“You can always tell an old soldier by the inside of his holsters and cartridge boxes. The young ones carry pistols and cartridges; the old ones, grub.” – George Bernard Shaw.
A ‘Sprogs Tale from Singers.
Six months after complete ting all aspects of my training, I took my very first air flight on a British Airways VC10 from UK to 42 Commando, Singapore. Our ‘sister’ unit 40 Commando lay across the other side of an airfield, which we shared, with our RN commando chopper squadron. I was also pleased to hear that my oppo Jock had been drafted there two months earlier. Interestingly, I later learned that 1968 was the only year in our 304 year of corps history that there were no Royal Marines deployed anywhere in the world on active service.
As a ‘new in country’ young sprog, I found life so new and fascinating, while at times, so very hard. I had never travelled to anywhere more exotic than on our annual family two-week caravan holiday in Bognor Regis. Unfortunately, the days of wispy candyfloss, teeth-cracking toffee apples and young sunburnt shoulders failed to prepare me for the next year and a half. Initially, I found the hot, humid climate overpowering and somewhat debilitating. However, pardon the pun, I soon warmed to the place. As a young boy from the Welsh valleys, I soon found it to be absolutely enthralling.
When ‘going ashore’ with my oppos to observe and occasionally ‘taste’ my new environment in the ‘Pearl of the Orient’, every one of my senses seemed to be assailed. Singapore, a small island, tenuously attached to the mainland by the thin thread of the Johore Causeway, hanging suspended like a steamy green dewdrop off the tip of Malaya. Located close to our barracks lay the small village of Nee Soon. A place of dimly lit bars, shops, eating stalls and more dimly lit bars. It was in Nee Soon where Malay, Chinese and Indian natives amicably, noisily and almost joyously intermingled, all vying to peddle their own particular wares. However, from the point of view of the non-Singaporean and lusty garrison troops, their wares only fell into three distinct categories, sex, drink and food, sex being the prime commodity.
I loved the aromatic, pungent and mouth-watering odours continually drifting from the numerous ‘maccan’roadside food stalls. Each of these stalls employed their own ‘Chico’; a small boy paid a few cents to encourage and sometimes lead soldiers to eat at their master’s particular stall. Sadly, on occasion this would also result in the removal from the unwary or inebriated serviceman of his wallet or wristwatch. I will never forget the bright and colourful clothing worn by the different nationalities. The numerous hues and shades of how they were dressed, was only outshone by their magnificently decorated temples or other places of worship.
Occasionally, when ashore, we were lucky enough to witness a street parade, a religious or funeral procession. They were so much different as compared to our relatively drab Anglo-Saxon approach to interment rites. Here, their celebration of a previous life, as opposed to our dour ceremony of death, was a riot of colour and noise. The loud crashing of cymbals, reverberating ring of giant gongs or the brassy blaring of trumpets would accompany the traffic-stopping, slow moving clamour. Small children would scamper away squealing on hearing the machine gun rattle of hundreds of exploding Chinese crackers. The odorous smell of gunpowder hung in the air as grey eye-watering bands of cloud. There was so much difference between the different peoples, but all endeavouring to happily co-habit and survive here. One would not be blamed for thinking that such a recipe could never endure. However, this was not the case. I do not know how or why, but it worked.
Occasionally, when visiting the city, we would see and compare the ‘two Singapores’. The opulence of the up-market shopper’s paradise, contained within their air-conditioned modern stores on Orchard Road, as against the loud controlled chaos and din of the more bargain friendly open-air Arab Market. Of course, after getting ‘primed’ with many pints of cheap NAAFI beer at the Britannia Club, let us not forget the almost obligatory trishaw races and after dark sorties, to observe the exotic and erotic lifestyles of Bugis Street. There we would witness life at its lowest level. Children as young as five or six either selling their tender bodies for hard cash, or in the tradition of the ‘Artful Dodger’, working as apprentice pickpockets training for later adult pursuits as pimps or thieves. We were amazed when first sighting a ‘He-She’ or ‘Kai-Tai’ who when dressed in all their finery, firmly believed they were females trapped in male bodies. The truth be known, even when we were sober, some of them looked prettier than the local female prostitutes. The Kai-Tai’ also offered sex for payment. This was to either feed a drug habit or to save up for an expensive surgical procedure overseas, in order to become ‘entirely’ female. On the other hand, there were those who just needed to make a fast ringgit to enable them to set up their own brothel to cater for ‘special tastes’. I must quickly add, as far as we were concerned, they were purely for interest purposes only. For looking and occasionally laughing at, but no touching. To us, they were definitely ‘off limits’!
The creases of the super-starched material cut into the back of my neck and chafed the inside of my thighs. “What am I doing here?” I thought.
Marine ‘Chuck’ Kennedy and I were standing at the perfect drill position of ‘at ease’, on the corner of Transit and Sembawang Roads, Nee Soon, Singapore. Perhaps I should backtrack a tad here.
In every man’s life, there is always some kind of rite of passage or initiation. The particular group of mates I had recently become involved with here were no different. Like all ‘gangs’, we had a ‘test’ to gain admission as an equal into their ranks. Actually, the term gang is unfair. That word tends to relate to more criminal or trouble making gatherings. Our small band consisted of a bunch of fellows from different areas within our unit, who would occasionally meet up when ashore. We may find each other at the Britannia Club, Orchard Road, or in the sweaty confines of the Paris Bar, Nee Soon. When together we would drink, talk, tell stories and perhaps drink some more, all well behaved, harmless and enjoying each other’s company.
The induction tests were designed more as a temporary outlet for fun, hopefully, with no harm being done to anyone. Luckily, our little group had a choice of ‘trials’ from which to choose. The first known as ‘No Shame’ test, consisted of negotiating a ‘short time’, a twenty minute sexual encounter with ‘Nee Soon Annie’, the village’s oldest and ugliest prostitute. With this came the compulsory embellishment, that the candidate had to obtain the same, on ‘the book’, to be confirmed and paid for by all of us on the following payday. The second ritual one could opt for was the ‘Gladiator Bout’. This involved locating a canteen or bar containing American marines in situ. The candidate was then to pick a fight with a US marine, previously nominated by the group. It was made known to the apprehensive UK marine before the brawl got under way, that the remainder of our gang would quickly step in, stop any violence and placate the ruffled Yank by buying beer all around. The final choice was known as ‘The Chase’.
These choices were put before me and after due consideration, consuming a few pints of Tiger Beer and being harangued by my comrades, I gave my decision.
The first option I quickly declined. My decision was made on aesthetic and medical grounds, but also I did not wish to be plagued with nightmares for the rest of my life, or even to, God forbid, go off women!
The second choice, I also had to pass on. This was due mainly to the dubious promise by my mates of being able to step into the fray before I became grievously injured. You are already aware of, the standard of my pugilistic skills. No thank you.
Therefore, I settled for the third alternative, the explanation of which, I will now continue…
Chuck and I were immaculately dressed in our heavily starched and well-pressed uniform jungle-green shirts and shorts. As well, we were wearing our highly spit polished boots, ironed puttees, long socks, stable belt and well brushed beret. In short, we were ‘parade perfect’! To ensure all was indeed correct, we also carried our up to date ID Cards and our paybooks, as required when going ashore in uniform.
We both stood there, waiting and sweltering in the thirty-five plus centigrade and humid atmosphere, waiting. We knew that at about 4:00 p.m. the ongoing Military Police patrol vehicle would be passing by us. At the top of Transit Road was located the Commonwealth Infantry Brigade Provost Unit. They were a tri-nation unit, comprising British, Australian and New Zealand MPs. On occasion, if there were any visiting ships in Sembawang Dockyard, they may also carry a member of the RN Shore Patrol. Due to the blend of many troops on Singapore, they conducted combined patrols with a representative of each nation on duty. Operating under one Provost Marshall, they had reciprocal authority over all troops of the above-mentioned nations. In other words, it did not matter to whom you belonged, either one could still ‘nick’ you.
I was suddenly shaken out of my thoughts by the sound of Chuck going, “Psstt!” Turning my head, I saw coming out of the main gate, the unmistakable British green landover, with a metal plate containing the bright red words ‘Military Police’ on a white background, bolted to the front of the radiator for all to see.
I gave the prearranged signal; where, as rehearsed, we would quickly look at the MP vehicle with a guilty look, appear to have a short conversation between ourselves, then off! We sprinted south along Sembawang Road toward the crossroads with Nee Soon Road. As predicted, the MP wagon did an immediate and noisy turn, throwing up gravel and dust over the street vendors and sending poultry and children scattering in all directions and then sped after us. Why? I do not know. Perhaps it was the instinctive predatory nature of the military policeman. If soldiers run, they must be prey. The thinking must be, naturally, if they make a bolt, some kind of wrongdoing must have committed. Why else run?
We ran along the edge of the main road, dodging black flyers, trishaws, overloaded diesel fume belching buses and lorries. We knew that the MPs were in pursuit, as we could distinctly hear the cheers from our own crowd and other troops from the many bars and countless roadside stalls. I looked at Chuck and shouted for him to go to the second part of the plan. To even things up, we had to get away from the main road. Fit, as we believed we were there was no way we could outrun a landover full of MPs. Still alongside each other, we made a quick right turn up Chong Kio Road, soon followed by another sliding right turn down the laneway behind the shops and bars. At night, one could walk down this lane with little trouble, as attested by the many inebriated servicemen who would wobble along here after the bars had closed, in search of the purveyors of sex hidden in the shadows. However, during the day one would be struggling to do even that, let alone to drive a vehicle through there. When the shops and bars were open and trading, the alley way became a de facto storage area and rubbish dump. We believed the ‘khaki cops’ had no choice but to park their vehicle and continue on foot. To this day, Chuck and I still cannot understand why they did not dismount, blow their issue whistles and shout for us to halt, or why they did not drop two NCOs at one end of the lane way and the other two at the other, thus trapping us. To our advantage, they did not. This allowed us to eventually emerge back onto Transit Road and continue back down across the main road to the opposite strip of bars and shops. We saw that the patrons from within the Paris Bar had spilled out on to the pavement and while holding their frothing expensive pints of beer, enthusiastically continued to cheer and urge us on.
Dodging the maniacal traffic, Chuck and I crossed the road and again veered right into the other rear lane way. This alley way was larger than the previous one, however, the impoverished families in and surrounding Nee Soon, used it on a daily basis as an impromptu farmers market to peddle their wares, thus avoiding the expensive overheads of renting a shop and paying taxes. It did not need much imagination to realise that the thoroughfare would be packed ready for a rural based day of trade. Hence the large amount of makeshift stalls, laden barrows, stacks of caged birds, temporary pig and sheep enclosures and of course a densely packed throng of slow-moving people.
While weaving through this ‘jungle’ of merchandise and vendors, I looked behind me. Finally, the pursuing NCOs had woken up. Only the redcap corporal and an RN patrolman were behind us. I knew then that the Aussie and Kiwi would be waiting for our arrival at the far end of the alleyway. I was about to speak when I heard a crashing sound, followed by much squawking of chickens or similar poultry, loudly enhanced by some very colourful and foul expletives (please excuse the pun). The sight of the naval patrolman attempting to extract his leg from a bamboo cage containing hens belonging to an elderly native woman was priceless. Obviously, one of his size eleven navy issue boots had trodden on top of the flimsy fowl container, where after smashing through the top, he now had difficulty in removing his lower limb from within. This was made all the more difficult by the old woman vigorously berating the exasperated sailor, while at the same time, trying to retrieve her loudly protesting chickens. I am sure this was a spectacle they would not wish the PM to witness or even know about.
Unfortunately, the humorous side of things now affected us so much so, we had no choice but to give each other the nod to end our galloping caper. Upon reaching the sunlight at the end of the back lane, we both came to a sudden boot crashing halt, which would have made any RSM proud. There we remained, side by side, perfectly at the position of ‘attention’ and looking straight ahead at a distant fixed point. Within a few seconds, the ‘jungle green gendarmerie” had descended upon us. As well as contemplating our fate, we had to work hard to avoid laughing and to maintain a straight face. Strangely, the obviously overweight, red-faced and wheezing redcap was the first to arrive. He was closely followed by the flustered form of the naval patrolman, clumping along on his left leg, while sliding his right leg with the attached remnants of the bamboo box and hysterical bantam hen trapped inside. Upon stopping, with as much dignity as possible, he reached down to remove the offending semi-destroyed container and its involuntary passenger. We could all hear the hysterical shrieks and shouts from the old woman as she chased after her liberated and fluttering livestock.
The Aussie and the Kiwi MPs had now joined us, who I suspect were also having difficulty in maintaining some decorum while endeavouring not to collapse into laughter. Now having partially regained his breath, the redcap came up to Chuck and I and between gulps of air, said, “Produce your ID Cards and paybook.”
“Yes Corporal.” We both responded with a flourish, pulling the requested items from our pockets and handing them over.
The corporal examined them and then returned the items to us and said, “They’re in order." Why did you run?”
I replied in the most respectful way I could, “No reason corporal. We just felt like a run. Keeping fit and all that.”
While examining our perfect turnout, he asked, “You saw we were after you, why didn’t you stop?”
I replied, “Were you? Sorry Corporal, we thought you were chasing someone else. If we had known we would have stopped.”
While the British MP balled his fists and took on a thunderous facial expression, the Aussie stepped forward in between the redcap and I.
The Australian MP said, “This wouldn’t be part of some initiation test would it?”
Chuck quickly replied, “No corporal. Goodness gracious, we wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.”
After receiving this reply, the four Provost men walked away a few feet and went into a huddle to discuss the situation. On seeing much wild and aggressive gesticulating by the redcap, followed by the placating attitude of the Aussie and Kiwi, I could assume that the Brit really wanted our hide; while it appeared the two ‘down under’ MPs were willing to let things go. While this mini ‘Parliament’ took place, the naval patrolman stood to one side, looking very confused and slightly overawed by the whole affair. Except for occasionally bending down to remove a feather or some chicken faeces from his right sock or white blancoed shoe, he appeared to be quite inactive and kept out of the discussion group.
Although suffering from the overpowering heat and exertion, Chuck and I remained where we were, rigidly at attention. After a few more minutes of exaggerated gestures and raised voices from the cluster of coppers, the Aussie came over, looked us both fully in the eye and said, “I have no doubt in my mind what you bastards were up to. I have been over here for eighteen months and am well aware of what marines get up to. Luckily for you, on this occasion we will show that we to have a sense of humour and some tolerance and will let you go. However, if my colleagues or I see you here in Nee Soon again this afternoon, we’ll run you in. Understood?”
We both responded with a resounding, “Yes Corporal!”
As his patrol partners walked and limped away he said, “Away you go then. Don’t let me see you again.”
“Yes Corporal!” we again replied, and marched off at a brisk pace toward the taxi rank. Amidst the cheers and hurrahs of our mates still standing outside the Paris Bar, Chuck and I hailed a black flyer back to the barracks. I do recall that while seated in the rear of the taxi, Chuck said, “You know Buster, I may have been mistaken, but I could swear I saw the Aussie MP wink at us as he walked away. Did you see it?”
I replied, “I most certainly did mate. I most certainly did.”
(Ex RM 248642 Mne A.C. ‘Buster’ Brown)
