t let me. He never would. He told me he’d rather die than surrender.’ And indeed that night the man who had not spoken and who was not fatally wounded did die, almost as though he had willed himself not to live. Before being flown out with the corpse, Ah Chong, clutching a surrender leaflet, told Jason he was grateful for what had done for him and said he would no longer be a Communist but a civilian instead.
He was debriefed when in hospital and both Moby and C C Too were delighted when they learnt how much effect on guerrilla morale that issue of Red Tidings had had, and, having read it for themselves, felt that the author had scored a bull’s eye.
Mr Too was vastly impressed at Ah Fat’s subtle use of the nicknames, which he already knew about. I must find out if Captain Rance has twigged that subtlety. He phoned Moby and, in veiled speech, asked him to contact Rance to find out. He was pleased, but not surprised, to learn that, yes, Jason had cottoned on to it but had not understood why. ‘Unless he is trying to send me a message’ he had suggested.
C C Too met the Director of Operations and told him about the incident. ‘Sir, your seed of an idea has fertile soil in which to grow.’
‘Mr Too. I like the idea even better than before,’ the General replied.
Back in camp, Jason was called to the CO’s office and given his annual confidential report to read. ‘Sit down, read it and initial it.’ Jason took that most important of personal documents and read ‘This officer has a taut, lean body and the indefinable air of a natural commander. He is very active. Outwardly he is always cheerful and irrepressible in spirits, but I believe that beneath it all he is sensitive and easily depressed.’
He’s got it wrong, Jason thought. I must have looked gloomy when my wife-to-be ran away but that was only temporarily. He continued reading:
‘He is an excellent company commander in the jungle. His appreciations are sound and he works methodically and tirelessly in his efforts to obtain success. He is also not afraid to take personal risks. His men have the highest regard for him and he is a fluent linguist.
‘That is all to the good: his main weaknesses seem to be a lack of tact with senior officers he does not agree with. There are people like him in every army – a brilliant Roman ‘Centurion’ leading his hundred men, fiercely defending their interests but unable to adapt to the hierarchical structure which an army must have if it is going to win wars. Men like Rance win battles but they cannot conceal their contempt for their more conventional superior officers. It is a major weakness.
His military background and knowledge of staff matters are too unbalanced in the peacetime army for me to recommend his promotion to major.’
He was graded ‘Average’, a grading never likely to get him above the rank of major.
Jason signed it, not to show he agreed with it but to show he had read it. He stood up, placed it on the CO’s table, saluted and left without saying anything. It was on the tip of the CO’s tongue to say that, after being promoted for command of a Territorial battalion in England, he had only stayed on to command 1/12 GR until the designated CO, indisposed for several months, was fit to resume military duties and who was coming to take over command at the end of July. It was Captain Rance’s unintended brusqueness that stopped him. I won’t forget to make a special note of him for my relief he slightly maliciously told himself.
The Honours and Awards’ committee held its final meeting for recommendations to be sent to the War Office in time to be officially announced for Queen‘s Birthday. Citations were read by each member. There were only six awards allocated for the Military Cross, MC, for officers and Warrant Officers, and the same for the Military Medal, MM, for the lower ranks. Other awards had their own ‘ration’.
The Major General chairing meeting in GHQ FARELF looked at his list and made a cogent remark, ‘All these citations are subjective. I know of a case of a man with no imagination winning two MMs and not realising that he had been brave and another man who peed himself with fright on night operations but removed a land mine with great bravery in Korea and was awarded nothing.’ The others nodded. They had heard that at the last session. ‘We have another problem,’ the Major General continued, ‘two British battalions left the theatre of operations during the last six months and one will leave next autumn. None will probably have another chance of earning a decoration. Now, this citation,’ he picked it up, ‘for an MC for Captain Rance of 1/12 GR. It is a good citation but Gurkha battalions are permanently here so he’ll have another chance. I suggest we give our allotment of MCs to the British battalions and let the Gurkhas, including this one, a Distinguished Conduct Medal, DCM, for a Corporal Kulbahadur Limbu of 1/12 GR, have another chance later.’
This was agreed. ‘Now for the m.i.ds. The Gurkhas must have something so …’ and the result was, for 1/12 GR a Gurkha Captain of A Company and Corporal Kulbahadur Limbu a ‘mention’. At the end, one of the members said, ‘General, 1/12 GR has had a good record. How about a DSO for the CO? When he was 2ic none of us thought all that much of him but, as a CO, he seems to have shone.’
So that was also agreed.
The list was eagerly awaited and scrutinised eagerly by many hopefuls. To his peers, Captain Jason Rance seemed set for an award but when nothing came doubts were raised. Was his unusual temperament seen so tactless in front of senior officers that no citation was put forward? Of course, no one could say and no one could ask.
Jason held a party for the two recipients of the m.i.d. and had them in shrieks of laughter with his ventriloquist dummy, this time with no krait but bombs that didn’t explode when dropped. He seemed in no way upset that his name had not been on the list.
His Company 2ic smiled when he said, ‘Saheb, you are an unlucky man. In 1954 you lost a wife and a bahaduri. But we have a proverb, “Pure gold needs no touchstone or a good man any adornment”.’
Jason gave him his brilliant smile and thanked him for the compliment, adding: ‘Saheb, until the CO takes me away, I still have A Company.’
1 March 1955, central Malaya: Vinod Vellu was briefed to make another visit to Lavender Estate. Hunger was setting in. ‘We can’t eat almost anything but leaves for much longer,’ said the Military Commander. He detailed his Deputy and a bodyguard of two to go with the Tamil and, if the coast was clear, personally to see if Vellu’s talk had been successful and the estate labourers had, in fact, reacted as they had promised to.
They went down from their jungle base cautiously, not realising that the area was purposely being kept clear of any Security Forces during the plan’s ‘incubation’ period. Leaving a guerrilla section at the jungle edge, the four men approached the labour lines. Inside the comprador’s house his dog whined, warning its master that something unusual was afoot. The comprador felt he should go and tell his manager as he had been warned to. Without telling his wife, who was in the kitchen getting supper ready, he stole off for the ten minutes’ walk up to the manager’s bungalow. Jones was single, his wife, not liking Malaya, had gone home.
The comprador tapped on the manager’s window, got his attention and told him that there was probably another meeting in his labour lines. Evan Jones thanked him, said he himself would stay where he was but that the comprador was to return to the lines, remain out of sight and if, just if, a Tamil, even in CT uniform, wanted to speak to him, bring him along.
The comprador said he understood and went back to spy on what was happening. By then Vellu had gathered the labourers who told him that they were ready to go on strike for their demands but wanted the comrades to put such pressure on the manager that they would be sure he would do what was wanted. ‘Accepted or not, we will not be here,’ the spokesman told Vellu who told the Deputy CT Commander in Malay, he not understanding Tamil.
Delighted at the outcome of comrade Vellu’s efforts, the deputy said, ‘we will be off now but first we’ll visit the manager. You, comrade, stay with these people and check that they were not saying what they did just because we Chinese are here. We will not wait for you at the jungle edge but the section will be there to escort you back.’
Vinod Vellu acknowledged that and a guide led the three guerrillas to the manager’s bungalow There they dismissed him then cautiously went around the place, saw the French window of the study was open and stepped inside. Jones, pretending to be reading, heard them and put his book down. In Malay they said, ‘if you do what we say, we will spare your life. If not, we will have to kill you by disembowelling you.’
Jones was no coward and answered. ‘Tell me what you want and, if possible, I’ll do it.’
‘How can we trust you?’
‘Because, secretly, I have been a card-carrying member of the Communist Party since I was twenty years old.’
The deputy proceeded to ask questions which Jones, remembering how he had interviewed Indian Communists during the war, answered with accuracy. His credentials were accepted.
‘We want to use your lines for a food lift ready on the 7th, the day before the full moon. The labourers will complain to you about bad quarters, low pay and poor rations and say they’ll go on strike it their conditions are not met. We want you to get the accommodation nearest the jungle empty and to provide at least twenty sacks of rice for us to collect. Are you willing?’
Evan Jones played up admirably. ‘Of course. I thought we’d already decided I’d do what you want me to do. I will have the accommodation you mention searched for white ants and move the coolies, even if they are still negotiating a walk-out. I will let my work force pilfer my rice stocks and, for the time you want to come, I will not be here’ … and I’ll make certain sure the Government repays me what’s taken.
Hands were shaken, ‘red salute’ with arms raised were carried out and the three guerrillas left.
Vinod Vellu sat and talked with the excited labourers for half an hour then stepped outside. ‘Hist, hist,’ he heard. ‘Son, come here. Mr Jones, the manager, wants to speak with you. Let me take you up to his bungalow.’
So my note was found and I am almost safe. ‘I’ll come with you but can’t stay long. I’m not one of them really but busy planning my revenge,’ he answered, embracing his father as they met after so long.
‘I am so glad to hear that,’ said Vellu’s father as they went up to the bungalow. Evan Jones was ready. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to put the lights on. Would you like a brandy?’
