Hero Bukit Panjang – The Gap 14th Feb 1942 1325hrs The lalang. He hated it. It tickled his ears and nose, got into his uniform under his harness and slid up his khakis. But it kept him invisible. He needed to be invisible. False dawn was not far away. A few metres away on his flanks, his partner, Hakim, inched forward. The wind. It made the lalang dance. The tops of the long grass swayed in the sultry afternoon breeze, like the Tari inai dancers at his wedding, with their gilded headdresses. That was the best time to inch forward. So Yacob did. He pushed his knees, dug in the toe of his left boot, slid his Bren ahead of him, and inched. Sweat. He hated that too. It dripped from his head, under his camouflaged scarf, and into his eyes. The sweat stung. He worried about it. What if it caused him to blink, when he needed his sight most? Like if an enemy patrol wanders into them. The late morning sun continued to beat down on him mercilessly. Breathing, short breaths. The smell of gun metal, cordite and oil, as his nose was practically pressed against his Bren gun’s breech. Breathing, short breaths, and inching forward. The objective was somewhere ahead. Crickets. Their chirping was a godsend. In the underbrush of this sloping hill, they masked any sounds the pair might have made. To Yaacob, they seemed as loud and cacophonous as the music played at a Chinese Opera. All the shrilling and clanging, blaring and screeching. He couldn’t make sense of it. How could the Chinese stand that and enjoy it as music? He very much preferred his people’s lilting, languorous melodies and robust drum beats. Like the music he had had at his… He had to stop thinking of his wedding. Because it led to thoughts of Laila. And thinking of her while assaulting a mortar position wasn’t a good idea. Hakim had signalled. Their target was in sight. Up ahead, just a few metres away, was a squad of Japanese soldiers, lounging around their mortar pit. The men were stripped to their waist in the late morning heat, uniforms untidily heaped upon the sandbag fortification to their front. Dirt and sweat caked their bodies as they worked at firing the ‘knee mortar’ at Yaacob’s comrades. They all looked like veterans to Yaacob. The last couple of days had taught Yaacob that these Japanese were not the short-sighted weaklings their CO Captain Carter had made fun of since the start of the war. The Regiment’s first engagement with them yesterday had been nothing short of a disaster. B Company had been all but annihilated, including Captain Yazid, their commander. The destruction of B Coy and subsequent failures by the other units to hold their flanks had forced their British commanders to withdraw his company to their current position on Bukit Chandu. Since 0830 hours that morning, they’d been shelled by the Japanese mortars and field guns. Many of his friends had sustained injuries because of this. Pak Adnan had then called for volunteers to silence the mortars. “Yaacob can do it,” Staff Sergeant Ahmad had called out. “He was our village’s best hunter and tracker. It would be easy for him to sneak up on the enemy.” The man had that malevolent and malicious glint in his eye. Yaacob could not stand down after that, it would make him seem a coward. He knew Ahmad hated him. Now he knew Ahmad wanted him dead too. Then he could return to the village and marry Laila. “I’ll go with him,” Hakim had volunteered. Yaacob was glad his friend had his back. Three other teams of men volunteered. They would venture down the hill, a surprise raid to get rid of the enemy artillery. “FOOOOOOOOOOOP!” Another mortar shell was launched from the knee high tube, bringing Yaacob’s mind back to the present. The deadly projectile disappeared into the air, but Yaacob knew exactly where it would land. Yaacob slowly slipped the Bren upright. His right hand cocked the automatic weapon, making almost no sound. His left hand reached behind his back, and loosened the parang in its battered sheath. He nodded at Hakim. Now they just had to wait for Pak Adnan’s signal. It was time to avenge his fallen friends of B Coy. The Kampung - Selangor 1st January 1935 “You aren’t fit to wash the mud off my sandals, let alone marry her,” Ahmad sneered. The headman’s son and his gang of toughs had cornered Yaacob. “No money, no land, only your dirty attap hut. What makes you think your engagement to her will hold up, bodoh?” The other men around him cackled sycophantically. Yaacob kept silent. Saying anything now would be pointless. Ahmad wanted to humiliate him. “And what are you going to give as your hantaran? Goats??” Ahmad scoffed. This provoked more laughter among his cronies. Yaacob grit his teeth and tried to push past the men surrounding him. Two of Ahmad’s thugs shoved him back hard. He tripped and landed on the muddy track. More laughter and snickering. Ahmad was right though. He had little or no money. But he had a plan. Some orang puteh soldiers had come recently to their village. They were recruiting men, locals, to form some sort of new army. And they were paying very well. Yaacob had signed up with the Malay Regiment, that was what the white men had called it. He would be paid almost a hundred dollars a month! And if he could become an officer, even more. It would not take long for him to save up enough for his wedding with Laila. His thoughts were still on her when Ahmad’s sandaled feet thudded into his ribs. “I said get up, you miserable wretch!” the headman’s son snarled, “or I will…” Ahmad suddenly sensed his henchmen backing away and looked up. “Or you will what?” A bull of a man loomed over Ahmad. Standing head and shoulders over all the men in the village and built like a water buffalo, Hakim generally stopped fights before they started merely by looming over any disputes. He also happened to be Yaacob’s best friend. “Or…or…my boys will hantam you till you both cry for your mothers!” Ahmad finished weakly. From behind he could hear the pattering of sandaled feet. He gulped and turned to see that all that was left of his band of thugs was a single, forlorn looking sandal which one of his idiots had left behind in his haste to get away. Hakim just stood there, a lop-sided grin on his genial face. He cracked his knuckles, ominously. “Well, it seems like your boys have run home to their mothers,” Hakim winked. Cursing at his cowardly bully-boys, Ahmad turned tail and ran too, almost tripping over in his sarong. “Didn’t need your help, but thanks,” muttered Yaacob, as he reached for Hakim’s brawny arm to pull himself up. “Sure, you had them at your mercy,” grinned his best friend. “It’s time to go. The orang puteh truck is leaving shortly. Make sure you say your goodbyes to Laila.” Bukit Panjang – The Gap 14th Feb 1942 1345hrs The whistling crescendo of mortar shells, followed by volleys of machinegun fire roared down from the hill. The concentration of fire was centred on the Japanese front. None of it fell anywhere near Yaacob and Hakim. The effect was deafening. It was Pak Adnan’s signal. Wordlessly, in almost total silence, Hakim rose from the tall lalang. His Bren stuttered to life, a short burst. Bullets thudded into the back of one of the Japanese mortar-men. His shriek of pain almost drowned out by Hakim’s Bren, as it raked the mortar pit. The other soldiers screamed and dove for cover, but it was too late. Yaacob leapt up too, his light machinegun spitting out fire. His rounds took down one soldier, then abruptly stopped. “PUKI!!” he cursed. Of all the times to jam. The last Japanese soldier, on seeing Yaacob’s weapon misfire, roared in defiance and charged him, swinging a long, thin sword of some kind. Yaacob dropped his Bren and reached for his parang. The blade cleared its sheath just as the Japanese soldier’s descended. He parried the cut, metal screeching against metal, then shoulder charged the Japanese. The mortar-man let off an explosive gasp and backpedalled, swing his sword at Yaacob’s waist. If Yaacob had eaten just a little more rice for his lunch that afternoon, his guts would have covered the grass then. From his peripheral vision, he saw Hakim finish off the other Japanese soldier. Need to finish this fast. The Japanese sword was very thin at its base, Yaacob noticed. With his next attack, Yaacob chopped his parang down with all his strength, aiming for the narrow part right next to the hilt. The Japanese soldier’s blade was supposed to snap like a twig when the thick iron parang struck. It didn’t. Yaacob’s rusty parang flew off its hilt instead. With a triumphant leer, the Japanese soldier raised his sword to strike down Yaacob. An almost comical expression of surprise came over the man’s face as Hakim stuck his bayonet into the man’s back. “Didn’t need your help, but thanks,” Yaacob muttered to his friend, who responded with a lopsided grin as he wiped his bayonet blade on the dead Japanese cap. The gunfire from the hill had died down to sporadic shots. They set the explosive charges quickly, to make sure the tubes won’t fire again, then crept back into the tall grass. It was time to get back to their lines. Regimental Barracks – Port Dickson 1st January 1938 When Ahmad had found out about Yaacob’s enlistment with the Askar Melayu, he had been, at first, delighted. With Yaacob gone, he thought he could convince Laila to marry him. Besides, he could offer her a much larger hantaran than Yaacob ever could. Plus the fact that he would eventually become headman of the village! When he found out how much the white men were going to pay Yaacob, he was incensed. There was no way he would allow Yaacob to succeed. So Ahmad had enlisted too. Together with more recruits from Selangor, they had undergone rigorous training by their British officers. Even though Yaacob and Hakim had excelled in the training, they were never promoted beyond the rank of Corporal. Yet somehow, Ahmad had risen to become a sergeant in their company, C Coy, 1st Malay Regiment. Rumour had it that his rich father had bought his commission. He knew it wasn’t a rumour because he’d had his father bribe some very important white men to get the job. Then he’d done his best to sabotage the duo’s efforts in the Regiment, including getting their pay docked for trumped up charges and extra latrine duties. Ahmad sniggered. He liked that last one, when Hakim and Yaacob were made to clean the entire company’s toilets. If not for that sanctimonious 2nd Lieutenant Adnan, he would have had the duo run out of the unit by now. The officer had taken to protecting Yaacob and Hakim from Ahmad’s accusations. Adnan claimed to see great promise in the pair, as he himself had been talent-spotted and promoted a year ago. As long as he could delay Yaacob in the unit, the better chance he had in convincing Laila’s family to marry her to him. His father would be making sure Laila’s family changed their minds. But Laila’s father was a stubborn old man, who foolishly believed in honour instead of cold, hard cash. If only he hadn’t betrothed his beautiful daughter to Yaacob from childhood! What a waste of a beauty, on a worthless fool like Yaacob. Ahhh to possess the beautiful Laila, he would perpetrate anything. Even murder. Bukit Panjang – The Gap 14th Feb 1942 1400hrs None of the other teams had made it back. Pak Adnan looked distraught, yet he clapped his hands on both Hakim and Yaacob’s shoulders. “Well done, lads,” he murmured, “you bought us some time.” Yaacob shrugged, doffed his jungle hat, then took a huge swig from his canteen. Hakim was already stuffing his face with some leftover nasi from his mess tin. A figure in khaki approached the pair. “So you made it back,” Ahmad drawled, his voice dripping with malice, “how…fortunate.” Yaacob felt his hackles rise as he stood to face his nemesis. The two rivals locked eyes, their hatred causing the atmosphere around them to crackle with tension. “Stand down, both of you,” barked Pak Adnan, his voice hoarse with use. “The enemy is over THERE, in case you feel like killing someone.” Ahmad spat, a glob of nasty phlegm landing near Yaacob’s feet, then stalked off. Yaacob breathed out, and the tension eased from his shoulders. He had clenched his fists so tight his palms were bleeding. “He wants me dead, Pak, because he wants my wife at home.” His commanding officer shook his head ruefully. “Even with the Japanese trying their utmost to slaughter us, you two won’t stop feuding. Whatever the cause of your hatred, leave it till after the war…if you’re both still alive.” Yaacob nodded. He had no wish to fight Ahmad, never had. He had taken the man’s abuse for years now. The war had come just as he and Laila had moved to Singapore for a fresh start. The Regiment had been undergoing extensive training and recruitment when the Japanese forces invaded. He had known Ahmad wanted Laila since they were teenagers. It had become an obsession for the man. Now he knew how far he would go to get her. His thoughts were interrupted by a shriek from one of his platoon mates. “INCOMING!” Shells started landing all around them. The deadly whine of shrapnel filled the air, and the earth shuddered with the boom of explosions. Clods of earth rained down all around Yaacob. He huddled in his trench, hands over his head, senses inundated by the horrendous barrage of artillery. He was screaming too, because somehow, that helped him keep his sanity. Then suddenly, silence. “THEY’RE COMING!” screamed a soldier to his right. A low rumbling sound could be heard downhill, and it quickly gained volume, building into an incoherent roar, filled with battle lust and hatred. Looking over his sandbag, Yaacob could see hundreds of Japanese soldiers charging up their hill. “RADIO! GIVE ME THE RADIO!” roared Pak Adnan. The radio operator, a soldier named Said, came pelting towards them and thrust the receiver into Adnan’s hands. He fumbled out his map grids and compass. “Red Queen Red Queen this is Charlie 7 PC, request FIRE MISSION at coordinates…what? What do you mean NO FIRE MISSION POSSIBLE? We have incoming hostiles, approximately brigade strength. We cannot hold, I repeat, we CANNOT HOLD THEM!” The radio went into static after a few seconds and Pak Adnan slammed the receiver down. His face was black with fury. “They are withholding fire to conserve ammunition. Damned fools!” he growled. “Get to your stations! Mortar, concentrate fire where the charge is thickest! Rest of you, fire on my command, ONLY ON MY COMMAND! Yaacob ran for his shell scrape and dived in, his Bren cocked and ready. Please don’t jam again, he prayed. Beside him, Hakim had pulled out three of his fragmentation grenades and placed them on the ground by his side. “Might come to this,” he grinned at his best friend. Rounds were thudding into the sandbags and earth rampart around them. Yaacob sighted down his Bren, finger on the trigger. Waiting with bated breath. “Steady boys!” shouted Pak Adnan, at his Lewis machine-gun bunker, his hand raised. “Wait for it, wait for it…FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” Pak Adnan dropped his hand And let loose hell. Yaacob’s Bren fired, rounds slicing downhill into the lead elements of the Japanese soldiers, scything down soldiers. Many of them dived for cover, their long rifles retaliating. Others took advantage of the cover fire and sprinted uphill. Around him, his platoon-mates fired their rifles, making each round count. The first ranks of Japanese to reach midway up the hill fell screaming to their death, as they hit the hidden pits Pak Adnan had ordered dug there, with sharpened stakes at the bottom. The rest behind the charge tried to stop, but their momentum was too great and they piled into the trench. Leaping up from his Lewis, Pak Adnan ran forward, a No. 76 Special Incendiary Grenade in his hand. He lobbed it into the forward trench, then dived back for cover behind his sandbags. The trench lit up with phosphorus, incandescent light, as it ignited the oil Adnan had also poured into it. Screams and cries of indescribable pain drifted up from downhill as Japanese soldiers caught in the trench became human torches. “Cut them down!” ordered Pak Adnan. His riflemen fired towards the hapless Japanese, killing dozens. The advance was halted, for a while. “It won’t hold them for long. There’s a whole brigade down there,” Hakim told Yaacob. Said, the radioman approached Adnan again. “Pak, message from High Command!” Their platoon commander took the receiver, nodded and mumbled his answer, then turned to his men, barely concealing his frustration. “Left and right flanks have fallen. We are ordered to retreat to Point 226.” “Where the hell is that?” asked Yaacob, wiping sweat from his brow. Pak Adnan looked at his men and answered. “Bukit Chandu.” The Kampung - Selangor 14st Feb 1938 It was after the wedding, the dancers had gone, the musicians were drunk, and everyone else was asleep. Laila lay on his arm, her raven tresses spilling beneath it. In her hands was a miniature glass bottle, filled with red seeds. “Saga seeds, sayang, represent my love for you, my husband, and my longing for you to return to my side,” Laila slipped the bottle into his hands. “Don’t ever go anywhere without them, they will ward you from harm, and make sure you come back to me.” Yaacob smiled at his wife, his beautiful Laila. The night had been so long in coming, he could not believe he now held her in his arms. “It is just a training stint in Singapore, I won’t be gone long,” he promised. “In fact, I’ve heard so many good things about Singapore, maybe we should consider moving there!” Laila’s eyes sparkled at the thought. She had always wanted to leave their tiny village, to see the world. Singapore sounded like adventure, a brave new city, thriving under the British, with so many races from all over the world. It was beguiling. Yaacob saw the look in her eyes and laughed. He sat up, leaning over her and gave her a long, deep kiss. “I KNEW you’d like that idea! The Regiment is planning to recruit more troops there, and they need experienced soldiers to train them. Pak Adnan has promised me and Hakim he would do what he can to help us secure positions as trainers there. We could get a house, near the barracks, we could…” “Yes, my husband, we could, we should, we WILL!” giggled Laila, pulling him down for another kiss. Bukit Chandu – Opium Hill 14th Feb 1942 1545hrs It had become unnaturally silent around their new entrenched position on the hill of Bukit Chandu. The Japanese artillery had become curiously silent. Yaacob stuck his head over the sandbag fortification of his trench to take a look. He saw troops quick marching up the hill, bearing the British flag. “Pak! We expecting any friends?” Yaacob queried, pointing to the men marching uphill. “Not from that direction,” Pak Adnan grabbed a pair of binoculars to take a look. He saw the British flag borne by troops wearing uniforms and the turbans of Punjabi soldiery. Except that Punjabis, like all British trained troops, did not march in fours, but in threes. “Those aren’t Indians,” Pak Adnan muttered, putting down the binoculars. “They’re Japanese in disguise.” The counterfeit Punjabis continued their way uphill, waving the British flag, oblivious to the fact that their ruse had been discovered. “Fire on my command,” Adnan whispered. As soon as the score or so of fake Indians came within range of their Lee-Enfields, Pak Adnan barked, “NOW!” A murderous volley of rifle fire met the marching Japanese, cutting down the leading soldiers. The rest scrambled downhill, some limping from injuries. Amidst the smell of cordite and smoke, a ragged cheer went up from the Malay Regiment platoon on the hill. “Men of the Regiment, hear me out!” bellowed Pak Adnan. “This was but a small victory. I have no doubt they will be back, and in greater numbers.” The cheers died down around Yaacob, and a sombre mood resumed. “But we are the Askar Melayu, and we will hold firm to our motto!” The men roared their approval, chanting the words “Taat dan Setia”, over and over. Pak Adnan held up his hand for silence, then he continued, “We must hold this hill, to the end. There will be no retreat from here, for if we do, there is nothing and no one between us and our loved ones. We will fight till our last drop of blood, not for honour, not for glory, but for the lives of those we love.” There was no retreat anyway. Their route south was cut off by the oil burning in the canal, oil that had flowed from the Normanton depot, which the Japanese had already overrun. The late afternoon sun beat relentlessly down on the troops on Bukit Chandu. Water was running low, so was ammunition and medical supplies. Pak Adnan had sent a truck to HQ to request for more, but the stores had not arrived. Yaacob was loading his Bren’s magazines with rounds from his ammo box when he heard a ‘ping’ sound, and saw his platoon mate Abbas topple, a hole in his helmet. “INCOMING!” He roared and dived behind cover. Bullets tore into the sandbags, and into those of his platoon who were too slow to get into cover. Screams resounded along the defensive line, and from downhill, the Japanese charged. Pak Adnan bellowed at his men to get to cover. He cocked his Lewis heavy machinegun and swept it along its arc, firing round after round, buying his men time. The men got to their foxholes and fired back. Rifle shots cracked and mortar rounds boomed, killing dozens of Japanese. But there were more, much too many. It seemed the Japanese commander had decided to storm Bukit Chandu in full force. Thousands of troops swarmed below the hill, surging up towards the thin line of defence the Malay Regiment had thrown up. Artillery rounds started landing among the sandbagged foxholes and bunkers. Malay soldiers were blown apart, limbs separated from bodies. They lay sprawled in gruesome death. Yaacob kept firing his Bren, cutting down Japanese soldiers without mercy. Beside him, Hakim was roaring his fury, as his light machinegun spat death at the invaders. “I’M RUNNING LOW!” Hakim bellowed. Yaacob nodded, he was also down to his last clip. Hakim lobbed one of his frag grenades, into a charging section of Japanese, mere metres away from their entrenchment. The grenade exploded, hurling body parts into the air. Cries from his mates resounded in his ears. Everyone was out of ammo, and still, the Japanese surged towards them, rifles blasting, bayonets lowered in their charge. “HAND TO HAND!” roared Pak Adnan. He emptied his sidearm into the chest of a Japanese soldier, then snatched up a fallen comrade’s bayoneted rifle. A Japanese soldier sprinted for Yaacob, mouth open in a rictus of hatred. Yaacob smashed his Bren’s butt-stock into the man’s face, crushing his nose. Hakim followed with a thrust with his bayonet into the chest, putting the man down. More Japanese soldiers leapt over their sandbags, forcing the Malay Regiment back, inch by inch. The combat had degenerated into a swirling melee of bayonets, parangs and even fists. Yaacob felt a sudden stab of pain in his back. He turned, expecting to see an enemy soldier behind. To his horror, it was Ahmad, a maniacal grin on his face. “Now, Yaacob, you will die, and I will have Laila!” he chortled. Yaacob fell, twisting to get away from the madman. Ahmad leapt onto him, pinning him down. He raised his bayonet, ready to stab it into Yaacob’s heart. The madman’s mouth was frothing, his eyes red with murder. Then he slumped forward, mouth open in an incredulous ‘O’. A foot of steel protruded from his chest. Blood sheeted down onto Yaacob, but he could see Hakim standing over them, panting. “I know, you didn’t need my help,” Hakim grinned. Then a look of sorrow came over him. The gentle giant fell to his knees, blood pumping from several gunshot wounds all over his body. “Tell Laila, I did…my best.” Yaacob groaned as he held the big man’s head. He looked up to see a Japanese soldier pointing his rifle at him. The soldier was furiously trying to cock his rifle to shoot Yaacob. And he had nothing left, not even a knife. He felt something hard in his pocket, and pulled it out. It was his wife’s gift, the saga seeds, in the glass bottle. The Japanese soldier had finally readied his weapon. With an inarticulate cry, Yaacob launched the bottle at the soldier. It hit the man right between the eyes, as his rifle fired. The round tore into Yaacob’s shoulder, and he fell, over his best friend’s body. Then everything went dark. The Istana – Singapore March 1946 “This Military Medal, is duly awarded to Corporal Yaacob bin Bidin, for duty under fire, and gallantry in the service of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, as a soldier of the courageous Malay Regiment, who fought to the last to defend this country,” intoned Lord Mountbatten, as he pinned the shining medal onto Yaacob’s chest. Yaacob stood at attention, eyes front and centre. Pride filled his chest, as well as sorrow, as he remembered the last stand of his comrades. He thought of his best friend Hakim, who had protected him all his life. He thought of his commander, Pak Adnan, who had bravely gone to his death, defying the Japanese. He thought of the mad Ahmad, who had died trying to kill him, in order to gain his wife. And lastly, he thought of his wife, Laila, who was standing below, in the crowd, with tears in her eyes, happy that her husband had returned to her, alive, when so many had died. He fingered the bottle of saga seeds in his pocket. She was right, he was never going to go anywhere without it.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Jun 2013 08:02:27 +0000
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