Ah Fat said, ‘I hope you don’t mean that literally’ but as he only said it to himself Jason was left without the implied message.
Both incidents are described in Chapter 10, My Side of History, Chin Peng. ↵
The whole area became the Hala Bala Wild Life Sanctuary in 1996. ↵
Some years later a spittingly angry Empikau threatened to decapitate your author to make twenty with this same sword. ↵
4
Thursday 13 November 1952, Nepalese Consulate, Rangoon: The Royal Nepal Airlines Corporation’s original six aircraft had all crashed within six months of the corporation being formed. While a new fleet with better trained pilots was being assembled, it charted planes from the Darbanga Airways, whose pilots, therefore, were Indians.
The pilot on today’s flight from Calcutta had been told not to engage in any conversations with his Nepali passenger who, he saw, was ‘booted and suited’, with a handkerchief in his coat’s top pocket. The King of Nepal had been so worried about the battalion of returning mutinying troops that he had written a royal decree and sent it hot-foot by air to his consulate in Rangoon by hand of a senior member of the royal family, a Prince. The Nepali Consul in Calcutta was bidden to help arrange for the Cessna to fly out of India and back again. The Prince was on no account to give the King’s message to anyone else but to the Consul himself.
With minimum fuss the pilot helped him into his seat next to his own, fixed his seatbelt, smiled but got no reaction. He shut the door before walking round the plane doing the required checks before getting into his own seat. As he started the engine he wondered if his passenger was afraid of flying as was the pilot’s father – ‘Father, why don’t you fly with me?’ ‘Because in the air where you are but on the ground here you are’ – contacted the tower and was told which runway to use. After his final engine check he got permission for take-off and away they flew. The weather was fine and the flight smooth, the Cessna 170 being a ‘placid’ machine.
The pilot told his passenger when there was only half an hour’s flying time from Rangoon. ‘Contact the controller in the tower, tell him to ring the Nepalese consulate and tell the Consul personally to come and collect an important document’ was the response. This the pilot duly did.
Twenty minutes later the pilot and his passenger saw the shining top of the Shwedagon Pagoda, a golden dot in the distance. Shortly before reaching it they flew over some flat ground to the west of the Irrawaddy, not for one moment knowing that on 1 May 1945 153 Gurkha Parachute Battalion had been dropped there to capture the city from the Japanese but before they could advance they were bombed by some American ‘Flying Fortress’ bombers and suffered some nasty casualties. By the time the Gurkhas managed to get into the city the Japanese had left without causing any damage. At the same time a rescue party had liberated British prisoners-of-war from Insein jail. Happily ignorant, the pilot called the tower, giving his call sign and asked for instructions for landing.
The Consul, Dhruba Kumar Oli, was a tall man, once handsome but now run to seed, looking older than he was, paunchy and out of sorts so apt to wheeze. When the controller had rung the consulate a clerk answered the phone and took the message. Dhruba was stunned when told about it. ‘Hajur, the message stressed that you personally had to go and collect it, at once,’ his clerk quickly added as he saw his master was unwilling to do as requested.
‘Such a peremptory summons has never happened to me before.’ It was below his dignity to act as an office runner. ‘Who sent the message?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ the clerk mumbled, ‘the phone was put down the other end too quickly.’ Not quite true but good enough! His personal motto was ‘anything for a quiet life and my monthly pay’.
The Consul wavered. Obey or send someone else? On balance he decided, just this once, to swallow his pride and go himself.
‘Tell my driver to get my car ready now, at once!’ he called out, trying not to sound as though he was being taken advantage of and that he was still his own man. At least he had a clear conscience so there was really nothing to worry about, was there?
***
The Consul went to the Enquiries Desk and was shown into the private room of the airport manager. He did not recognise the Nepali already there nor knew that the handkerchief in the top pocket – he himself was ‘open neck’ – was one warning sign of an important man. Unfortunately he said, sharply without any of the usual courtesies, ‘Well, here I am. What’s all this all about? Why the hurry? Why me?’ He therefore, hapless man, did not greet royalty as royalty expected to be greeted, neither using the special vocabulary that talking to royalty required nor showing due deference.
The Prince, not known for his tact and feeling that it was below his dignity to talk to a mere Consul, for once bit his tongue – why waste words with riff-raff? – merely frowned disdainfully and took the letter out of a bag he had round his neck. ‘I am His Majesty’s nephew. His Majesty has ordered you to obey this implicitly. Take it,’ he said, scowling, as he handed it over at arm’s length, with his left hand, showing his disdain at not being spoken to properly.
Embarrassment flooded through the Consul who now realised that the giver of the letter was a Prince of the Realm, of royal blood, who had been demeaned by a complete lack of required protocol. Disaster! He bowed low, making namaste, wheezing in his nervousness as he said, ‘Sarkar. Jo Hukum.’ This was the phrase, translated as ‘whatever personal order’ that was always used to royalty on being told to do anything. The Prince threw a piece of paper on the floor. ‘Pick it up and sign it. It is a receipt for the letter.’ Degradation is a good punishment for such a proud nonentity!
Quaking at this once-in-a-lifetime encounter with the royal family, the Consul bent, picked it up, signed it and tried to hand it back.
‘Put it on that table,’ the Prince said, indicating that taking anything from the hand of non-royalty was degrading. ‘And as His Majesty’s Consul – for how much longer, I wonder? – in future wear national dress.’
As the Prince turned to go he said, ‘His Majesty’s order is that only you and your Vice Consul will know about the contents of this letter. Only open it after you have returned. Once you have read it destroy it.’
An airport official came into the office. ‘Sir, your pilot is ready for the return flight. The sky is getting heavy with cumulus cloud.’
With no more ado the Prince strode out behind the official. The Consul gulped, stared after him, misery and embarrassment engulfing him. In his car returning to the consulate, fearful that this morning’s encounter would irrevocably and fatally militate against him, he tried to compose his features back to normalcy. It would never do to lose face ‘downwards’ as well as ‘upwards’ in the same day. Who was it he asked himself who had said ‘don’t worry about the bang, fear the whimper? Yes, that has yet to come.
In his office, with the door closed, he opened the letter. The note paper had the royal crest on it and was written in court Nepali, mostly not understandable to lesser mortals. He read that ‘you are forbidden to visit the boatload of British Army Gurkhas, under any pretext whatsoever, due in on the next troop ship because they are a battalion which has, most recently in the northeast of Malaya, mutinied and demanded to be regarded as Communists. The British government has therefore disbanded it.’ He was further enjoined to discover the background to ‘such an unexpected conversion and to warn the Nepalese consulate in Calcutta what action was recommended to counter any agitation on the way through the town up to being finally paid off. The Throne would be informed what had been said.’ Although the King had orally included the Vice Consul not to visit the troops, he had not included him in his letter.
The Consul shook his head in utter bewilderment. How could this have happened? he asked himself, almost tearfully.
***
It was ironic that neither the OC Troops nor his Chinese friend had the least inkling of any of this nor that the author of the rumour was under close arrest in the ship’s brig!
***
Thursday 13 – Tuesday 25 November 1952, on board SS Eastern Queen: Apart from ‘boat drill’ with life jackets in case of an emergency and the daily cleaning and inspection of mess decks and cabins, routine life on board ship was simple, get up, lounge around, eat, go to bed. Jason went with the ship’s inspecting officer to mess decks and cabins so was known to the wives and children, always with a kind word and a facial gimmick for the kids. There was only the worry of the sick child whose condition steadily deteriorated.
As soon as Law Chu Hoi, the purser, had completed his initial duties he called Ah Fat to his private cabin for a briefing. A Chinese going to the cabin of a Chinese in a Chinese boat caused less than any interest and no suspicion whatsoever. ‘I won’t ask you who your friends are as you won’t ask me who are mine but there are some who know us both and know our orders. We need acknowledge nothing else’ was his cryptic opening remark.
He looked at Ah Fat who nodded knowingly but said nothing.
‘These are our orders. We plan to be in Calcutta for six days. During that time I will have much to do but after my work has slackened, possibly on our second day in port, you and I will go to a place called South Tangra. This is one of the two Chinatowns in Calcutta where the Hakka community work in leather tanneries. There we will meet either Wong Kek Fui or Cheng Fan Tek, who will be your link for further contacts. Whichever is available will take you to a certain place and introduce you to a certain important person and leave you to carry out whatever orders you have already been given. I do not want to know about them as I have no need to.’ He let that sink in. ‘Whatever you have to do must be done before we sail if you want to travel back to Singapore with us. We simply cannot wait for you if you haven’t finished by then.’
‘Thank you for explaining all so clearly to me. It is heartening to have someone as efficient and calm to deal with and through’ – and I’m as good a toad-eater as the next man Ah Fat thought to himself – ‘and of course such information is my secret weapon for Party use only.’
‘In that case a drop of brandy will go down well’ and, going to a locker, he took out a bottle and two glasses. It was a long session, almost too long for Ah Fat who did not have a good head for liquor.
***
Initially, also, Jason had been busy checking the paperwork, nominal rolls by units, of the leave party and ensuring all was well with the troops and families, especially the sick girl. He also visited the prisoner, who had his own two CMP minders who felt their sea journey was really a holiday with no officious sergeants or officers to worry them. So it was only on their fourth day at sea, after leaving Penang, that Jason had enough time for a long, long session with his childhood friend, with whom till then he had had only passing pleasantries. ‘P’ing Yee, never have I been more surprised than when I found you were on the boat. There must be a most important reason for your being allowed to be away from “them” for so long.’
‘Yes, Shandung P’aau, there is and of course I’ll let you into the secret …’ and out it all came, the disillusion of a quick victory so to get Gurkhas away from Malaya, to India or Sarawak but preferably the former. To this end and hearing that there was a mysterious centre that was so cleverly controlling all communist activities throughout southeast Asia and in India, at least on the eastern seaboard, probably in Calcutta, Ah Fat’s task was to go there and try and find it and its operator to aid the MCP in its task. ‘That shows you, Jason, just how desperately serious they are about the current situation: my journey is seen as their only hope, their “tipping point” for victory, even though my being sent is really nothing but inspired and unproven speculation.’
Jason, for once temporarily speechless with astonishment, shook his head in wonder at such a course of action both being possible and considered necessary. ‘But, surely, there must be more to it than that. You can’t just go to Calcutta blind.’
‘You’re right there. I can’t and I’m not. This is where this Chinese boat comes into it. The purser is …’ and the rest of the story followed. ‘So you see I have guides all the way to the centre of the presumed and hoped-for spider’s web, or at least that is the plan.’
