Dawn was misty. The Major gave the sign to advance; the lighter it got the farther apart the men moved. Bunching is never a good idea.
A guerrilla sentry, who had left his post and moved over to a clump of bushes to relieve nature, was on his way back to where the guerrillas had spent the night when a soldier spotted him. The Gurkha fired, killed him. On the noise of the shot, the occupants of the guerrilla camp, as yet unseen by the soldiers, were ordered forward and advanced to counter their so-far-unseen aggressors. The Gurkhas saw them as they came into view and four more of them were killed. Their return fire went wide. The Gurkhas killed two more. The rest of the guerrillas were seen disappearing towards the swamp on the edge of the rubber estate. As the troops charged after them, one managed to waylay a soldier and slash him to death with a parang before escaping. He was the only Gurkha casualty.
In the ensuing follow up a total of thirty-five guerrillas were killed or captured. The company went back to the road taking the captured guerrillas with them. Luckily a police vehicle passed which was stopped and told to go back to their police station and bring back a squad of men to collect the corpses.
The company returned to Labis and had a late meal after cleaning weapons. Battalion HQ was rung up with the good news and congratulations were the order of the day. The dead Gurkha’s corpse was sent to Seremban for proper obsequies. The rest of the day was free, and the Major threw a great party that night. He was overjoyed to be awarded the DSO in the next Honours and Awards List, the only company commander to get that level of bravery award during the whole Emergency.
***
Wednesday 8 August 1951: somewhere in the Cameron Highlands, north Malaya: The camp of the MCP Politburo and its attendant staff was cleverly sited in deep hilly jungle, difficult to see from the air or be approached without alerting the sentries. Under the thick jungle canopy it was on flat ground totally cleared of its undergrowth.
The camp was high enough to be cool by day and chilly at nights, especially after it had been raining, which it did, heavily, almost every day. It was closely guarded by chosen units of the MRLA. A couple of the few light machine guns that the MRLA had either captured or kept from the war years were tactically sited with rifle positions around the perimeter. Camp sentries alerted the inmates by low whistles. Some distance below were guerrilla outposts responsible for patrolling and engaging any approaching Security Forces, their aim being to draw them away from the main camp before engaging them decisively.
Water was never a difficulty as there was a spring at the back of the camp and a stream flowed along one edge of it. Rations, though, were a constant problem and a complicated and tenuous supply trail had been put into operation. Fresh meat was sometimes available – routine patrols were not allowed to shoot for food but traps were set for deer, porcupine and jungle pig. Cooking, always strictly controlled because of smoke problems, was done in a confined area near the spring, with any excess smoke drifting away above the stream until it dispersed rather than rise above the tree canopy. On one side was a cave for stores, rice, flour, a few clothes and sleeping material for any important visitor, as well as a small workshop where arms could be mended. There was enough space for a rudimentary game of volley ball to be played of an evening. Limbs grew stiff sitting around camp all day. Outside patrols were kept to a minimum to avoid leaving tell-tale signs. An evacuation plan was practiced once a month. It had not yet been used in action.
The guerrillas’ huts, made of waterproof palm thatch, were almost invisible from the air: strict orders had been given, and were always as strictly carried out, for fresh leaves to be put on the roofs as soon as the old ones became the slightest different in colour. This was necessary to keep the camp from being spotted by pilots and air photography, both constant dangers. Always tidy and clean, huts were built on low bamboo-slatted platforms six inches above the ground as protection both against insects and any possible flash flooding. The senior men slept in hammocks. Strung on poles, they too had leafy camouflage on top. Men had light-weight blankets. There were no mosquitoes or midges. In front of each guerrilla’s sleeping place was his pack, always ready with what was needed if an immediate evacuation were ever ordered. Personal weapons were carried at all times: at night they were as close to the owner’s body as would a wife have been. Guerrillas wore khaki shirt and trousers, puttees and canvas shoes – easy for leeches to cluster round each ankle – and a round, small-peaked khaki hat with a red star, cloth or enamel.
There was a separate part of the camp for the wireless set. Provision of and charging batteries were never easy. For the charging, a bicycle frame, complete with the pedals, was linked to the battery and prolonged pedalling charged it.
There had been an air of unease, if not of apprehension, among senior party members for the past couple of months and a Politburo meeting had been called. The nub of the worry was the sense of affairs not going as well as they might or as they had been. There was a suspicion that some of the set-backs, especially in the south of the country, might just be because of a treacherous insider working for the Security Forces. It was therefore decided that a small and senior group of members, suitably escorted, should go on a fact-finding tour, dangerous but necessary. The leader of the group was to be Comrade Ah Fat. He was, in fact, a police ‘mole’ of the highest ability: no one had ever had any reason to suspect him. He was well built and solid, with fluid movements. His eyes were always alert, never missing a trick, even though his peripheral gaze was not easy to follow. He looked a tad glum, was round of face, with ears close to his head: in some circles they had given him the nickname of P’ing Yee, Flat Ears. He stood about five and a half feet high. He had a habit of rubbing the palms of his hands together when thinking. Normally taciturn, he could be vivacious if to remain silent would have been suspicious or when he did not have to act his part so could be natural. He was well educated and spoke excellent English. However, for safety’s sake, he kept that skill a closely guarded secret lest his ‘other’ role be jeopardised. Whenever he did speak English in front of other Chinese, it was only of middle-school standard.
The composition of the search team had just been voted when the comrade in charge of the camp defence reported that a courier and his escort had arrived and was asking for an audience with the Secretary General, Chin Peng.
‘Did he give his name and have you vetted him?’
‘Yes, he is Comrade Xi Zhan Yang.’
Comrade XI was as loyal a member of the party as one could find and the Secretary General relied fully on him, being his personal courier. He was based in Kuala Lumpur and had a delicate woman contact in Police HQ who gave him information never divulged to unauthorised people. ‘Send him to me immediately.’
Xi, who also used an alias of Ah Ho, had a squat face, lined and careworn as an old map, and tiny nostrils which made him look like a frog. He had a slightly reedy, hooting voice. Sending his escort to report to the soldiers’ part of the camp, he was told to go to where the Politburo was meeting. He looked dead beat as any long walk through the jungle, always being ready to take evasive action to hide from any military activity, was always fraught and something none of the Politburo had done since during the Japanese war. It was immensely tiring. He was welcomed and asked what his report was and ‘can it wait as we are having a session?’
Xi shook his head. ‘It is opportune that I talk to you all. There are two major points I think every comrade should learn about immediately.’
Sipping a hot drink, he gave the outlines of his first report which were ominous: thirty-five comrades had been killed or captured south of Labis in Johor by a strong patrol of Goo K’a bing, Gurkha soldiers, under the command of an imperialist gwai lo, foreigner. The dead included Yap Piow, the commander of No. 7 Company and Ng Chen, second-in-command of the Killer Squad. A most serious loss.
‘That, Comrades, is the outline and I have a detailed written report.’ He rummaged in his backpack and handed it over.
‘I hope your second report is not as gloomy as the first one,’ said Lee An Tung, the Head of the Central Propaganda Department. He had a dry, hot-eyed, dark, ‘chiselled’ face and whose clipped grey hair had the carbonised iridescence of coke. He was a squat, pugnacious-looking, slightly balding man with a perpetual frown and a worried look on his face whenever he spoke.
‘No, Comrade. It is vague but, I believe, accurate. There is a gwai lo army officer in a Gurkha battalion who wants to join our organisation …’ There was such an intake of breath from his audience that his words were drowned. ‘… who is a secret card-carrying party member.’ He paused and looked around him. All faces showed utter surprise.
‘Do you know any other details? That is much too vague even to make outline plans on,’ the Secretary General said, doubt in his voice.
The courier made a moue and pulled back his shoulders. He was tired and hungry. If he had known any more details, he would have given them. Hiding any irritation, he said, ‘I personally have no first-hand knowledge but the weight of rumours says he is stationed in Seremban and wants to join us as soon as you can allow him. Once permission is given the local contacts can arrange his disappearance. After that it is up to you, Comrades.’ He waved his hands at the others and stifled a sneeze as he did.
Even the Secretary General saw that Xi needed a rest so he thanked him, as did the others, told him to go and have a meal, a wash, a sleep and they would meet on the morrow, having read his report.
Chin Peng, who had a large mouth, perfect even teeth, eyes, when animated, that grew round and eyebrows that rose about an inch and a half, now merely frowned and said, ‘That first report is extremely serious. We have never before lost so many at one time. It is a far cry from what we had expected from the Gurkhas a couple of years back.’ The comrades’ glum faces showed that they agreed with him.
‘As for the second report, we cannot, must not, dismiss it. Comrade Ah Fat and your team will keep your ears open when you are in the Seremban area and check that such a man really does exist. If he does, you must try to vet his credentials before reporting back to us. Only then can we decide on his future.’
All agreed. At that stage that seemed the best method of finding out about him.
‘Now, what can we do about trying to remedy the military situation, especially in Johor, and recover the initiative? Think about it and later on today we’ll have another session.’
***
On re-assembling, the Secretary General asked ‘Has anyone any ideas, any possible solution to the military problem outlined earlier on? The real point is, is it a one-off fluke or a permanent trend?’
Comrade Lee An Tung, well known for his accurate analyses, said, ‘Comrades, yes, I have an idea that, fluke or trend, could result in events moving back to being in our favour. Let me dilate.’ He glanced around and began. ‘When we started our military campaign we had successes almost every time we engaged the imperialists as we knew we would. Now that is less and less the case. Instead of being warned of enemy movement as well as being given food and rations by our reliable civilian comrades,’ he was referring to the many ‘squatters’, Chinese families living on unregistered plots of land on the jungle fringes, known as the Min Yuen, the Masses Movement, ‘our active comrades have had to move deep into the jungle to grow their own food, their original sources now having dried up.’ He was referring to what was known as the ‘Briggs Plan’. This was when Lieutenant General Sir Harold Briggs, recalled from pension, ordered all squatters be re-settled in ‘New Villages’, so cutting off the guerrillas from any contact with them. This was not quite the surprise it was intended to be as an unscrupulous reporter found out about it and published it before the prescribed date but, apart from a few guerrillas hiding in squatter areas managing to escape, no one else was prematurely alerted.
‘There are now many more Goo K’a bing, Gurkha soldiers, than there were in the beginning’ Comrade Lee continued, ‘and they are much better trained than they were to start with. It seems we misjudged their potential. British troops are noisier by far so much easier to deal with, either by ambushing them or avoiding them while the Malay Regiment’s two battalions operate in areas of less importance.’ He wondered how his listeners were reacting to what he was saying so looked round, saw they were interested and, from the look on their faces, still wondering what he was aiming at. ‘If the Goo K’a bing carry on like this it will take us much longer than we had first thought to win and make the country the Democratic Republic of Malaya.’ He spread out his arms and made a gesture almost of despair. ‘So maybe, drat it, the civilian population will become disillusioned with us and … I dare not say it out loud.’ His audience looked at him, not daring to believe that any disloyal and unParty-like idea would be mentioned or ever accepted. But … but no one interrupted him and he went on, ‘what we must do is to get the Goo K’a bing away from Malaya. Then win we will.’
A pregnant hush descended as his listeners mulled over such a revolutionary and, on the surface, impossible proposal.
The Secretary General blinked, gulped – he was not a man for radical solutions to any problem – and said, ‘Comrade, that is certainly an attractive, attentive and original thought but, sadly, unachievable. However, knowing you would not have mentioned it without believing in it, how do you plan to achieve it?’ Unconscientiously he shook his head in despondence.
‘Comrade Secretary General, I agree it sounds impossible but, given time, we can make it work. Listen! We need to persuade the British government that the Gurkhas are untrustworthy and so must be disbanded … no, wait … and if not quite that, get our Indian comrades to persuade them not to return from leave and, at the same time, cause enough trouble in Borneo, especially in Sarawak, which I believe does not have any proper army, so get any remaining Gurkhas sent there from Malaya’ and his voice trailed off as he let his suggestion of a Gurkha-free Malaya sink in. It was greeted with gasps of surprise and head-shaking of disbelief.
The Secretary General broke the silence that had descended as each listener pondered this seemingly impossible proposal. ‘But how … how can you, or anyone else come to that, organise such a plan for any success?’
‘No, of course there can be no guarantee of success, there never can be, but I really do believe it can be done but it will take time to accomplish. I can get it started. First I want to “feel the pulse” so to speak. There needs to be a kind of recce for the basis of this and there are two people I know whom we can make use of for this task.’
‘And who are they?’ queried Chin Peng in a dubious tone of voice, not liking to appear in ignorance.
‘To start off he is Comrade Xi Zhan Yang and others whom he will persuade to be useful.’
‘And how do you expect to use him?’ the Secretary General asked, a touch acidly.
