Oh Lucky Jim!
Malaya 1950 /51
By
John Lloyd, Maj RM

Many of my generation had fathers who survived, at least in part, the horrific traumas of the Great War. As we, their offspring,  listened to their reluctant tales, the years of that experience seemed far and remote, part of a distant history almost. And yet those tales were a mere twenty, twenty five years old at the telling, the life span of a young man.

I now delve back some forty five years, that is the life span of two generations, and yet the memory, which may be lightly tattered about the edges, retains at its centre a core of emotions that are impervious to the weathering of the years.  So often, when we look back we find, on close inspection, that it is emotion that takes our hand and leads us unerringly into the past, peering sometimes into corners dark with pain and fear, or bright rooms lit with laughter and fun.  However recent the incidents we recall, and however clearly defined they may seem, there will always be others who may have shared the same experience but perceive the picture in different colours. It is almost as though the facts of history are irrelevant, and that all we can truly rely upon are the emotions and ideas that were generated at any particular time. Our feelings never escape us, they are the true legacy of our past and we carry them into the grave and perhaps beyond it.

This short homily serves I hope to warn those readers who shared with me some of the events recalled in these chapters that what they recall may differ in detail from my own memory. If four people share an experience, there will be four different versions of that experience; all of which goes to show that history should be read between the lines.

In 1951 the world was in a fearful state. The Korean war had turned nasty and there was talk of using the atom bomb. The Cold War threatened to be anything but cold and the prospect of a nuclear conflict in Europe was very real, causing no little disturbance within the public mind. There were also the first rumblings of discontent in the African colonies.  In Malaya, which country concerns these pages, Communist insurgents had appeared from their deep jungle bases in an attempt to lay waste the vast rubber plantations and tin mines on which the economy of the country depended. Many planters and their families had been murdered, and the small police force with a  few regiments of Malays and Ghurkas were hard pressed.  More troops were urgently needed, and they included the 3rd Commando Brigade who since the war had been moved from Burma to Palestine and thence to Hong Kong.

I was then serving in the battleship HMS Duke of York lying at Portsmouth, and in the spring of 1950 received orders to join 40 Commando in Malaya.  Some  weeks later a large reinforcement of 300 marines, myself included,  assembled on the parade ground at  Stonehouse Barracks in Plymouth.  The command was given "Royal Marines, to your duties - quick march!", the divisional band in its white helmets and gleaming in blue, red and brass struck up the commando march 'Sarie Marais', and we marched out on our way to the far East.

The city had stirred rather earlier than usual that Sunday morning in June as we swung through the streets behind the band.  'His Majesty's Jollies', 'On the Quarterdeck' and other familiar tunes that Marines have marched to on quarterdecks and parade grounds all over the world, echoed down the streets bringing the inhabitants out on to the pavements to wave farewell to the ranks of khaki topped with green berets. Heavily laden with weapons and bergen rucksacks we wheeled into North Road Station to the last bars of 'Imperial Echoes', a pause, and then the side drums came rolling in with the opening bars of the regimental march, 'A Life on the Ocean Wave'.

It was a tune well known to the citizens of the port which had been a home to the Corps for several centuries, and a cheer arose from the large crowd waiting at the station entrance, among them many families and friends of the marching men. Though the war had been over some four years, there was still much trouble overseas and some of those in the column were unlikely to see England again.  But I was young, and a bachelor, and though there were clouds upon the horizons of the world, the excitement of what lay ahead outweighed any dismal prospects.

By train to Liverpool and thence by sea to Singapore. Today the soldier is in and out of the plane with scarce time to get his head down en route. But trooping by sea was an adventure in itself. Every port had its quota of smells and noises and colours like no other port. The slow approach to a foreign coast was excited by a salad of exotic scents that grew stronger as the ship came closer, and soon the local 'bum boats' were to be seen hurrying out from the shore, eager to be the first to trade.  From their sun drenched decks small boys dived and dived again into the clear depths to collect coins thrown into the  water from the high decks of the ship. The game was to throw the pieces as far from the boats as possible to see how deep the young divers could go.  We then watched the small dark bodies as they sank far down into the blue depths, to shoot back upwards again with streams of bubbles pouring from their lips, bursting triumphant once more into the sun, holding their prize above them.

The skins of the boat traders would be lighter or darker than those at the last port, and where the shore line of last week was fringed with desert, here might be palm trees or there the distant barren peaks of the high jebel, mountains with which I would have more intimate associations in later years.. The seas sparkled from a sun that became hotter and brighter as we moved eastward, whilst every night the enormous and shimmering canopy of stars presented new patterns to our wondering gaze.

The Suez canal was always a popular anticipation, for the homeward and outward bound troopers often crossed somewhere along the length of the canal, and even the field workers along the canal banks stopped to listen to the hooting sirens, whistles and derisory yells as the two liners passed each other, both of them leaning markedly inward with the pressure of many hundreds of servicemen lining the rails.  Two and a half years was the length of a foreign tour, usually without family, and the sense of separation was brought sharply home to us when we saw the homeward bound troopers. 'Heavily laden with time expired men' they were indeed, whilst we were just starting our stretch, our foreign tour, and the time for our return stretched into a far and indiscernible future during which anything might happen.  It was little wonder that the homeward bounders made more noise than those going out.

More weeks at sea followed and then one morning we woke to find ourselves looking at a long low coastline dark with palm and jungle. We were in the Malacca Straits, and over there was Malaya. We had arrived!

Another port, another station, another troop train, and in no time at all we had left Singapore and set off for our various units. Trundling slowly up the spine of the Malay peninsula the military train delivered reinforcements like seed grain, replenishing a score of military outposts from Johore Bahru in the south, to Penang in the north.  The carriages carried a mixed bag from a wide range of infantry regiments. Ghurkas, who had come the long way round from Nepal, light infantrymen from Yorkshire and Durham, Gordon Highlanders from Glasgow, Coldstream Guards from their barracks in London, and Marines for 40, 42 and 45 Commando's who had come from all over the British Isles, though mostly from the Naval ports of Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth.

From the window of the troop train I saw the first sign of unrest, a steam locomotive lying on its side at the bottom of the embankment, where it had come to rest. The carriages lay in a neat line behind it, just as though they were still being pulled.  The tidy scene was spoiled by the shattered remains of a flatbed truck lying ahead of the engine, its load of iron girders and concrete blocks hurled into the surrounding forest by the force of the explosion.  That the truck had served its purpose was evident from the peaceful repose of the engine and its obedient carriages. The ambush must have happened a few days before, for the only attendants on the scene were two Malay policemen, and a villager who looked incuriously up at the troop train as it trundled slowly by.

Hour after hour we gazed out onto the exotic new country that rolled past us, and was now our home. In places the dense jungle came close to the railway line, and though we had been warned that these were the danger spots from which the terrorists were inclined to ambush passing trains, our professional caution became submerged in curiosity.  Those far off slopes of thick green, the great wide rivers of swirling muddy water, the cheerful dark skinned people with their wide smiles and slow graceful movements, were we to be part of all this?  We were, and the mark of our passing was to be left for ever upon the people of the country, and their mark was likewise be left upon us.  The presence of the human spirit remains perhaps indefinitely wherever it has rested.  Who knows that we may not ourselves bear the faint esoteric imprint of Balkan or Iberian  legionary, stationed perhaps at Colchester, or Dorchester, or Carlisle?

At every station a ration of soldiery left the train to join their battalions.  Selangor, Tanjong Malim, Seremban, Kuala Lumpur, Ipoh, Batu Gajah and a dozen other strange names came and went until only the Marines for 'Forty' Commando were left, the most Northern operational unit in Malaya, stationed in small outposts across the state of Perak, and responsible for the peace of several thousands of square miles of hill jungle, much of it unexplored.  At last we  reached Kuala Kangsar, the district town of North Perak and headquarters of the Commando.

As I climbed wearily out of the train a familiar voice greeted me. Ken and I had trained together and I had not seen him for some years ;

"Hullo, John. Good to see you. We were expecting you yesterday. Had a good trip?"

Yesterday! Several thousand miles and many weeks, by ship and train, and they expected me yesterday!  There didn't seem to be much one could say except  "Hullo Ken. Yes thanks. Not bad."

Over a cup of tea in the mess later, Ken had more to say.

"I'm the Assistant Adjutant, John. Glad to get away from the patrolling for a while I can tell you, though I'll be happy to get back to the Troop one of these days. The adjutant apologises for not being here to meet you. He's gone up to Lenggong to see Shorty. By the way Shorty Roberts is your Troop Commander - Y Troop, you may have heard of him? Wounded at Commachio  during the war. Bloody nice chap. They're up at Lenggong, about four hours North of here.  X troop is another three hours further on, they’re sitting close to the Siam border at a placed called  called Grik - 'k' is silent as in - "   He couldn’t think of a suitably silent K, and continued - "Anyway its about as far north as you can get, they're really out on a limb. Its quite lively up there, I'm afraid they've had a few casualties."
 

Y Troop 40 Commando RM at Lenggong, north Perak. 

Click to enlarge

"When do I go up?" I said, expecting an almost immediate departure.

"You're going down to Johore Baru first," said Ken, "to do a jungle training course, so you won't be joining the Troop for a few weeks. Then we'll get you up there by the first available convoy." He went on, suddenly changing tack, " Anyway, enough of that for the moment. We're going to the planter's club this evening. Just for a drink after supper. Its the only place there is around here. Care to come along? There`s time to get your head down for an hour or so before we eat.."

Later that evening found me in the planter's club, sitting with fellow subalterns of the Commando beneath the whirling fans, watching the gecko lizards chasing mosquitoes across the ceiling whilst I was brought up to date with the latest news.  My companions were a mixed bunch. Ted Bedell, a Navy Lieutenant, was the education officer, doubling as the assistant intelligence officer.  Ronny, a captain, had just relinquished command of A Troop and was waiting for his passage home.  A Fleet Air Arm pilot who had commanded a squadron in an attack on the Italian fleet at Taranto, he was looking forward to returning to the air and getting 'his weight of his plates' as he put it. And there was Ken, who had met me at the station.

"When we first arrived it was bloody hard work," said Ronny. "We had no information, and all we could do was to rush out to every incident as it happened. That was nasty. They expected us you see and if you weren’t canny about it they caught you either going or coming.  Got a bit hairy at times."

Ken broke in," That's how Barry caught it, you know. Got careless I'm afraid. Came down the same track he used going in. They got him with a four-five slug. Made a horrible mess."

"You know those films give people such a wrong idea", said Ted, "one bullet caught him, in the shoulder. By the time it had travelled round his body and come out at his buttock it was the shape of a half crown. Poor chap. They couldn't give him enough morphine. And yet in the films they wind a snot rag around the arm and go on shooting at their Red Indians, or whatever!"

There was a pause. "I don't know Shorty Roberts," I said, "I gather he is commanding Y Troop?"

"Oh he's good news," replied Ronny,  "you'll find him great fun. The trouble is though that his administration is so bad. The CO is always trying to catch him out. You know, they sprung an annual inspection on him last month. The CO, the whole lot  - all descended on Lenggong like a swarm of bees ...and what do you think Shorty did, the cunning bastard?  Off he goes into the jungle with a patrol, chasing up 'hot information', leaving his subaltern to cope with the inspection. The story goes that Hiram was so hard pushed that he and the Troop Q had to get the blankets out of the tents that had already been inspected, and put them into the ones just ahead of the inspection team. Think of it ... leapfrogging down the tent lines ...... ye Gods! What price loyalty ! "

There was a burst of laughter that stilled for a brief moment a small but noisy gathering of planters in the far corner of the club room.

"Has he only one subaltern?", I asked. “I thought each Troop had two?"

"Ah ... yes, I thought you had been told.", replied Ken, suddenly sobering up. "I'm afraid poor Spike caught it last week. He was searching a squatter area and they ran into some trouble. Chap was waiting for him round the back of a hut. One shot and down went old Spike.  Corporal Gillie Howe, the patrol 2i/c chased the villain and caught him in one of the huts and put him out of his misery.  That's why you're going up to Y Troop, to replace Spike."

There was a pause whilst the glasses were recharged, "You know Bob got a Military Cross ?" asked Jim.

"No”, said I, “how was that?"

          "Well the story goes," said Ted slowly, "mind you I suspect it’s gained a bit in the telling, that they were following up a platoon. The trail got very hot and Bob saw this terrorist sentry asleep under a tree, and stalked him. Apparently Bob was armed with a sten gun, with a silencer! Shot him dead! Somebody asked him later why he didn't take him prisoner. Said he didn't want to wake him up!"

They burst into laughter, and I found myself chuckling about the story for a long time after.

As the evening drew on, and the stories piled up I found myself more and more sleepy. The planters in the far corner of the room had sunk so deeply into their armchairs that they could hardly be seen. Their table was laden with empty glasses and bottles, the ashtrays were full, and from the depths of the chairs arose a monotonous and repetitive chant - the tune was drawn from a drinking song that ran something like this - "Sons of the sea - bobbing up and down like this ..."

The planters had adapted the words from Conrad, and reduced or mutilated the cheerful measure to a dirge-like chant.

"O - oh Luck-e-e Jim.

How I envy him.........

Oh-h-h Luck-e-e-e Jim,

How I e-e-nvy him .....

O - o-o-o-o Lucky Jim

How I en-n-n-nvihim...."

The refrain only varied according to the different emphasis placed on the syllables, and became more and more incoherent as the night drew on. By the time the last drunken soloist had relapsed into a final mumbling stanza  I was half asleep myself, exhausted by the excitement, the kaleidoscope of sensation, and the whisky.  The cicadas had stopped long ago, and even the satay stalls on the padang had closed, though the scent of their spices still lingered on the warm night air.

After several weeks of training in Johore I returned to Forty Commando, and joined the Troop at Lenggong. In no time at all it seemed that I was looking at a map criss-crossed with smudgy pencil lines that marked the passing of my feet across the rain forests of the Perak hill country.  Though shaded by the thick leaf canopy above, our patrols moved in a permanent moisture bath, a generous mixture of sweat and rain that softened the white skin, tenderising it for the chafing attentions of boots and equipment. Progress varied according to the terrain. The mangrove swamps on the coast offered a sick smelling mud that became progressively more foul if human habitation was nearby. The inland valleys concealed precipitous streams that threatened injury to joints and bones.  Sometimes these flowed through thickets of bamboo which the patrols avoided as far as they could, for the only way to get through them was the slow steady and exhausting hack, hack, hack with a machete, or parang.  I cynically recalled the jungle films I had seen in which intrepid adventurers moved through the undergrowth idly slashing at every twig and branch; very quickly we had learned the necessity of preserving energy, and that it was easier to move a branch aside than hack at it with the dull blade of a jungle knife.

Only on the ridges, where the trees thinned and the air stirred in from the hill tops, could the patrols move with ease and a modicum of enjoyment and  it was  along the ridges that lay the best chance of picking up the signs of human movement, for the messengers and food carriers moving between the terrorist formations also preferred the clearer upland paths. .

Every morning in the jungle was a fresh one, different in smell, sound and sight. As the greyest of grey lights started to filter through the thick forest ceiling so far above, I would just be able to make out the still hunched form of one of the sentries whose tired eyes strained down the track we had come along the evening before.  Before the arrival of the grey, the sentry's night watch would have been spent in total darkness, a night darkness so utter and complete that he would sometimes wonder if his eyes were closed, and only the shape of some phosphorescent leaf or mouldering tree bark would persuade him otherwise. During the jungle nights, the only senses we had left were our touch and our hearing.  With our touch we kept contact with our weapon and rather less enthusiastically  with the swarms of mosquitoes and leeches that were trying to break through the defensive barriers of repellent soaked neck cloths that smothered our faces and hands. With our ears we nervously tracked the movement of the smallest creature as it scuffled ,crawled or crept around us.

Occasionally, very occasionally, a sudden crash would signal the fall of some giant tree and we would be up in an instant, with our hands on our guns. One night an unfortunate sentry was startled by a large shape that dropped from the tree above him and disappeared, thrashing into the surrounding thickness. It was a panther or leopard that had been lying above him throughout his watch and had evidently lost patience.   But that was a rare exception, and unlike the fond conception of the film makers, the forest at night lay like a great black dream, threatened largely by the fantasies and fears of men.

Then comes the first hint of dawn.  A sudden awareness that a leaf can be seen, then a pattern of undergrowth as the grey light moves stealthily through the trees. A hand reaches across, and touches, then the whispered command - "Stand to!"  And so we wait with our weapons ready until the daylight reveals that all is safe.  Meanwhile the jungle is also shaking itself awake with much more boisterous and cheerful informality.  Like players in some ancient and primal orchestra the jungle creatures tune up their instruments. First, always first, the cicada overtures introduce a slow wind up of musical saws to a deafening high pitched chorus that sets the eardrums a-buzz.  This stops as suddenly as it begins, leaving the listener to be deafened by a few bars of silence which herald the arrival and worship of the Sun God. As his creeping hands stroke  the tallest of the great forest trees Ra is greeted by a tentative wail from the high priest, a Wah-Wah monkey or gibbon, who is perched remote and invisible in the leafy heights.  His first echoing whoo-oo-oop across the resonant hills  heralds the arrival of the god , and in no time the vaults of the canopied cathedrals reverberate to joyful hymns of praise. The choristers are sitting up in the roof beams and their hallelujahs float across the rooftops of the world.  And as they sing, the muezzins of the bird world, the toucans, call their own faithful to prayer followed by such a clacking, tic-toccing, croaking and whistling from the faithful that we can no longer distinguish the singers.  But we are too busy to take part in these solemn rituals, and by the time the service is over we have finished our breakfast, cleaned our guns, packed our gear, and stolen quietly away.
 

John Lloyd