The Rose of Singapore (3 page)

Deep in thought, Peter now gazed across the broad expanse of water separating Singapore from Malaya. His journey from his mother and three brothers in Plymouth, England, had seen him posted first to Hong Kong and later to Kuala Lumpur in Malaya, and remustering from a fighter plotter to a cook. With twenty-eight other fighter plotters straight from the Royal Air Force radar and fighter plotter training school at RAF Bawdsey in Suffolk, he had been en route to Korea from Liverpool on the troopship
Empire Pride
when, on reaching the docks at Kowloon, Hong Kong, he and the other twenty-eight were informed that there was a glut of fighter plotters in Korea. What could be done with them? They were not wanted in Korea. The RAF could not lose face by returning them the ten thousand miles or more to England. Hence, they were dumped at Kowloon docks, taken by military vehicles to RAF Kai Tak airport, and as good as told to get lost until the great minds at the top decided what to do with twenty-nine redundant fighter plotters. Peter thought of the several months he and the others had slept in tents at the edge of a runway, sleeping late, eating the finest food he had ever known, taking daily swims in the camp pool, and freely and happily sightseeing fascinating Hong Kong. He had done guard duty often, and had been given odd jobs to do from time to time. He had painted the sergeants' mess, cleaned aircraft, and shuffled papers at SHQ. But the fun job was when he volunteered to act as a drowning man to help train aircrew on how to save their comrades should they ditch into the sea. Peter at that time was very fit, and a strong swimmer, swimming being the only physical sport at which he excelled. There were perks for being such a cheerful and friendly drowning man too. On numerous occasions pilots had taken him up on flights as supernumerary crew, enabling him to experience the thrills of flying. He had flown in training Harvards, Beaufighters, transport planes, bombers and even in the first military jet bomber assigned to Kai Tak, the two-seater Meteor, loving them all, and with never the slightest fear of flying.

Then fate had stepped in. He had become friendly with LAC Jimmy Phillips, an officers' mess cook, who invited him up to the officers' mess and kitchen at Kai Tak. To the right of the officers' mess, black-clothed Chinese peasants—men, women and children—worked the many paddy fields, which smelled strongly of human excrement, especially at night. To the left were mountains and the narrow harbour entrance. And there, in the kitchen at Kai Tak, and over a period of less than a month, LAC Jimmy Phillips had taught Peter how to ice cakes, bake bread, make soups and sauces; in fact, enough of the art of cooking that he not only enjoyed the work, but also had become quite proficient at the various tasks entrusted to him with, of course, Jimmy keeping a critical eye on him.

It was not long before the catering officer also had his eye on him, and soon he was asked to report to the catering office, which he did. The catering officer, a man who was liked and respected by everyone in the catering section, had smiled at him in a friendly manner, told him how pleased he was with his work, and of how a promotion in rank would come his way, from airman first class to leading aircraftman if he remustered and became a cook. Thus, Peter Saunders remustered, and the catering officer took him and several of the other cooks in his car to Kowloon where they celebrated his remustering by eating at a swanky restaurant and then getting drunk as lords in a low class bar. It was the catering officer's way of saying ‘thank you.' Flight Lieutenant Williams was that sort of officer, a type few and far between. No wonder the men under him, the biggest drinkers and womanizers Peter had ever met, thought so highly of their officer in charge.

Peter's promotion in rank came, and with it, one month later, a posting to RAF Kuala Lumpur where there was a shortage of cooks. And here Peter found himself, on the island of Singapore. Since his arrival at RAF Changi he had felt very much at home with his new posting. At the request of the flight lieutenant in charge of his new section, Peter had chosen to forgo his two weeks recuperation leave in order to secure a permanent position in the sergeants' mess under the exuberant and straight-talking Sergeant Muldoon instead of working in the regular airmens' mess. He and Sergeant Muldoon hit it off together right from their first meeting. Sergeant Muldoon suggested that the two of them work alternate early and late shifts seven days a week. Meaning, Peter would report to the sergeants' mess at noon to work the late shift and to supervise the running of the kitchen until about eight in the evening or until dinner was over. He would then be off duty until six the following morning when he would return to the kitchen and work until lunch was over, or whenever Sergeant Muldoon sped into the kitchen on his ancient bike and relieved him. However, Peter's hours of duty seldom worked out in such a manner as, quite frequently, The Muldoon, (the name the sergeant was generally known by,) would take two or even three days off at a stretch, and Peter would be obliged to work double shifts throughout those days. But when the sergeant finally did show up, Peter was sure of getting at least an equal number of days off. Weekends were also arranged between the sergeant and himself to suit each other's needs. Undoubtedly their working relationship was excellent, even though Peter found himself doing all of Sergeant Muldoon's office work such as making out the three daily menus, keeping a daily inventory of the stores, and checking the ration deliveries. But he liked Sergeant Muldoon and had found him to be a good working partner, fair in his dealings, almost always cheerful and with a good sense of humour. Also, there was no hassle, bullshit or RAF red tape with him. The Muldoon was a sergeant who, providing no problems arose in the kitchen, preferred to live and let live.

Peter thought of the many differences between working at KL and Changi. At KL it was all hard work, whereas at Changi's sergeants' mess he did very little cooking and was there mainly to supervise the running of the kitchen. Actually, the Chinese staff needed little if any supervision as all were skilled at their jobs, hardworking and completely dependable. In truth, Dai Yat, the Chinese number one cook, better known as Charlie, ran the place. Charlie could not read any English, but he could speak pidgin English. On arriving at the kitchen to begin his day's duty, Charlie would first ask the sergeant or Peter to read him the menu. He would give his opinion, and then instruct the other cooks and kitchen hands their work for that shift.

When Sergeant Muldoon did show up for work on his bike, he always rode it at breakneck speed into the kitchen, slamming on the brakes on reaching the door of the combined kitchen store and office, and on dismounting would invariably ask Peter, “Any complaints? Any problems?”

If Peter admitted, “Yes,” which was seldom, and then told the sergeant the name of the complaining senior non-commissioned officer and the nature of the complaint, the fiery, ginger-haired Irishman would angrily puff himself up, hunt out the complainer, and tell him in no uncertain manner to ‘Inform me of your stupid complaints, but don't bother my cook,' and end by saying, ‘Get stuffed!' which Peter found most amusing. However, when Peter answered, “No complaints, Sarge,” The Muldoon would happily make some encouraging remark such as “keep the buggers happy, Pete,” remount his bike, and sing out as he made his exit, “I'll see you tomorrow, Pete. Then you can take the next two days off.” Sergeant Muldoon seemed very happy with his new leading aircraftman cook.

Desiring to return to good health, Peter spent most of his free time on Changi Beach, which was about a one-mile walk from where he lived, Block 128. There he sunbathed and exercised by walking the long sandy beach, swimming for hours in the warm water, playing ball with Pop's kids, and by his new-found hobby, canoeing. His good health had returned surprisingly fast, attributed not only to his almost daily visits to the beach but also to the nourishing food at Changi amid good company and in a healthy environment. Moreover, his work duties were light and almost stress free. Peter knew that all these factors contributed to his restored health. Since leaving Kuala Lumpur, he had experienced only one bad bout of malaria, which knocked him out for a couple of days. On his recovery the medical officer told him that he could expect recurring attacks at any time. At least he was now aware of this fact and would recognize the symptoms. The diagnosis did not particularly bother him; he was only too grateful at being away from that awful kitchen at Kuala Lumpur and from the nightmarish jungle to care about an occasional attack of malaria.

3

Back at Changi Beach, this being a Saturday, there were numerous people enjoying a carefree afternoon: mostly Chinese, a few Malays and Indians, also several Europeans, the majority British service personnel from the military camps scattered across the island. Several people were seated in Pop's coffee shop including a group of young British army lads being chatted up by two Chinese prostitutes. One was Molly who had F.U.C.K. tattooed on the fingers of her left hand and L.O.V.E. tattooed on the fingers of her right. The other was good-natured Lucy, nicknamed ‘The Bucket' by those military personnel who had an intimate knowledge of her. Both girls were in their mid-twenties, attractive, well known, well liked and popular with the local servicemen, mainly army lads. The two girls came to the beach on most Saturday afternoons to relax, as well as to unobtrusively advertise and boost their trade. They never caused trouble or embarrassment to anyone; in fact, quite the opposite. They played with the children, talked and laughed a lot with Pop and Momma, and almost always behaved themselves in a perfectly lady-like manner. Pop's coffee shop was a fun place, busy too, especially on weekends and the many religious holidays.

Peter Saunders was listening with scant interest to his two companions, who were discussing the girlfriends they had said goodbye to many months ago in the UK. He was far more interested in observing the futile efforts of a horseshoe crab, which a few moments earlier he had whisked ashore with a bare foot. The greenish-brown crab lay on its hard-shelled back, its armour-plated legs futilely kicking the air, its long spike-like tail prodding the sand in a desperate attempt to right itself.

Peter sighed and turned his eyes from the harmless, helpless crab to where his two companions lay. How like them to be talking, always talking of the same two girls they had dated before leaving England. He himself did not have a girlfriend; in fact he had never had a girlfriend. The girls he had known had always wanted someone bigger and better looking. He looked like a little boy of fourteen wearing glasses when he joined the RAF, instead of being a seventeen-year-old. He'd had a crush on Elsie, a sixteen-year-old girl whom he had worked with at The Vineries, a South Devon horticultural firm, before joining the RAF. Elsie would meet him at the Plymouth motorcycle speedway track every Thursday evening, and there he would be thrilled by the very fact that she was standing at his side as he watched his favourite team, The Devils, captained by Pete Landsdale, and supported by Peter Robinson and Len Reed. That brief boyish romance lasted until the evening he went to meet her at the usual spot only to find her accompanied by a man ten years or more her senior. Puppy love or not, that evening Peter was very hurt, and afterwards gave girls little more thought. However, he did enjoy looking at Chinese girls here in Singapore, finding himself aroused by them, especially when they sat wearing a
cheongsam,
a dress revealing their legs all the way to their thighs.

Turning his attention again to the crab, Peter slid a toe beneath its broad back and with a swing of his foot hurled the creature upward and away from the shore. It plopped with a splash, and quickly sank from sight below the surface of the water, leaving little ringed ripples where it had disappeared.

“I suppose both of you are counting the days,” Peter said, turning to his two companions and walking over to where they lay. “Supposing you find your girlfriend knocking around with someone else when you get home, eh?”

“She won't be,” assured Leading Aircraftman Jimmy Edwards sincerely. “Not mine. Not my Sheila. I know her too well.”

“I hope so, for your sake,” said Peter, who then smiled and said. “You know, I hated KL, but now that I'm here, I'm in no hurry to return home. I like it here. And besides, I've no one to go home to except my mother and my three brothers.”

Both Jimmy and his companion, Leading Aircraftman Dylan ‘Taffy' Evens, sat up. Jimmy, scooping up fine sand and allowing it to pour between his fingers, said, “I also like it here, but I prefer to be home.”

“Why?” asked Peter. “It's always cold and rainy in the UK, and you'll never find a beach over there like Changi.”

“Perhaps not,” said Jimmy Edwards. “But in Brighton at this time of the year I'd be making a small fortune, what with working with the film company as well as helping my mum run her guesthouse. There's good money in guesthouses, and plenty of tips. You can make a lot on the side. And when I go to the beach, it won't be with a couple of chaps. No, sirree. There'll be no cold nights in bed for me in England either, because I'll have Sheila with me. We plan to get married as soon as I get back.”

“Good for you. It's nice to see someone who has such faith and confidence in his girlfriend,” Peter said, sitting down between the two. He watched as the water lapped to and fro over the word that had been SHEILA but was now nothing more than smooth wet sand. The tide was coming in fast.

The three young men looked over with considerable interest at a Women's Royal Air Force (WRAF) personnel, one of the few that came to the beach, stripping down to a brief bikini.

“All right,” laughed Taffy, sitting up and tossing his chin towards the near nude WRAF, “Which would you prefer, Jimmy, putting a screw into one of your damn Vallettas or screwing her?”

Jimmy ignored the question. Instead, he said, “As I've said before, Sheila and I are getting married as soon as I get back. She's the only one I'm interested in.”