My interest in Kuala Kangsar District grew as I travelled about and came to know it better. The Engineering services were covered by Horsley and myself, and in order to supervise everything adequately I found myself clocking up 3500 miles per month. The District went as far North as the border with Siam (now Thailand), its northernmost village being Grik. To the southwest was the coast. Between those extremities there was infinite variety of scenic beauty, and wildlife in abundance - wild boar, elephants, tigers, snakes and birds. Sakais, the last remaining Malay aborigines, blowpipe hunters of the forests, were to be found in the jungle around Grik. Then there were the pure Malays, who spoke the true Malay language, not the corrupted version affected by the English and other ethnic groups.

For sheer breathtaking tropical beauty the small island of Pangkor lying at the mouth of the River Dindings would be hard to beat. Silver sands with palms, a native village, and small boats lying off a rough wooden jetty, where mackerel were spread out to dry in the sun. Small weekend bungalows were on one side of the island, and a wooden Rest House for visitors. Guests could run down the beach to swim in the warm clean green sea, or lie beneath the palms in the moonlight watching the sparkling phosphorescence and the white reflections flashing from the ripples. The emerald bay gave up its fish to drowsy Malay fishermen who drifted in their sampans on the quiet water. This was a honeymoon island if ever there was one, and that was going to be my choice of a honeymoon retreat when the time came.

As I covered the District and became accustomed to its work the early difficulties of identification of the overseers and clerks, the coolies and drivers, receded so that working relationships and the giving of orders became more relaxed. Out of this atmosphere grew friendships and the exchange of confidences. Horsley appeared to me to disapprove of my attitude to the staff. Personal relationships were nothing to do with his way of getting things done. In truth he was probably afraid to get too friendly with anybody - for all his toughness, he was a shy man. But he regarded so many as being rogues and shirkers, whereas I was green in the Colonial Service. For all that, he never interfered with my methods, and very soon I was drawing closer to the men under my control. As the constraints were loosened, so the personal details were divulged and confidences exchanged as between friends.

Two Eurasian technical assistants and a Malay coolie figured among the men who enriched my experience in those days. One was William Brawn, the son of a German father and Chinese mother; Robert Partridge, son of an Indian Army soldier and a Tamil mother; and a Malay of doubtful lineage called Zakariah.

William Brawn had taken up the new post of Workshop Foreman two days before I arrived in the District. Horsley had converted a few ramshackle sheds and a dump into a yard and workshop, and obtained permission to appoint a properly qualified mechanic to attend to the fifteen lorries and twelve road rollers, concrete mixers and other plant for the district. Previously a few fitters of mixed qualities had tinkered with the plant under the supervision of a Tamil technical assistant named Chelliah, whose training was in roads and buildings.

The handover from Chelliah to Brawn was not going at all well. Chelliah was happiest when he exercised power over the general labour force. He was a fine figure of a man, six feet tall, of powerful build, black as coal, with flashing teeth and soft large eyes - a handsome and rather vain man, full of his own importance. He was hardworking, and maintained strict control over his four hundred strong labour force. In complete contrast Brawn was white-skinned, about five feet nine tall and thin as a taper. Chelliah was a high caste Hindu, a vegetarian. He once expounded to me his religious beliefs; a tiny flower in the grass must not be bruised by clumsy feet. Brawn was a sa-tengah - halfcaste - of doubtful lineage and no religion. Blood as much as personal jealousy was the clue to Chelliah's attitude. It was unfortunate that Brawn had to relieve Chelliah of the duties of plant and vehicle maintenance, and apparently Horsley had not made clear to Chelliah that the running of the workshop was no longer in his hands, and that Brawn was solely in charge of that section. Brawn was on probation in an entirely new post which had not been clearly defined. Chelliah resented the loss of power, and complained to Horsley whenever the slightest hitch occurred, such as a lorry breakdown, enlarging on the incident in his reports to Horsley. One vehicle broke down on road test after engine overhaul, and it was found that a connecting rod had pushed through the piston and cylinder wall. Spares were difficult to obtain - in fact all the plant was pretty ancient because of supply problems - so that the major damage was a serious matter. Brawn was almost in tears, and Horsley had to be persuaded to give him another chance. Chelliah was in high glee. At the risk of being accused of taking sides, and because I knew that Horsley's scheme for a workshop reorganisation was right, I took Brawn into my confidence, warned him of Chelliah's treachery, and drafted a list of foreman's duties for both of them. Gradually Brawn increased in confidence, and it was obvious that he was a good mechanic. As for Chelliah, his resentment remained a problem, but he was warned against making damaging innuendoes against other staff.

In the meantime the Japanese were becoming a source of anxiety. Our Civil Defence work increased, and the new workshop was in great demand. As the threat of War came nearer and Government offices prepared their schemes for emergency organisation, the workshop became a vital factor, for transport and repairs were essential in our plans for road repairs, bridge repairs, demolition and rescue work. Brawn co-operated fully, and showed a keen interest in the final scheme. He confessed to me that within a week of starting at Kuala Kangsar he had applied for a job elsewhere. Now he intended to stay, and asked me to call on him whenever I felt he was needed. His loyalty was needed sooner than we thought.

On the Eastern side of the District was a small depot called Sungei Siput. The overseer in charge was Robert Partridge, a youngster of 24 - my own age - newly passed out of technical training. He was of medium build, dark-skinned, black haired, with a thin moustache, and large soft eyes with long lashes; a handsome young man of film-star appearance. He impressed me with his enthusiasm, and soon he was seeking advice on practical matters. After a little while he began to confide in me, and one day he told me of his wish to marry a pretty Eurasian girl. His monthly gaji - salary - was only eighty dollars. As a Eurasian he had to live and eat like Europeans on the wages of an Asiatic. He referred to 'the problem of the Eurasian'. In his circle of friends were a number of lovely girls who literally ran around after any European who was susceptible. The Eurasian tried for the most part to forget his lineage, to ape the European, and to marry one. The sa-tengah girls were generally dark eyed and full figured, matured early, and eager to please. In Penang and Singapore a man could dance with a stunning Eurasian girl for twenty five cents, or sevenpence in 1940s currency. Most of the girls were prostitutes. No wonder that Partridge was worried. He wanted to marry his girl before she was picked up.

The Overseer at Grik, some seventy miles north of Kuala Kangsar, died and had to be replaced quickly. An honest and reliable man was needed in that remote section, and I chose Partridge. He was delighted at the chance to improve himself and his future.

On my fortnightly inspections Partridge would meet me in Lenggong and share my car as we went from job to job. This gave us a chance to talk privately, and he told me that he was able to save more in Grik than in Sungei Siput. He asked me if he should take the chance to marry. As if I knew. But I encouraged him by giving him a day off to buy the ring. When he went to Ipoh to do so he realised that he had no idea of the size; he would have to wait to hear from his girl, who lived in Malacca.

I never heard whether or not he bought the ring. It would have been nice to have known.

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One of the most menial tasks for the labour force was that of a coolie in a road gang. A coolie would work with a changkol, rather like a mattock, and a shallow wicker basket. On a road repair job the waterbound macadam road had a foundation of metalling which was sealed with stone dust or red laterite - a sort of soft red stone-cum-clay - then finished off with hot bitumen and chippings. Every stage of the work was dusty, backbreaking and hot, and one had to be patient with the coolies as they scooped the stones or the laterite into the baskets and carried them on their shoulders to the men who were spreading and rolling. Even so, some were a good deal quicker than others, and the idlers had to be chivvied at times. So it was quite in the ordinary course of my work that one day I noticed a coolie idling by the roadside. He picked and scratched at the pile of stones, scooping them into his basket so slowly that it showed.

"Who's that man?" I asked the sub-overseer. The Tamil laughed. "Oh, that's Zakariah, sir. He's a little soft in the head." "Better tell him to get a move on; he's a bad effect on the others." I left it at that.

A few evenings later I was relaxing at home after work, when I heard the scuffling noise of feet on the gravel drive, and a weak nervous voice calling "tuan, tuan." I went to the door. There stood Zakariah, clasping and cracking the knuckles of his hands like dry twigs. He saluted by tipping his black velvet songkok slightly, and I asked him what he wanted.

"The work, tuan. It is very hard. Perhaps the tuan will find me something easy." Crunch, crack, the finger joints accompanied the whining voice like a character from Dickens, except it was in Malay. The sound made me cringe. "Baik, tomorrow I shall speak to the Overseer." Zakariah departed.

Next day I asked for the man's record card, and the information on it made me open up a series of enquiries. The section describing his race said 'Chinese turned Mohammedan' Chinese! But Zakariah wore the sarong and songkok of a Malay, looked like a Malay, spoke Malay.

Chelliah gave me some interesting details. Zakariah was something of a celebrity in his way. Many times the road gang coolies had been surprised to see the Sultan's car, or one from the Istana, draw up, and Zakariah would drop his changkol or basket to talk to the prince. It appeared that Zakariah in fact lived in a dwelling on the edge of the Istana grounds. All sorts of rumours went round about the reasons for the Royal patronage. Apparently he was half Chinese, half Malay.

Chelliah was not surprised that Zakariah had called on me. He was, he said, always complaining of a weak neck, and unable to carry a basket. When I mentioned the matter to Horsley, he smiled and told me to find the man a light job. He had been set on at the request of the Sultan himself. Better not ask too much, just find him something easy to do.

We tried again; Zakariah was transferred to a lorry-loading gang, so that between loading and unloading he would be riding on a lorry. He could rest his precious neck between jobs.

One day at a quarry the crusher driver and I were in discussion when we noticed a disturbance amongst the coolies. From the middle of a group near a lorry the by now familiar shambling half hopping splay footed Zakariah came up to us, saluted nervously and stood before me with cracking and crunching fingers, waiting for permission to speak. When I asked him what was wrong, he pointed to the back of his neck - "The work, Tuan, it is too hard. When I carry on my head, it hurts here - it is weak" - and he turned with head lowered to show me the place.

This exhibition was much enjoyed by the other coolies, and they had to be got back to their work. I promised to look into the matter, and later that day Chelliah was asked for suggestions. Only one thing remained. Zakariah could become a lorry cleaner. There was a small lorry which ran about town with stores. The transfer was arranged.

A few days later Brawn and I were talking in the depot workshop yard when I saw the town lorry in a shed. From behind the lorry emerged Zakariah; he saluted with a grin and a "Tabek, tuan", and fussed around the lorry, checking the radiator and tyres, making a great show. Brawn laughed. "Old Zakariah likes his new job," he said.

Old Zakariah was the last man to work for PWD Kuala Kangsar in 1941. The experience with Zakariah was of course not the only one concerning the welfare of the labour force. The relationships between the supervisors and the coolies gave me cause for concern, especially with men like Chelliah. There was an arrogance, an attitude of contempt, on the part of even minor supervisors over the humble coolie which I found disturbing. The supervisors themselves were not all particularly highly trained, and knowledge of English seemed to be the one common factor which gave them status over the general labour. Because of the lack of concern by some supervisors there were injustices. Some of these came to light in indirect ways, demanding urgent action. For instance, medical evidence came to my notice concerning sickness in the coolie lines at the Iskandar Bridge. Lines, or small settlements of workers' bungalows, were provided close to depots or places with a constant demand for labour. The Iskandar Bridge was a steel structure which had a permanent painting gang. The paint didn't last long in the humid tropical atmosphere, and there was a constant programme of scraping, wire brushing and repainting. We used lead paint. Coolies were suffering from lung trouble, eye trouble and skin trouble. We designed a light hood of cotton with a plastic window to cover the head completely, and an investigation was started into alternative types of paint. But until we took over from the supervisors in this way they had merely left the coolies to go sick. In another case there was trouble when a supervisor tried to move a gang into an empty group of coolie lines. The superstitious coolies were convinced that an evil spirit dwelt in the shallow well which served the lines. We found that there had been a high sickness incidence there when the lines were previously in use. Disinfection and chlorination were no answer to superstition. The obvious answer was to seal the well and sink another nearby.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

News from home was not good, and as 1941 wore on we became aware of the Indian and Gurkha troops being poured into Malaya. Convoys of lorries wound along the narrow roads, and the inexperienced drivers frequently came to grief in the deep roadside ditches and at the sharp bends and narrow bridges. The Main Trunk Road, which ran North to South the length of the country west of the central ridge of mountains, was for the most part only eighteen feet wide, and totally inadequate for military traffic. Loop turning points and passing places had to be made along important routes, and we laid down several diversion roads through semi-jungle to bypass bridges which might be targets for bombers.

In July the Vichy Government of France agreed to the occupation by the Japanese of vital strategic parts of French Indo-China. Wavell was appointed C-in-C India. In August President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill met in the Atlantic Conference.

Officers of the 2nd and 9th Gurka Regiments made inspections of our airfield at Sitiawan, and we trudged round in the spiky grass siting pill-boxes and gun-pits and barbed wire for defence of the field.

Thousands of Australians entered the country and began intensive training in the semi-jungle. The European clubs became centres of hospitality for the AIF, and the women thronged round the new arrivals, entertaining, training and generally spoiling them, whilst their husbands put in another two months' camp with the Volunteers for the second time in a year.

I had my medical in Taiping, and was awaiting call-up, but a week before my camp was due HQ rang to say that I was reserved until 31 December owing to the nature of my PWD duties. So back to square one, reserved again as I was at home.

One day as I was returning from an inspection in Grik I met a convoy of lorries laden with Indian and Gurkha troops heading north towards the northern border of my District with Siam.

Camps were being set up in the rubber estates, and soon the country seemed alive with troops. The tranquil rural atmosphere of my beautiful Upper Perak was undergoing a transformation; and I was enjoying it.

We had to rush on with the construction of air-raid shelters, blast protection for key buildings, and elaborate schemes of blackouts for hospitals - not easy in the tropical climate. Practice blackouts and 'brown-outs' were held. It was an Oriental, tropical version of the ARP activity of 1939 at home. Hilarious if it had not been deadly serious.

In Malaya, as in England in the early days, ARP was a bit of a joke - a new game with nobody really knowing the rules. One middle-aged man fussed around the town concocting weird and wonderful well-meant schemes of emergency organisation. A wealthy Asiatic gentleman presented a mobile Canteen to the District, and this was handed over with some pomp and ceremony outside the Court House on Government Hill.

Our first ARP exercise was a fiasco. My rescue and demolition organisation laid on a fake burst in a water main, to test the repair gang. The local population stood watching this free entertainment as the PWD lorries rushed up and discharged their cargoes of men and tools, flares were lit, and a pile of rotten timber and straw was set ablaze. The brand new auxiliary fire engine dashed to the scene, but could not reach the blaze because of the excited crowd. By the time a way was cleared the fire was going well. Then the fire engine broke down, and the fire had to be allowed to burn itself out. A group of Asiatics ran around the spectators, flashing torches and fussing around to no purpose. The ARP Controller admitted that he had no specific duties for these Wardens, and his idea of their duties was traffic and crowd control. It was good entertainment, but not ARP.

As I had seen ARP develop at home, and had experienced the sterling work of Civil Defence personnel in the London Blitz, the inefficient and almost non-existent organisation in Kuala Kangsar worried me. Of course the conditions were vastly different. The small community of Kuala Kangsar did not compare with anything in Britain. The Asiatic was easily shaken, very emotional, and liable to panic. He had no grasp of modern warfare, European style. And there had been no preparation of the general public for such things as bombs and fire.

All Government offices had been issued with stirrup pumps, and Brawn made fire buckets, sand bins and scoops at our PWD workshop. However little was done elsewhere, our men at least would be given as good a basic training as we knew how to give them. Imitation incendiary bombs were made from dry coconut husks soaked in kerosene, filled with bitumen, sugar and salt. A practice was held outside the office one afternoon, the 'bombs' being lighted and thrown on to the parking area. For over an hour I grovelled on the ground, demonstrating the use of the stirrup pump and switching the teams so that each man took his turn with the jet, the pump and the water-carrying. We were all dirty, wet and hot when the exercise was over. On other occasions talks were given on fire-fighting methods, on fire-watching duties, and on our organisation for repairs, rescue and demolition. I went beyond the scope of my duties, there being an ARP organisation in theory, but its leaders were at a loss as to how to make it work or to organise training.

The trouble was that the idea of a war in Malaya seemed so unlikely, in spite of the troops and all the military preparations. At the Club there seemed to be few who thought the Japanese would strike. They were afraid of America, they had their hands full with China, Malaya was too strongly defended - those were the sort of comments based on wishful thinking. And life went on in that Fool's Paradise in Kuala Kangsar.

The Sultan's birthday was celebrated with the usual pomp and ceremony, the two mosques being floodlit in colour, all the paths and roads to the Istana being edged with flickering wick-lamps on bamboo poles. We floodlit the Central Mosque with different colours on each side, so that its appearance changed as one drove along the twisting approach road. Very beautiful, most artistic, quite an entertainment, and nothing to do with War. That was on 14 November 1941.

The local Japanese were under constant surveillance, day and night, for weeks before war broke out. The photographer Suzuki who had taken my photograph a few months earlier said to the Police Superintendent, "I shall be leaving Kuala Kangsar soon, and when I return I shall be District Officer." Then he disappeared; he probably led his countrymen through from Siam (Thailand) into my District : he was known to be a keen rambler with a good knowledge of the jungle paths.

We heard on the news that a convoy was seen sailing up the Gulf of Siam. The Volunteers were mobilized. Urgent messages came through for us to commence the defence works at Sitiawan, and Horsley went down there, leaving me in charge of the District.

It was a stranger's disembodied voice over a crackling telephone that gave me the news. The Japanese had bombed Singapore. They had also landed at Kota Bahru and Patani on the north-east coast. That was on 8 December 1941, and Malaya changed overnight.