No 85 Dec 95
Tom's first piece

All of these warriors had only seen active service in the Middle East and Europe whereas the civil servants, planters and Police officers had only seen service in the Far East, mainly as POWs or members of Force 136. The military element obviously were convinced that they were winners. The rest were very sensitive to what had happened in Malaya in 1942. The emergency in combining all these elements on various committees thus produced a volatile mixture that exploded at the slightest provocation. Leslie Thomas’s first book, 'The Virgin Soldiers', was based upon his experiences in Singapore at about the same time.
I know how he felt.
Into this eccentric and peculiar state of affairs I was thrust, new to the country, new to the idea that I was now allowed - in certain circumstances - to shoot at people instead of just at targets, somewhat confused and scared out of my wits - and that was caused by my side. The first year or so passed quickly and experience was quickly heaped upon experience for in that time I was heaped upon quite frequently. I had been ambushed, twice by road, derailed once, sprung my own successful ambush of ‘them’ and generally kept on the go. I then found myself in hospital together with my company commander, my company 2IC - yes the ex member of the HYM, and another company commander from the battalion. My company commander had been shot by one of his own sentries, the 2IC had been shot in the elbow by a terrorist sentry when he opened fire on a terrorist camp with his 38 revolver without first deploying the rest of the two platoon strength patrol! The other company commander from the battalion had incurred a minor gunshot wound whilst amusing himself with the twin air-cooled Vickers, each with 100 round magazines, mounted on his Land Rover. Me ? Well, I had scrub typhus but our medical officer had been convinced that I was either malingering or, at worst, had a mild case of malaria. What happened when Mr Strachey, the then War Minister, visited Kinrara hospital in Kuala Lumpur when we all shared a ward is another story that I still find hard to believe.
From our atap camp on the edge of primary jungle, where we fought off the glut of cobras on a daily basis, we were extremely envious of the Suffolks picnicking in the woods of Johore.
Anyway, all of this is just background material to the krait story that I will eventually get to, though I have to confess a great deal of it comprises my current application for compensation from the MOD for subjecting me to a teeny weeny bit of stress without counselling facilities being made available at that time.
When finally I escaped from hospital and reported back to Batu Lima I was informed that I was being considered for a position as an instructor at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Bahru. Not ever having been on such a course I was thus required to ‘sit in’ so that ‘they’ could decide whether or not they wanted me.
I travelled back to Singapore on the Pahang Express, or as it was known locally, the Mentakab Flyer - it spent more time in the air than it did on the rails - and was once again derailed. This time it was nowhere near as bad for we had on board a 70 year old planter who used his Browning pistol to great effect in not allowing the barman to close the bar even though they, the bar as well as the planter, were no longer upright.
The jungle course I was attached to was quite interesting and though I was not fully participating I did pick up a tip or two. Jungle cooking as told and performed by a WO1 in the ACC was far better than any Max Sennet silent film. One of his great jungle culinary tips was to know that the dumplings, made from ground up hard biscuits out of compo rations, were ready for cooking ‘when they had the consistency of a woman’s breast! Most of the young officers on the course, including me, thought this was something to do with lifting and separating for we were not exactly familiar with female anatomy in those days!
(Click here for a later photograph of the late Maj Gen Trevor Hart CB RAMC, explaining female anatomy to Tom!   Ed.)
All was reasonably fine until we came to the river crossing exercise. Rivers in Malaya are not very big things but they are dirty, they smell and sometimes contain small - compared to their African cousins - but quite unfriendly, crocodiles. Its no use heaving in a couple of 36 grenades before putting your toe in the water for after the explosions have died away all the crocodiles within a dozen miles descend like a plague of locusts to feast upon the dead and stunned fish floating in the water.
I had been in Malaya long enough to know that to go into such a river fully clothed and wearing all your webbing etc meant that you were going to smell something rotten for weeks to come. But how could I use my superior knowledge to good effect I wondered. Then I remembered the safety rules. When crossing a river, whenever possible, a safety line should be strung across first. Said safety line would be made by each soldier handing over his personal toggle rope - a rope about 6 feet long with a loop at one end and a wooden toggle at the other - so they could be joined together. I would volunteer to take the safety line across the river, impervious to crocodiles and the like, and because of my consideration for others’ safety I should be allowed to do this clad in only my jungle green War Department issue underpants. (I have to admit that I was also aware that we were returning the same way immediately after the crossing so that meant I could leave all my clothing and kit on this side of the river.)
So while I stripped off and joined toggle ropes together, 20 odd, some very odd, white at the knees newcomers to Malaya constructed rafts for weapons etc from the tropical all-purpose building material, bamboo, calculated how many empty water bottles would be needed to provide flotation to keep a Bren gun above water and prayed that the instructors were correct when they stated that an army pack, large, would float long enough to keep our heads above water for the crossing, of about 40 feet. Paddles were made by slitting a length of bamboo and then inserting, at right angles, odd cuts of bamboo and then binding the whole together with jungle creeper. Old hands from the Far East will know that the cut edges of bamboo can be sharp and potentially hazardous. Nobody made any mention of crocodiles and my potential hazards.
Finally I was ready, a Bren gun had been posted each side of my proposed route, supposedly to fend off crocodiles, the joined up toggle ropes had been fixed round my middle and so clad only in pants, under, jungle green, I moved towards the river bank.
Throughout my military training I had been told time and time again to remember that ‘time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted’. Well, on this occasion I had not remembered.
The river ran into the Straits of Johore and the tide was out, so before I could get to the miserable dribble of water that was left, I had to cross about 15’ of smelly mud. Still convinced that I had the best end of the stick I stepped forward and promptly sank into said mud up to my knees. This made progress somewhat difficult and very, very slow but as I was centre stage I pressed on - a shining example to the students! Halfway across the mud bank a cry went up, 'Watch out - Krait!' My first reaction was indignation for I had no German ancestry whatsoever. My indignation did not last long.
For those of you not au fait with the snakes of this world I have to say that the krait is one that is best avoided. Though distantly related to the cobra the latter will normally leave you alone, unless you happen to walk into his/her nest, but the krait is so bad tempered that he/she will actually chase after you for no good reason at all. They come in various sizes and the colour is normally black with white bands or black with yellow bands, the largest about five feet long, the smallest just over a foot long, nasty looking and with an evil temper to match. Records show that 50% of those bitten, despite antivenin treatment, die.
At the cry 'Look out - krait' I glanced towards the river and saw nothing untoward there. Behind me, however, was unfolding a very different story. A small krait, less than 2 feet long, was hurtling over the mud at a rate of knots heading for my mud level kneecaps and even a quick look convinced me that somehow I had obviously upset him/her a great deal.
Which way, river and possible crocodiles or should I make for the bank? Whatever my choice was to be any normal punter would put his worldly wealth on the krait to win.
Responding to yet another cry from the solid ground I saw that one of the instructors was about to throw to me a Heath Robinson locally made bamboo paddle. This I managed to catch and in the fashion of bullying off at hockey attacked the krait whilst remaining firmly locked in the mud. After a few seconds of frantic activity I could no longer see the krait on or in the churned-up mud so ceased flailing around and paused with bamboo paddle held high above my head ready to resume the attack.
The yells of advice coming from students and instructors alike was confusing as I could not make head or tail of what they were saying but one voice, louder than the rest, did get through - 'It’s above your head'. The krait was caught on the sharp edge of the bamboo paddle, ready to drop on me at any moment.
Krait and paddle were hurled javelin fashion into the river, firm ground was quickly found, mud or no mud, the rope was quickly disconnected and all students had their contributions returned. Under my breath I told myself never to volunteer again.
I never did get the job at the Jungle Warfare School so a few months later when my War Department travel agent suggested I might like to visit a new holiday complex set in the Samichon valley I was very interested. Despite asking all and sundry no-one could tell me where the Samichon valley was though I was assured that kraits were seldom seen in that area.'