By now his listeners were agog. Would the man he successful?

‘Traversing the undergrowth silently took nearly half an hour, and on reaching his chosen spot just short of the clearing, grey light was showing. There wasn’t much time, but at least he could see to work.

‘Among secondary thickets stood saplings up to a dozen feet tall, strong and whippy, perfect for his purpose. Choosing one growing an arm’s length in from the path he tied his rope round it as high as he could reach, hauled it back with all his strength and secured it to a stump, using a slip-knot with a long trailing end. Next he lashed the butt of his spear to the sapling at chest height, resting the point in a loop of bamboo strip hung from a small tree by the path, to guide it forward and slightly down. Placing a fern frond on the path as a natural-looking mark, he led the trailing rope back and squatted to wait – till in the strengthening light a problem became frighteningly apparent. Even at walking speed a fraction of a second early or late and his spear would miss, split-second timing was crucial. Desperately he looked about: how on earth could he induce the lead man to slow down, even pause, opposite the spear? Faint vibrations trembled from two sets of feet padding confidently on the path, a voice grunted something, another replied. The rapists were leaving the house. His daughter had stopped screaming. He could just hear her moaning. He darted out, dropped his old, faded hat some yards beyond the fern frond and dashed back again, heart pounding so heavily he feared they must surely hear the drumbeats in his chest. Crêpe-soled boots padded closer, clothing brushed against lantana stems with tiny tearing sounds, the first figure loomed – and stopped. It was the elder of the two, shot gun tucked under his right arm, his companion a yard behind. Cropped head thrust forward as he studied the hat, the front man took a single cautious pace forward, paused, took another, and his trousered leg obscured the mark. The girl’s father pulled gently on the rope.’

The narrator could now feel the intensity of the audience’s interest.

‘Swish-thump! The sapling sprang quivering upright.

‘The second Nippon jerked back – then leapt to help the man transfixed in front of him. He was struggling to prise him free when the father emerged from behind and his parang blow split his head open.’

The audience cheered and clapped.

‘Stuck fast, the wounded Nippon crouched leaning to the right, both hands gripping the haft pierced deep into his side. As the ravished girl’s father moved round him, he raised his eyes and again he felt a clutch of dread: so might a neck-pinioned cobra, tail lashing but head held rigid, fix him with just such a deadly stare – then cold rage took over. The girl’s father showed the wounded Nippon the parang blade, blood-stained. The eyes looked down at it then back up at him, crinkling a moment as if puzzled and taking deliberate aim chopped off the Nippon’s right hand. Grip gone he sagged, and the father began to hack at him, gasping great sobs as he swung the heavy blade at arms and shoulder and neck and face till all that remained was a gory trunk still with the spear in it.

‘So, that is how an ordinary farmer got his revenge by taking action when he could.’

The speaker, hoarse from talking, took a drink of water.

‘But you say you were still fighting.’

‘We were short of people. In late 1943 more than ten thousand men from Java were taken to Borneo. They were expendable. Village headmen were responsible for providing men for romusha, forced labour. I was told that 36 million people were employed on defence work. But who can count that many? Certainly, young strong men were at a premium for the Pemuda.’

‘After all that what happened?’ the questioner persisted. ‘You went off on a tangent.’

‘The Indian Army arrived from Malaya and attacked us with aircraft, naval gunfire, artillery and infantry attacks. A truce was called but we broke it. Dutch troops arrived and the worst were their Shock Troops, Depot Speciale Troepen, under a fiend named Raymond Westerling.’^[5]

A question, spoken in French, came from the back of the room. ‘What lessons have you for us?’

The French interpreter answered ‘Who are you? What country do you come from?’

‘Vo Nguyen Minh from French Indo-China.’

Atmaji Anugerah stared at the questioner, contemplatively. The rest of the audience waited for an answer, an answer that could help them. ‘Kill every Frenchman you can, as well as any native who supports them, without regret, without remorse and without regard to anyone else.’

After that had been translated a huge collective breath of air whooshed out of everybody’s mouth and hands were clapped. Vu Heng Lau held everybody’s attention as he commented on that stark advice. ‘That for us is not so easy, try hard though we do. Like you the Japanese gave us our independence at the end of the war but the French did not accept it. So we have been fighting them, causing many casualties but also taking them ourselves. We have one advantage you do not. We can have our planning HQ just over the border in China, while you are on an island so have nowhere to hide, unless you have some jungles, which I don’t know about.’

Atmaji Anugerah looked at him, saying nothing, wrongly taking it as a veiled criticism.

‘Like you Indonesians, we, too, were hungry. Perhaps up to three million people up north in Tonkin died of hunger in the last year of the war. I say “perhaps” because who can count as high as that?’ The speaker broke off to let that sink in, then in a despairingly toneless voice continued, ‘You say kill all Europeans, especially Dutch civilians and the Dutch army. In our case the French colonial army has a minority of Frenchmen: there are Indo-Chinese as well as a whole lot of Africans from Algeria, Tunis, Chad and I don’t know where else. They only joined the French colonial army to feed themselves and their families. They are not our real enemies. Killing such people cannot help us after we have driven the Frenchmen out. Likewise, we didn’t have any Japanese equipment to use so we employ guerrilla tactics: we keep off the roads which the French army use, disappear when they attack us and attack them when they are least expecting us. We have three types of soldier: main forces, regional forces and village guerrillas. These last are farmers by day and militants by night, uncountable hundreds all over the country. As Chairman Mao has it, the civilian population is the water we military fish swim in. From what you have said, this is the opposite from what you have tried to do and are still doing. He has written in a book of his Thoughts. In it he warns governments which have such fighters, communist fighters, in their country, “don’t curse the people, they have thick skins; don’t fight them because when you move in they move out: don’t kill them, they become heroes: improve the lot of the people.”’

It was a long speech, heartily applauded, making real sense compared to the abstract and dry lectures the Communist lecturers had given. It took longer than normal having to use two interpreters.

‘And what, for example, do the regional forces do?’ The question came from the other Indonesian, Akbar Salleh, who was short, lean, strong and tough. The sinews of his neck were like a coiled spring.

‘I’ll give you an example of what sort of work they do that the French know nothing about. They dig tunnels where they and, sometimes, main force soldiers hide. The tunnels are most cleverly hidden. If the village is near a river the entrance is under water by the river bank. Those who enter hold their breath, go under the water and wriggle through a hole going upwards, above the water level. From there they climb into a trench complex. When making such hidey-holes the spoil is thrown into the water. Where there is no water, a similar entrance is made in the wall of a well, again under the water. Although the spoil is harder to get rid of, of course, but we have never been found out.’

The listeners pondered what original thinking and hard work had gone into such successful hiding places.

At the rostrum the Indonesian flushed and looked as though he could have battered the man from Indo-China for making him look as acting in a less formidable way and against much that the conference instructors had taught so far. He gesticulated angrily and was just about to give a response when the Indian in charge of the whole business took over.

‘Thank you both for your fascinating contributions to our knowledge. We all have our own answers for our own country. What works in one need not work in another. Thank you both very much indeed.’

The interpreters passed on the message and the Indian clapped his hands, indicating to the rest of the audience to do likewise. Thus, in its way, some sort of peace was restored.

The representative from Malaya saw that their problem was different because the Japanese had not announced Malaya’s independence, or, if they had, he had not heard about it nor had the MCP, try hard though it did, harp on it as, so it seemed, those other two countries had.

***

In the event, at the end, Sharkey’s speech, billed as the ‘star turn’, was an anti-climax, almost a flop. Flushed, sweating and gesticulating wildly, it went on for too long as the interpreters found his Australian accent awkward, so difficult to comprehend. He started off by offending the organisers by saying that the programme had been poorly thought out. Quoting Soviet doctrine was not enough. It was too high-flown. He gave an example by quoting: Surprise is the greatest factor in war. There are two kinds, tactical and strategic. Tactical surprise is an operational art. A skilled unit commander can generally achieve it. Strategic surprise is attained at the political level. That was the focus for a higher-level course: here was for basic work such as had been heard from Indonesia and Indo-China. He supposed most of the listeners had, till then, probably only ever held a catapult in their hands, a humiliating remark that left no one untouched. They saw the brash and uncouth Australian as a politician and not a guerrilla operator so was not worth listening to. When he asked if anyone had any questions for him, only one man put his hand up.

A young man stood up. ‘I am a Nepali from Darjeeling and my name is Padamsing Rai. My question is: can Mr Sharkey see any contradiction in the Chinese proposals and teaching compared with their Soviet counterparts?’

The Australian thought for a moment. ‘No, Marx and Lenin are the bedrock of them both. Why should there be any difference?’

‘Because I have read that the Soviets try to impose their will on the countries of Europe, and even India, from the top downwards whereas the Chinese think that, once the masses know what is wanted and are converted, Communism will spread upwards. I want to know because I intend to work on the Gurkha soldiers in the British Army in Malaya to make them Communists so that the British will get rid of them, in other words, start from the bottom. Is the bottom really the correct tipping point for my work to succeed or is the top? But I can’t start at the top.’

The question flummoxed the Australian who gave a general answer that showed he could not think at a basic tactical level. He lamely suggested to ‘play it by ear’, not looking all that pleased, especially when some in the audience stated tittering.

Padamsing thanked him dutifully and sat down, looking as pleased as a thirsty cat is with a saucer of milk.

***

Early June 1948, North Malaya: Chen Fan Tek, the tall, gangling Hakka grocer with a long, thin face, had opened a grocery shop in Taiping after being a guerrilla in the Malayan Races Liberation Army (MRLA) during the Japanese occupation. It was late one night when he heard a rhythmic tapping on the side door. He was a light sleeper, unlike his wife who only woke up during a heavy thunder storm. The tapping was insistent and a nearby dog started barking. He recognised it as a code but even so he took a short stick and went to see if it was whom he feared it might be. He had become accustomed to such visits even though the war had been over these last three years. He opened the door and, yes, it was the man he had feared it might be.

His visitor, a short, squat man, with a jagged scar down one cheek, went inside uninvited and demanded brandy. ‘You have made a successful job of your shop. I suppose you want to stay here.’ He spoke disdainfully as though not wishing to be contradicted.

‘Yes, I do. I had enough discomfort during the war, roughing it in the jungle. I want to stay here and earn sufficient money for my family to have an easier life than I had when young.’

His visitor shook his head. ‘No, you can’t stay here. The Party wants you back. I have come to fetch you.’ He gave his ultimatum in a flat tone of voice, with no subtlety shown and no refusal denied.

‘No thanks. I’ve told you, I’ve had enough.’

The visitor grinned maliciously. ‘Do you want your two teen-age daughters used by our hungry comrades?’

Chen Fan Tek shuddered. ‘It’s your choice,’ he was told.

The visitor finished off his drink. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow to have your answer,’ he said abruptly, got up and left.

Chen Fan Tek had no more sleep that night. The next day he talked with his wife and when the visitor came back later, he had another drink before the two of them left together.

***

The many rubber estates all over Malaya, remote and separated from other estates, meant that the manager with his wife and probably a small family were exposed so were prime targets for the MCP’s guerrillas in their campaign of damaging the economy by intimidating the plantation staffs. Not only the Europeans but the Tamil labour force also was frightened by rumours of Communist aggression to be taken against them who, hoping that by not being Chinese, they would not be a target.

Everton Estate was located about one third of the way along the road between Kuala Kubu Bharu and Tanjong Malim. The red laterite estate road ran through many acres of tall, slender rubber trees before reaching a sign, Manager’s Bungalow, Everton Estate. It was a white-painted, two-storeyed building, standing alone, with high, sloping roofs of dark red tiles, built on a small knoll, which got what breeze there was, and surrounded by spacious lawns and colourful shrubs.

Below the bungalow were the servants’ quarters and a little farther off was the ‘heart’ of the concern, the latex-collecting sheds where sheet rubber was made and dried before being taken away for processing. Tapping the rubber trees started in the dawn twilight as sap rises most easily in the early morning.