Dead in the Dog

With a resigned grunt, he shook off the mood of near-desperation and forced himself to look at the scenery – though already he had decided that one Malayan road looked much the same as the next. All bloody trees, thatched huts, scruffy shophouses and fields that looked like rectangular swamps.

The driver was a skinny lance corporal in a faded jungle-green uniform that looked as if it had been tailored for a Sumo wrestler. He took a covert look at the officer alongside and with the smug euphoria of someone who was only three weeks away from his ‘RHE’ – Return Home Establishment – date, he diagnosed a new recruit to Her Majesty’s Far East Land Forces. He saw a sturdy, almost squat young man with a round, plain face sporting a few old acne scars. It was a face that seemed to glare out at the world as if defying it to do its worst, with a downturned mouth and a brow too furrowed for someone in his mid-twenties. The corporal, a philosophical Cockney with an abiding curiosity about his fellow men, reckoned that this officer was a ‘prole’ like himself, different from the usual toffee-nosed, chinless wonders from the Garrison. But then, he wasn’t a proper officer, was he? He was an MO, according to the brass RAMC tabs on his shoulders.

‘Train a bit late, sir? They’re usually pretty good out here.’

The doctor jerked himself out of his weary reverie.

‘On time leaving Kuala Lumpur. Then one of those tortoise things broke down and delayed us.’

The driver nodded sagely. Those ‘tortoise things’ were armoured railcars that ran ahead of the trains, escorting them through the Black Areas on the long run up from Singapore.

‘They’ve been very quiet lately, the CTs,’ chirped the soldier.

‘The what?’ grunted the new arrival.

Gord, a right one here! thought the driver. Needs to get his knees brown pretty quick.

‘CTs, sir,’ he said aloud. ‘The communist terrorists. That’s why we’re all out here, innit?’

He stole another look at his passenger, taking in the new green bush jacket and shorts, tailored in one day in Singapore. Though they were all issued with ill-fitting rags at their Depot near Aldershot, he knew that officers were supposed to look smart and had to cough up for tailor-mades at their own expense.

‘How much further is it?’ grunted Howden, lifting his new cap to rub off the sweat that had gathered under the leather hatband. The Londoner managed to decipher the marked Geordie accent.

‘Another six miles, sir. It’s a twelve-mile run from Sungei Siput railway station to the gates of Brigade – and BMH is slap next door.’

Howden was beginning to accept that the Army ran on acronyms and ‘BMH’ now held no mystery for him, though he thought it could just as well stand for ‘Bloody Miserably Hot’ as for ‘British Military Hospital’.

The road began to climb gently from the flat plain that stretched for many miles back to the sea and the new doctor began to take more interest as the hills and high mountains of Perak State rose in front of them. The road this far had been fairly straight, running on causeways built a few feet above padi fields and banana plantations, but now it started to curve in repetitive bends as it passed between low hills. Regimented rows of rubber trees lined the road, all decorated with parallel diagonal scars running down to little pots to catch the latex. As he passed, Howden could see the rows were ruler-straight, millions of the slim trunks marching away from the road to cover thousands of acres, providing the world with the rubber for everything from bus tyres to condoms. Small houses roofed with attap, a palm-leaf thatch, or with red-painted corrugated iron, were scattered alongside the road, with grinning urchins, some stark naked, playing in the muddy water in the ditches outside. To someone brought up in the terraces and council estates of Tyneside, it was still as strange as the planet Mars, even though Tom had spent three days on Singapore Island and travelled almost the whole length of the Malayan Peninsula to get here.

‘First time in the East, sir?’ persisted the corporal.

‘First time out of bloody England,’ growled Howden. He preferred to forget the trip to Lille with the Newcastle Medicals’ rugby team in ’forty-nine, when they were beaten thirty-six to five.

There was silence for another mile and the doctor felt he should say something to avoid being thought snooty.

‘You from the hospital as well?’

‘Nossir, I’m Service Corps, from the Transport Pool in the garrison. Don’t do no soldiering, thank Christ! Not like them poor sods in the battalions.’