‘That gives us almost endless scope, doesn’t it? What can we think of, I wonder?’
‘Oh, I am sure we’ll come up with something.’ Jason sounded more optimistic than he felt. ‘If you do not contact the Hakkas with the purser it will get back to the Politburo and you’ll be in grave trouble. Once you have found the spider in the web, even if you do nothing, the mere fact of being able to report it officially should be a tremendous personal bonus for you.’
They tossed a few more ideas around and made out a provisional programme. Ah Fat was ready to go with the purser, possibly as soon as after work on the second of the six days they would be in the port. Jason calculated that, if they docked in good time, the men would disembark that day and if they sailed late on Day 6 the new leave party would embark that same day. That meant that Days 3, 4 and 5 were free for any plans to be acted on.
‘Since it is so indefinite, we will have to put on our snail’s eyes and react to anything negative instantly so as not to waste any precious time.’
***
Gurkhas are not good sailors and everyone was glad when the ship docked. Jason was met by Major Dougie May – always known as Muggy Day – OC of the Gurkha Transit Camp out at Barrackpore, some miles from Calcutta itself. He was a tall, lanky man, with a mediocre brain and no hope for any more promotion. He was loyal, hard-working and completely dependable. With him were two members of the Calcutta police who took charge of Padamsing Rai to escort him up to the eastern Gurkha depot in Darjeeling – what a homecoming! The two Red Caps, hand-over receipt safely pocketed, decided to spend nights on board but to visit the city by day.
***
It was early afternoon when the OC of the Transit Camp met the OC Troops. ‘Give me the paperwork and I and my chaps will look after everything,’ said Dougie, who knew Jason from Malaya. Jason, ready with them, gave them to him.
‘No trouble on the way over? None of us quite understood the message the DA sent from Rangoon.’
Now was not the time to go into details of what happened there. Jason took a side step from the truth. ‘Muggy, we had a burial at sea. A little girl died before we reached Rangoon. I told the Defence Attaché about it and I suppose he over-reacted. I’ve noted it in the documents I’ve given you. Put it down to a Self-Adjusting Balls Up, a SABU.’
That satisfied Muggy.
‘Well, I must get everybody away from here to reach the Transit Camp by 1600 hours. Nowadays large groups of coolies from the jute mills come to demonstrate against us outside our camp. We have had to close down two smaller gates and have asked for a civil police guard outside the main gate as we are only allowed to guard ourselves inside the camp. I have had to order extra buses to take the leave party in one fell swoop rather than wait for empty buses to return. That will save an hour coming back here, some time reloading and an hour back to the camp.’
‘What’s all that in aid of?’
‘They are demonstrating against our men being in the British Army. They will tell this lot not to rejoin after leave and they try to intimidate returning leave men and their families. I think it also happens up in Darjeeling but I’m not sure.’
‘Well, we have had an echo of that in Malaya and that is why we had a Gurkha prisoner. He is one of those who enlisted to try and make things difficult for us. We expect to have the others arrested before long. But it’s dreadful that it’s happening in both places.’
‘It is, God rot their souls. Bad cess to them all. No time for gossip now. See you in the Mess this evening. You go ahead in that car I’ve arranged for you.’
‘That’s kind of you, Muggy. One night only though’ as Dougie May hurried off to get the passengers on shore and into their busses. Before Jason went and collected what he needed for the night he sought out Ah Fat and told him about the coolies at Barrackpore. ‘So the sickness is real here. You need to know that for whatever happens to you in your quest.’
‘Jason. You are a born disseminator. It could be that I can get you a meeting with whoever it is I will be meeting. Are you game?’
Jason grinned wickedly. ‘Grist to my mill, Flat Ears. Game, set and, hopefully, match.’
***
Tuesday 25 November 1952, Gurkha Transit Camp, Barrackpore, Calcutta, India: As Jason was being driven up to Barrackpore, he queried the driver, a Nepali civilian, about the crowds that the OC had mentioned to him on the docks. ‘Oh those blighters,’ sniggered the driver. ‘They have no idea what it’s all about. All they are interested in is the 8 annas they get paid for the half hour of shouting. None of us knows who is behind such nonsense. I think they are probably jealous because the leave men are paid better than they are.’
‘That could indeed be why,’ countered Jason. ‘What else have you to tell me? I have not been to Calcutta since 1948.’
The driver didn’t answer for a while as he concentrated on the swirling traffic. Only when it thinned out did he resume his conversation, which was local and not all that edifying.
At the camp Jason was shown his room. After bathing and changing he went for a walk. Around the time he thought the crowds would come baying to the main gate he went to see for himself – and found nobody. He went to the Corporal Guard Commander and asked him when the crowd would come. The Corporal grinned and said, ‘Saheb, they won’t come.’
‘But the OC Saheb said they would.’
‘Oh yes, they did but a day or so ago their leader came and asked me, I was on duty then, if we would fire our rifles at them when they started shouting. I told him we wouldn’t if we couldn’t hear them. So they went to an open space about two miles away and shouted their heads off without fear and of course we heard nothing.’ The Corporal grinned derisively. ‘They don’t know we don’t have any weapons. They won’t come back.’[1]
Before their evening meal Jason had been invited to the Gurkha Officers’ Mess for titbits and a chat. It was a joyous occasion and the time passed on wings. He looked at his watch and got to his feet. ‘Sahebs, I must be off now. I have much enjoyed meeting you all. Thank you.’
Jason and Dougie had not met for more than two years and had a lot to catch up. After supper they settled down to serious talk, there being so much to catch up on. Dougie had been the Assistant Military Attaché in Moscow before being posted to Barrackpore so had missed all the excitement of Operation Janus and was agog to hear about it. At the end he shook his head in admiration. ‘You and your men should get a gong for what you did,’ he observed.
Jason slid over his answer and, although Dougie felt something was not quite right, he made no comment. ‘Let me hear about Moscow. It must be a complete one hundred and eighty degrees different life from the regimental one.’
So, Dougie told him. One of the stories he recounted was how the Attaché, a Major General, always managed to produce reports that were of such use to the War Office and Foreign Office. He said that those Russians with whom he spoke never knew how much classified material they had, unwittingly, given him. “It is knowing how to behave when having a meeting with the Russians and their inevitable and non-ending toasts. No one has ever seen me worse for wear afterwards as I always come back sober, however many toasts I have had to drink, proposed both by him and by me in return. I’ll let you into my secret. Half an hour before going to their compound I would go home, open two tins of sardines, drinking the oil as well as drinking a pint of milk. That so thickly lined my stomach I could always out-drink any Sov under the table, never getting drunk myself. I’d always go in my official car with an escort, British of course, from the embassy. After about twenty minutes the Russian’s brain would snap open, out would come the secrets for a few minutes, five or ten at the most, then he’d collapse. I would get up, go to the door, be met by the inevitable watcher, escorted to my car and be driven back. Once home I’d put my fingers down my throat and get rid of the muck I’d had to drink. Unpleasant but most effective.”’
Jason listened avidly, knowing it was possible he’d meet the ‘spider’, an MGB man surely, before sailing back to Singapore and I know I can’t drink that amount but … ‘Muggy, that certainly is one way to hold on to the initiative in enemy territory’ and he nodded reflexively while Dougie went on and on … till just before midnight.
As they left they saw the orderly yawning. ‘Keta, it’s late. You’ll have two hours extra duty pay at the end of the month,’ said Dougie.
‘Good night, Muggy,’ said Jason. ‘I’ll be off after breakfast tomorrow. I’ll pop into your Paymaster and get some rupees. I don’t have an Indian bank account so I hope he can give me an advance of December’s pay. You’ll be busy and I need to get back to the boat so let’s say our farewells now.’
‘Farewell and good night, Jason. It’s been great to catch up.’
Wednesday 26 November 1952, Calcutta: Ah Fat had told Law Chu Hoi he’d be in his cabin awaiting a call for when the purser was free. At 1030 the steward knocked on his door and told him to go to the Purser’s Office. Law Chu Hoi had his own pass and made out another one for Ah Fat, written and stamped as an Assistant Purser on the Eastern Queen which he showed to the Dock Police. Outside the gates they hailed a taxi, driven by a Sikh, and the purser told him to go, as fast as was safe, to the near end of South Tangra Road.
The Sikh grinned and in Hindi said something that sounded derogatory but neither passenger understood it. They drove on in silence and once the taxi had reached the first temple they came to at Tangra the purser ordered it to stop. He and Ah Fat got out and Law put his head through the driver’s window and asked, in English, ‘how much?’
The taxi had no meter and the price was obviously exorbitant. ‘I’ll pay you half now and you can take me back to the docks in about half an hour when you’ll get the other half.’
‘And pay waiting time?’ asked the rapacious driver.
The purser nodded and led Ah Fat into the temple and out the other side and strode off to a tannery not all that distant. Once there he went inside and made for the manager’s office where he found the man he was looking for, Wong Kek Fui. He had a blunt demeanour, with a long nose, flared nostrils, a prominent chin, a big moustache and a wispy beard. They greeted each other warmly. The purser spoke Hak Wa and as Ah Fat could get by in it there was no problem of communication when Ah Fat was introduced.
‘Time is short, Wong Sin Saang. I’ve brought my friend who has come all the way from Malaya to meet you and your contact. As he has to go back on the same boat we need action now. Can you manage to look after him? I have to go back now as I am busy.’
