Perhaps one day I shall return to Singapore.

I am not sure yet if I really want to, for my first visit, and all that happened, all the sights I saw in Malaya, have left an ache which would tighten if I saw the familiar things again.

The early November morning in 1940 was cold and wet and grey, not the sort of day one would wish to remember after saying good-bye to Home for three or four years. I hurried along to the small railway station in north-east Lancashire; I was late, and had to catch the train which was to take me to the ship.

On that day I was to take the first step towards the realisation of an ambition which had grown within me for more than two years. My name had been with the Crown Agents for a year when the post in Malaya was offered to me in July, and I had waited four months for the passage on the P. & O. steamer. The appointment was that of Assistant Engineer in the Malayan Public Works Service.

The details regarding sailing were secret, and none of my friends knew of my departure. I was thankful for the company of the solitary one who was hurrying by my side, although we could not waste breath on words as we bent our heads against the rain.

The train was beginning to move when I jumped aboard, and I could do no more than shout a hasty 'Good-bye' as the door slammed behind me. That was a good thing, I suppose; lingering farewells are painful and my heart was very full.

I was just twenty-four. This was my first parting from Home, in circumstances which were anxious. Shipping losses in the previous few weeks had been heavy, and I knew that my parents, though behind me in all my decisions, didn't really want me to go East.

As the train gathered speed, and I my breath, I was glad to recognise two friends among the passengers to whom I was able to chatter in an effort to bury my real feelings. We played cards until they alighted a little farther on, and they wished me luck as they left the compartment.

Once alone, I glanced at the small case in the rack, at its large coloured labels, at the huge words 'London to Singapore', and relapsed into a whirlpool of thoughts. What did the future hold for me? Should I be able to get back into a position at home if I were a failure? Would my constitution stand up to the Tropic? In spite of my sound training and enthusiasm for my work, I wondered if my first tour would meet with success.

I was feeling very lonely and a little restless by the time the train pulled into Preston. I had to get out and await a connection, and so went for a coffee to take the clammy chill away. Walking down the platform afterwards I recognised a familiar profile, and hurried to greet Frank Duckworth, one of the members of my old gang of friends in Colne, my home. He was going for an interview with the object of becoming a wireless operator in the Merchant Navy, and we were glad of the opportunity of a chat before we went our different ways.

We travelled together to Liverpool, and he left me at the entrance to the Docks, promising to pass on my good wishes to our mutual friends. I walked along to the already crowded Customs Office, and a few hours later stepped off Canada Dock to go aboard S.S. Narkunda.

My adventure had begun.

The ship was filled to capacity. As I watched the baggage being swung in cradles from the wharf to the forward hold, the labels showed Bombay, Singapore, and Hong Kong. The passengers consisted of rubber planters and Government officials returning from leave, and wives and children going back to their husbands in Malaya or India. The smoke-room had been taken over by sixty Marines, and the Second Class accommodated Dutch youths who were going to Java to join the Dutch Navy, and a few Sergeant Pilots of the R.A.F.

Loading continued all day, and at night the bombers came over. We were not allowed off the ship, and the weather was bad, so we stayed in the lounge whilst the ack-ack battered overhead and the wavering roar of the German aircraft filled the air. No bombs were dropped on the docks, and we went to bed in quietness.

The Narkunda did not sail until the third day, a Thursday. We were pulled out by tugs to the mouth, and took our place in the estuary. I saw a French hospital ship, and an assortment of cargo vessels of all nationalities, with destroyers moving around assembling the convoy. We anchored at two o'clock, and sailed at dusk, leaving the convoy behind.

Sunderlands and Spitfires flew out to see us for the first twenty-four hours, and at last we were on the high seas, sailing north-west. The weather turned colder, and the seas worsened as we reached mid-Atlantic

I would not have thought it possible to feel so lonely in the midst of a crowd as I felt during the first few days of sailing. The weather was bad, so that it was necessary to stay inside for the most part. Miserable groups sat in the overcrowded lounge, reading and knitting and smoking until the air was stifling. A quartet of women made themselves extremely unpopular by playing Bridge in a noisy, thoughtless fashion, and anyone who dared to laugh above the normal pitch or volume of the conversation became the centre of attention.

A very brave man risked his popularity one evening by sitting at the grand piano and playing a lilting waltz in a quiet, restful manner. The effect was to rouse the passengers from their morbid silence to animated conversation, and one or two courageous souls applauded gently as he finished. He smiled, bowed, and played a ballad. Interest grew, and appreciation was more manifest when the second number finished. For half an hour the pianist sweetened the air, and the faces of the passengers told of their quickened interest.

"Who is he?" could be heard running round the lounge, as people sat up to take notice.

He was Mr. Williams, the young Director of Music for Singapore, and he did more to cheer the dullness of that dreary shipload than any other man aboard, for his recitals became a popular feature each evening.

After dinner one evening, as I was preparing to rise, a fellow diner suggested a walk. We went on deck, and paused awhile until our eyes became accustomed to the almost total darkness.

"Your first trip?" inquired my fellow-passenger, with a pronounced Scottish accent.

I told him that it was, and he asked me where I was going. We began to pace the deck.

"Well, we'll be eating together, so we might as well know each other," he suggested. "My name's Young; what's yours?"

I told him, and thanked Heaven for Scotsmen; for had there been all English aboard I am sure I should not have met a soul during the whole of the trip.

We talked about things I wanted to know—about Asiatics, and customs, ways of living, social life, dress, and many things I had still to discover. That walk was the forerunner of many, and the feeling of loneliness passed as Young introduced me to other passengers he had met as the days went by.

A gradual improvement in the weather told us that we were going south, and it was possible to play deck games after a week or so.

On the eleventh day a small cargo vessel was seen very high out of the water flashing signals to us. The message told us that the captain had been dangerously ill for three days, with a temperature of 104, and there was no doctor aboard.

We hove to, and a boat was lowered in the heavy sea. The first attempt was a failure, for the small craft was carried away, and we had to chase after it. The men on the St. Marie II - the ship we sought to assist - let down the sick man on a stretcher into their own lifeboat, and pulled across to our port side. The single blanket was removed from the patient's body, and he lay in his pyjamas on the stretcher, exposed to the cold sea air, panting for breath, his face the ghastly blue pallor of death.

The dying man was strapped in a canvas bag and hauled aboard, his papers and suitcase of clothes following him aboard. As the sailors pulled away they shouted out: "Are we downhearted?" and gave the Churchill salute with sturdy thumbs.

The captain of the St. Marie II died overnight and was buried at sea on the following morning. A fitting end, I suppose, for a man who bad spent his life along the trade routes of the world doing his unspectacular job in peace-time, and was still taking his ship through dangerous seas when war covered half the world and Britain's lifelines were in peril.

I saw flying fish for the first time one Sunday in November. The sea was calm, hardly a ripple showing on the water, the small silver fish leaping from the surface and gliding from crest to crest of the light swell, tipping the water with a tiny fleck of spray, flying for half a mile with incredible speed like gleaming swallows.

On the following Tuesday the shores of Africa came into view, at first a dim grey line in the morning light, then changing to more solid form as the palm clad coastline drew nearer. The Narkunda steamed into the harbour of Freetown, Sierra Leone, past the slender native canoes whose sole occupants waved spear-shaped paddles in salute, to the anchorage opposite the oil tanks.

One side of the wide natural harbour was flat and swampy, with palms and low vegetation in abundance. The other side was fringed with hills, Government buildings and quarters lining the slopes, and a lighthouse on the headland.

We had hardly anchored when a hundred or more native canoes came alongside, the West Africans grabbing the lines and the projections to hold their long, light craft against the strong current. They wore the strangest mixture of clothes. Battered topees, Balaclava helmets, old peak caps from some ships' officers, soft felts, and even a very much blitzed silk topper graced one bullet head. Shirts were various, all very dirty, but originally made of the loudest hues of material. The favourite nether garments were khaki shorts tied with old rope. One or two of this company of performers and salesmen were puffing at briar pipes, others smoked cigarettes thrown to them by the passengers.

The crowd could be classified into three categories: the salesmen, the divers, and the entertainers. The salesmen threw weighted ropes to the main deck, and selling began. In most cases it was barter, an old shirt or jersey passing down the rope in a basket, subjected to a close examination, and exchanged, if accepted, for a dozen oranges or bananas. Handwoven baskets were sold for a shilling to five shillings. Monkeys were offered for sale, but none were bought by our ship.

The divers were single occupants of small canoes, and wore loin cloths only. They called out for 'English pennies' and 'Liverpool sixpence', their huge eyes scanning the crowded decks for signs of money. When a coin was thrown, the diver fell into the water after it, and appeared a few moments later with it between his teeth. 'May the Lord bless your soul' was the favourite formula of one of them as he crawled skilfully back into his craft.

The entertainers regaled us with song, the popular numbers being the 'Lambeth Walk' and 'Run, Rabbit, Run', which took on a new aspect when sung in negro fashion by deep, thick voices, the performers clapping their hands and slapping their thighs and laughing with wicked gurgles and a show of huge white teeth.

We steamed out at 1 p.m. the next day, having filled our bunkers with oil, and passed through the boom and the shallow waters near the lighthouse, where the mainmasts and funnels of two wrecks rose grimly above the surface.

The ship crossed the Equator on Friday morning, and on the following Friday I awoke to see Table Mountain and the Lion Peaks of Capetown rising from the morning mist. The table-cloth was laid on the Mountain, a thin, wispy layer of white cloud, its edges falling gracefully over the edge and filling the crevices like a lacy fringe.

We were pushed into dock by the tugs, and I went ashore, the firm ground feeling strange after twenty-five days on shipboard. It was early summer, and the sun was almost vertical overhead, but not oppressive. I wandered about the streets, drinking in the sights and pausing to buy souvenirs in the shops. The Flower Market was ablaze with colour and full of activity, the negro sellers sitting on the footpath alongside the post office, occupying a whole street. The Fruit Market was busy, peaches, plums, bananas, pineapples and strawberries filling the air with their sweetness.

In the evening a party went to the pictures, and walked through the fully lit streets amongst the neon signs and headlamps - such a strange contrast with England's black-out. We found our way to the Del Monico, which every visitor to Capetown should see. The interior is a perfect reproduction of a Spanish courtyard, with a paved floor, and soft lanterns hanging from stucco walls. Balconies overlooked the central area, and a blue sky with twinkling stars and vaporous night clouds added realism to the tiled roofs and tiny windows.

On the next morning we ascended Table Mountain, first by bus and then by the Cable Railway. The view from the swinging cage as it climbed steeply to a height of four thousand feet was the experience of a lifetime. Table Bay spread out as a map, and the city and suburbs made a motley pattern beneath us. The plains rolled out to the distant foothills, finally losing themselves in a misty blue. At the top we scrambled over the rocks to drink in the air and marvel at the view. A silver plane flew past us, and that was my first view of an aircraft from above. It circled the Lion Peaks and rounded the end of the Mountain, a thousand feet below us.

We returned to the Narkunda, and steamed out of Capetown in the early evening, filled with memories of the grandeur of the scenery and the life and colour of the city.

The days that followed were hot and windless, and the nights a trial, with closed portholes and baffled entrances. The moon was at the full, and we were able to dance on deck, but the breathless air made us perspire, an hour being sufficient to exhaust us. The ship was overcrowded and the laundry was unable to take orders, so I took to washing clothes myself. This soon became an endless task, for it was necessary to change several times a day to keep cool, and I awoke each morning in a bath of perspiration.

We had already tied up in Mombassa, Kenya, when I rose on the 15th of December. We had only a few hours to spare, so I went ashore at once.

Mombassa, normally a quiet, small place, was the scene of great activity on that day. Five troopships came in during the morning, and the docks were full of military vehicles and equipment and men. After a short walk up the street to the post office and the shops, I returned to the ship.

We sailed in the early evening, and I wondered what was brewing in Mombassa. We were soon to know, for a few days later we heard of the attack through Kenya into Somaliland, leading to the successful British campaign in Abyssinia.

One Sunday we saw the Indian coast-line as dawn broke, and entered Bombay later in the morning. I changed some of my money for rupees and went ashore after saying good-bye to some of my friends who were leaving the ship.

The traveller's first impression of Bombay is not a pleasant one. For over a mile, as I walked into the city, I was shadowed-by beggars and hawkers and roadside entertainers. Lame and blind men slept on the foot-paths, urchins appealed for coin, dirty Indians with scraggy beards and ragged clothes tried to sell me lewd post cards. Every twenty yards a gharry drawn by an ancient, undernourished horse drew up and I was invited to ride into town. The smell was awful, there was dust and horse dung everywhere. The prospect of four days celebrating Christmas in Bombay was sickening, and I wondered how I should fill the time.

I watched a hockey match - played on a beautiful grass pitch in the city - and walked around the 'Oval', a public recreation ground. It was Sunday, and the Asiatic population was out in its best clothes. After a time the sultry heat and the dust tired me, and I returned to the ship.

The following morning I wandered round the docks, and spent some time admiring the light cruiser Leander as she lay in dry dock being scraped and painted. I walked aimlessly into the city, and a guide pointed out the principal sights and buildings. At his suggestion I went on to Victoria Gardens and watched the antics of the birds and animals and Asiatic children with their mothers.

The Taj Mahal Hotel was crowded, as were all the other places where Europeans could be entertained, for many had come down to Bombay for their Christmas Holiday. In the evening I went to the cinema, for there was apparently nowhere else to go.

Christmas Eve was a shopping day, and a small party decided to absorb a little local colour by visiting the Asiatic quarters. We walked the dusty streets, looking in at bazaars and eating-houses, the smell of dung and sandalwood and incense filling our lungs, and dust choking our throats and burning into our eyes. The pavement was dotted with huge red patches where the Indians had spat out their filthy betel-nut juice, and I began to feel sick. So this was the East - which I had chosen.

We took a taxi to the European shops, thankful for the relief, and saw the residents buying their Christmas gifts: toys and chocolates and cloth and hardware from England. We had one desire in common when we returned at last to the ship - to be on our way.

Christmas Day was uneventful excepting for the meal - which was provided on board. This was a triumph of the cook's art, and the saloon was gaily decorated with all the Allied flags.

We left at 10.15 the next day - the Narkunda having disgorged its sand ballast and taken on cotton and spirits - said good-bye to the Marines and many of the passengers, and sorted out cabins for a more comfortable journey. Nobody was sorry to leave Bombay, for we were eager to finish the trip, and Christmas had been dull and uninteresting, hot and dry.

Colombo Harbour was the third port to be entered on a Sunday. We anchored in the middle of the harbour and I went ashore on the tender.

The city was quiet, and I was struck by its clean streets and pleasant lay-out. A few shops were open, and I enjoyed an hour bargaining with the shopkeepers for moonstone necklaces and hammered brassware. In the afternoon a youth and myself took rickshaws to Victoria Park, where grew trees of cinnamon, rubber, eucalyptus, bay, papaya, breadfruit, and a host of other fruits. In the Galle Face Hotel we cooled ourselves with a drink and a swim in the fresh-water pool, and walked back along the smart promenade to the jetty. The evening sky was lit by brilliant blue flashes that told of an impending storm, and we had only just reached the ship when rain began to fall.

We left on the following morning and ran into fog when we reached the open sea. As night fell the sky grew leaden and the air heavy. Bright lights covered the sky, and soon we were in the middle of a tropical storm such as I had never seen before. Blinding flashes of lightning lit the decks and sparkled the water, which poured in a single sheet from the deckheads, great rolling crashes of thunder rang through our heads, and the noise of the rain beating on the sea was like a huge river falling over a rock face in a flood. Visibility was nil, and the foghorn was sounded. To our consternation there was a reply at very close range, and the engines were shut off. For half an hour we floated in the storm, unable to see ahead, sounding the horn until the replies grew fainter. At last we moved ahead, and a strong wind sprang up as the storm died down.

New Year's Eve was celebrated with enthusiasm, for it meant not only the beginning of another year, but the end of our journey. One passenger suggested that the New Year Party was a greater success than Christmas, probably because there were more Scotsmen than Christians aboard. The night wore on to the strains of the ship's small orchestra, and we danced until after midnight. The first two hours of my 1941 were spent in the cabin of one of the ship's engineers, drinking toasts and eating nuts, cake, and chocolates. There I discovered that this was to be the last run for the Narkunda as a passenger liner, that she would be a trooper on her next run from home. Many of the engineers were going to leave her at Singapore and join the Ile de France , which had put in at the British port when France capitulated, and was to be taken over by the Allies.

On New Year's night I was one of the passengers privileged to entertain a number of young Naval Ratings who were going to Singapore. We were in the Second Class saloon, and an impromptu concert was arranged. I made six new friends that evening, and have often wondered since what happened to these boys who had left their homes for the first time.

We docked early at Penang on the morning of the 3rd January, 1941, and I watched my baggage ashore. I had a little difficulty at the Customs, for only a Malay was on duty at the time and he spoke no English. He was asking me if I had anything to declare, but I understood not a word. He gave me a list to read. It was written in Romanized Malay, and I was able to recognize a few words which I had picked up by reading elementary Malay vocabularies whilst sailing. Very earnestly and vehemently I assured him that I had nothing of dutiable nature, and he let me go after opening one bag.

I walked from the wharf to the large cream-painted building near by and reported at the Settlement Engineer's Office. There I met an Assistant Engineer named Grehan, who helped me to dispose of my baggage and then took me for lunch.

Grehan was at that time living in a flat, part of a block run by the Government for bachelors. He could see the Elysee Cabaret across the road and the E. & O. Hotel was round the corner. As we ate lunch - made and served by his Malay boy - Grehan talked, I listened. First he told me that my tour would be for four years, not three. The Government always extended the first tour, he said. Then he spoke of the work, and my status. He referred drily to the 'P.W.R.' - his pet abbreviation for 'Prestige of the White Races' - and suggested that there was not much left as far as he could see.

I had no tropical clothes, and the clothes I had put on, although the lightest I had, were heavy on me. I felt hot and uncomfortable, tired and weary. Grehan suggested that I might like to change, and he took me to the Rest House, where temporary accommodation had been booked.

I went to the bedroom. The bed intrigued me. The mattress was covered by a single sheet, and a thin cotton blanket lay folded at the foot. The circular mosquito net was hitched up, and I could see the two pillows at the head, and a long, sausage-like affair about two feet long and nine inches diameter laid lengthwise down the centre of the mattress. The lady of the house laughed at my ignorance and explained that in Malaya one got on to, not into, the bed. The sausage was a 'Dutch wife'. The idea was to twist one's arms and legs round the bolster so that air was free to circulate round the body, thus enabling the sleeper to keep cool. The idea was repulsive to me, and I never used the thing. I have not found out to this day why it was called a Dutch Wife, and I have often wondered what the Dutch thought about it.

That night I went to bed with my mind full of many things.