As the light became stronger, they came to the edge of a rubber plantation that had been neglected for some time. The going was hard because the extra sunlight had aided the growth of every kind of bush and scrub around the rows of young trees. Alan wondered if this was part of the Rinsey estate. He felt it must be for they had not travelled far.
Soon they came to a wide track and, as if someone had turned off the tap, the rain stopped, the sigh of relief was palpable if not audible as the major raised his hand for a halt. They took off their ponchos, shook and rolled them and were fastening them to each other’s kit when round the corner of the track came a line of khaki-clad men, red stars on their hats and carrying a flag with the hammer and sickle on it, for all the world like Boy Scouts on a camping holiday.
It was debatable who were the most surprised, but by the time the Guards had their rifles to their shoulders the terrorists had dived for cover. They fired after them, the shots whining and ricocheting through the trees.
After the incident the major and the sergeant had a quick huddled conference over map and compass. Alan wildly hoped that meeting the CTs might abort whatever they were about and they might all just go back to Rinsey. Instead the major led them off at a tangent from the path and soon they were cutting into virgin jungle to make their way.
Progress was torturously slow and the continual bang of his small pack at the base of his spine with each movement began to be a repetitive torment. He tried not to think of it, not to wait for it to swing back and hit him just on the nerve centre at his tail end. It made his nerve ends tingle as they anticipated the thud of the pack and their curl and scream as it landed.
He pushed his left arm up under his left breast to feel the photograph wallet and tried to concentrate on plans to be with Liz. The trouble was that private soldiers weren’t allowed to plan their movements or their lives, all that and beyond was in the hands of the authorities — he remembered helping to stack the piles of long wooden crates near Batu Caves.
They travelled all that day, cutting with their parangs, jerking their shoulders free as packs and shoulders became caught and entangled by every kind of thorned creeper and branch. At four o’clock they stopped to make camp for the night, each man trying to make a platform of small branches and leaves to lift him a little off the sodden ground. There was no smoking and no campfire, for the smell of smoke filtered for miles, betraying any man’s presence. The rations they ate were hard tack biscuits, corned beef and a figgy type of chocolate, washed down with water taken from the jungle streams and shaken up with sterilising tablets in their canteens. It tasted, Alan thought, like the worst kind of chlorinated swimming-baths water. Then, with ponchos used like individual tents, they fell into exhausted sleep where they lay or crouched, dragged to wakefulness only when it was their term for watch.
At dawn they moved off again. For that day and the following night they had no further sighting of any living thing beyond many bright-green snakes, lizards of all sizes and a variety of monkeys, some frankly curious, some disturbed, frightened and aggressive at the intrusion into their domain.
On the morning of the third day Major Sturgess had them cut a small clearing to aid radio transmission and gave Alan a new radio frequency and call sign. It took some repositioning of the set to make contact and when the voice at the other end finally answered Alan was surprised to recognise the mine manager, George Harfield, though rumour had it he and the major had been together in the wartime guerrilla Force 136 in the jungle of Malaya.
Sturgess took over the headphones and microphone and informed their contact, ‘Operation Nutcracker in position.’
‘Everything to go as planned.’
The little band of men were then called together. ‘We’re approaching a major settlement which we know the communists are using as a kind of supply depot and post office for a large jungle-based unit. Food, messages, intermediaries, they’re all going through this place. Mr George Harfield is with a force coming in from the main road. At precisely thirteen hundred hours we shall all go in. Our task is to catch the ones who try to slip away. We shall take up positions along the tracks running into the jungle from the back of the kampong, move in as close as we can a few minutes before thirteen hundred hours. Synchronise your watches. It is now eleven thirty-nine.’
Following the briefing, extreme caution and silence was the rule, particularly as they reached and began to follow a water pipeline out from a jungle reservoir to the kampong. As the track alongside the water pipe widened and other paths crossed theirs, they knew they were near their objective.
At a signal from the sergeant and officer, they fanned out sideways, each man understanding the dotting finger gesture of the commander. Taking a track, each prepared to lie in ambush until the time came for them to move forwards at the same minute as George Harfield’s unit moved in from the main road.
Slowly and silently the guardsmen disappeared into the jungle by the track sides. Alan reached his track, slid off the wireless and his pack and with infinite care concealed both behind himself, opening the set out so it was ready for immediate transmission, should it be needed. He took note of a giant fern growing behind a moss-encrusted rock, smaller ferns growing from the moss, so if he moved away he should be able to recognise the exact spot without delay.
The art of ambushing was a strange mixture of peace and tension. He lay still so long that lizards, ants and butterflies took him as part of the environment, yet at the same time the tension of listening and — on this operation — watching his wristwatch was a particular torment. For all his antimilitary feeling, he had to acknowledge it was training that made him able to concentrate; at college he would have gone off into a dream about his latest girlfriend, even gone to sleep. He was conditioned now to total vigilance. He merely checked that Liz’s photograph was quite safe, looked at his watch again and listened.
At two minutes to one he cautiously began to belly forwards and between his own movements he could faintly hear his mates doing the same.
At a few seconds before thirteen hundred hours he raised his head from his new position and could see the village houses. His lips formed a silent whistle of surprise. On either side of the steps leading up to the verandah of the nearest house were two huge, shiny, green flowerpots, shaped like turtles. He lowered his head so his lips lay on one hand. How many flowerpots like that were there in Malaya?
Cautiously he looked again. He remembered all Liz had told him of her old nurse and the grandson. Sturgess had waited for her during that visit and now had brought the army here.
He could hear an increase in the sound of traffic on the road, then vehicles stopping. It was too late to caution anyone now. His heart began to pound as vehicle doors slammed and men began to shout. He could not make out actual words, but the commands linked with reassurance were clear enough — to him anyway — though if you were Malay or Chinese would you panic?
He eased his rifle forwards so he might either threaten or, God forbid, fire the damned thing. There was some movement on the verandah of the house with the turtles. One man came to the door and listened, a tall, heftily built, blond man.
‘Bloody Josef!’ Alan mouthed in astonishment. It had to be, from the description Liz had given of her former childhood friend. The man disappeared inside again and was replaced in the doorway by two men, one of Chinese origin, another of mixed race.
From the direction of the main road came more shouts, both orders and hasty warnings shouted on the run. Alan’s fingers went to the safety catch on his rifle as he heard more than one person running full pelt along the tracks into the jungle. He waited, nerves at breaking point, praying no one came along his path. Nearby someone challenged, there was a shot, then the Bren gun began its murderous chatter.