The Rose of Singapore Read Free

“Hmm! Quite impressive!” Then, “Quite impressive!”
    â€œWhat is, sir?”
    â€œYour file. You seem to have had everything in the book during your stay at KL.”
    â€œI have been sick an awful lot,” acknowledged Peter.
    â€œYes,” said the medical officer.
    Peter was not sure what that ‘yes’ meant, so he remained silent.
    A minute or two passed before the MO said, “I see that you broke a few records while at RAF Kai Tak, Hong Kong.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œWell, there’s a notation here about you. Hmm. Let’s see now. Yes, almost a year ago, and written by the medical officer at Kai Tak, stating that you were the youngest, shortest and lightest airman at that time in the whole Far Eastern Command. That was in mid-fifty-one. It appears that, probably out of curiosity the MO at Kai Tak took the trouble to check out these statistics. Where you aware of his findings?”
    â€œYes, sir. He called me to the sick quarters one day and told me.”
    â€œYes.” Again silence for a minute or more before the MO continued, “At that time your weight was seven stone, or ninety-eight pounds. But I note that just one week ago you weighed in at just over six and a quarter stone. We can’t have that, Saunders. If you keep this up, soon you’ll be nothing more than skin and bone, a skeleton on my hands.”
    â€œYes, sir. I’m aware of that,” said Peter.
    The MO removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and wiped perspiration from them with a clean, very white handkerchief. “Bloody hot, isn’t it?” he said.
    Peter acknowledged that fact with a simple, “Yes, sir.”
    Replacing his spectacles and again looking at the file on his desk, the MO suddenly said, “On medical grounds I’m sending you down to Changi in Singapore, where you can take a rest and recuperate. I’m giving you two weeks sick leave before you report for duty there.” Still studying the file, he paused for a few moments before looking up and saying, “I’ve managed to secure you a posting at Changi. Until you are tour ex, Changi will be your permanent posting.”
    Hardly believing what he had just heard, LAC Peter Saunders let out a deep sigh of relief. It was as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, and for the first time in the long four and a half months he had been stationed at KL he felt he had something to smile about. “Thank you, sir,” he said, almost in a whisper. It was if he was having a beautiful dream listening to the medical officer who had resumed speaking.
    â€œYour replacement should arrive today, so I suggest you report immediately to Station Headquarters, have your clearance chit signed by the end of today, and we’ll have you flown out of here tomorrow on the first plane bound for Singapore.”
    â€œThank you very much, sir,” said Peter, rising to his feet. “I can’t thank you enough, sir.”
    The medical officer smiled in a kindly manner. “Good luck, Saunders, and good health,” he said, rising to his feet and shaking hands with the skinny little airman. And as he ushered Peter to the door, he said, “I hear it’s an altogether different life at Changi.”

2
    A steady hand and a heavy finger had made them; six capital letters carefully grooved into the sand a few feet above the water’s edge to form the word ‘SHEILA’. Soon, the incoming tide would wash over and erase the word but Sheila herself was still very much a sweet memory, far from being forgotten by the writer of that name in the sand.
    Midway between the name written in the sand and where the previous tide’s high water had left a thin, ragged line of seaweed twenty feet up the beach, two youths lay on their backs, soaking up the sun, their bodies, clad only in skimpy swimming costumes, facing a cloudless Singapore sky. The two were in quiet conversation,