Index Sons of the Brave New Zealand's Contribution The Triple-Headed Banner The Kelantan Jungle An Over-Suppy of Ration Packs Panthera Tigris Corbetti Attack by the Man-Eater Return of the Tiger Newspaper Report Meeting with the Tiger Hunter Special Operational Reports Combined Operation A US Marine served in the Emergency! An Unenviable Job Further Tiger Victims Return the Malayan Index E-Mail Frank Britain's Small Wars

Return of the Tiger I was still anxious to speak with someone I had something in common, and asked if John Hayward could come over as he and I shared a printing background in civilian life, although John lived in Christchurch. We talked about matters to do with our backgrounds for some time. Recalling those past times lifted me up out of my sullen mood. Our conversation was cut short; however, as John was due to start collecting firewood. I felt much better, but the surrounding atmosphere had become rather quiet. Perhaps the uncertainty of the tiger's whereabouts had something to do with this. Nevertheless, I was overly concerned about our radio communications and was well aware of the loss of contact. There were one or two recent aspects that had me quite confused. Why hadn't the tiger attacked either of the two aborigines while they were hunting for frogs? Was it because there were two people present? Then, what about that old crone back at Perolak village . . . had she actually put some hex on us? Was it possible, after all? I just didn't know, but I was willing to accept a plausible explanation after what we had earlier experienced. Then there was the uneasiness at the prospect that the tiger may very well attack - and soon! I thought about changing the radio frequency in the morning . . . but would base camp be listening out? And what about the batteries? Had Joe remembered to switch the set off? What if they were weak . . . just how long would it be before I made contact? God, I feel tired . . . Those aboriginal guides certainly acted weird . . . Must stay awake . . .   My torn shirt is housed at the Waiouru Military Museum in Waiouru, New Zealand.  Bamboo, as a fuel, has a distinct advantage over other types of wood inasmuch that though wet, it will always burn - provided, of course, that a fire has already been kindled. During the course of the night vast amounts had been gathered to maintain the three fires. Spare a thought, too, for those members who had to remain in an exposed position cutting and collecting bamboo or anything else suitable, with a man-eating tiger on the prowl! This certainly placed an additional strain on already taut nerves. The fires consumed the stocked piles repeatedly, and to replenish supplies meant foraging deeper and ever deeper into the surrounding jungle. In one of the firewood-collecting sprees even the supports for the aerial were felled. It was a long night and I'm pretty sure, no one got any sleep.

The wounds I received from the attack

Still nothing was heard.

There was no traffic on the airways so I started all over again. As I paused to listen I heard two entirely different stations begin transmitting . . . possibly two patrols, or more likely Malay Police jungle patrols. Either way, it was in a foreign language. Their transmission continued intermittently for an hour, however, there was not a thing I could do - until the airways were free. I waited. I was tempted to change frequency, nevertheless, I decided against this move.

My attention was suddenly diverted away from my duties by screams and yelling. The next minute, the two aborigine guides rushed past me at full speed, and both headed for the trees. They virtually were still running up the trunks and when they reached the higher branches they gestured and pointed away from the river, still yelling at the top of their voices. Their cries became screech-like in a high-pitched tone as they continually bellowed out their fears.

Lt Power hurriedly looked all around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. There had to be something for the aborigines to act like this and the only event of major importance to date, had been the tiger. The tiger must have returned! The question was - just where was he?

Lt Power jumped up and shouted out his orders:
"Burdett . . . you stay where you are! You can act as bait . . . You'll be all right. We'll cover you . . . The rest of you, spread out . . ."
"WHAT!" I snapped out in horror. "Out in the open . . . like this? Hang on a minute . . . at least give me my FN!" I blurted out.
But the officer wasn't listening to me. He was far too engrossed. He positioned the scattered patrol into various positions round and about my vicinity. Then he called out:
"Now everybody! Keep a sharp lookout. Stay still . . . and keep very quiet."

I wasn't as confident as the officer in my position. Nor was I at all happy at the prospect of being exposed and used as live bait. Actually, I became extremely nervous. I nestled my FN into a practical position, more as some form of self-assurance and comfort . . . just in case. I cushioned the FN on my left arm, eased off the safety catch and firmly grabbed hold with my right hand; my finger lightly positioned on the trigger, in readiness.

The two guides watched everything from their elevated position; their boisterous antics brought to a standstill. Nevertheless, at that moment I could only afford them one glance, for I was more concerned about myself. My anxiety increased and I could feel the pulsating of my wounds as my heart pounded faster and faster as I nervously peered around for any presence of the tiger. Time appeared to have completely stopped in that oppressive atmosphere, but in reality the time lapse was only 10 minutes. Even so, it seemed an hour! My capability of defending my self was decreasing with every second. My left hand was utterly useless and already my left elbow where I had nestled my FN was experiencing signs of numbness. My right hand had started to tremble with the anticipated excitement and I took long, deep breaths and exhaled to try to bring about calmness. I was sweating profusely, yet the inside of my mouth was arid and I tried to generate some saliva, but even that, I was unsuccessful.

The other personnel in the patrol were also in an uneasy predicament as there was no ironclad guarantee that the man-eater would take the offered bait. He could just as easily select a fresh victim from among them. The jungle was certainly dictating the terms in this scenario. But not for long, as Webb called out: "Let's flush him out into the open!"

This was an extremely dangerous decision to make. To attempt to flush out a man-eater, especially in his own territory is an extremely risky venture. Not one member of the patrol had any previous tiger-hunting experience to call upon, and without doubt, this tiger was no novice! The decision to go ahead with the suggestion was either foolhardy or a brave act by desperate men.

Webb, Hicks, Harris and McKenzie, armed with two Bren guns, a Sterling automatic and a self-loading FN rifle walked abreast away out of camp. Although the position appeared stalemate, our patrol couldn't wait forever for the tiger to make his particular gambit. The action to flush him out, therefore, in my opinion, was indeed, a bold one. The remainder stayed on full alert as the search progressed and there wasn't a sound from anyone or any thing. No screeching monkeys, birds, or even the usually noisy insects. Utter stillness. Even the aborigines remained unusually quiet. The waiting became intense. Nerves were taut. Ears and eyes strained for the least sudden reaction from the tiger.
 

In Hospital

After what seemed an eternity, the search party suddenly reappeared. They had completed an entire sweep of the surrounding jungle, however, neither sign, nor sound was seen or heard of the wily man-eater. He could have been anywhere at all. One thing was certainly correct! He was true to the breed - extremely cunning.

Lt Power ordered everybody to return back to camp.

When assembled, he asked four volunteers to return to Perolak village to inform the villagers of the attack and warn a man-eater was in their area. The men left immediately carrying only their weapons, heading across the Sungei Jak back towards Perolak, just over 3600 metres away.

I felt drained as a result of the anti-climax. I reached out and switched the radio on. The airways were free of traffic, so I sent my call sign several times, paused and repeated another series. I waited for several moments for a reply. Still there was no acknowledgement. This sequence continued for what must have been a good half-hour and the additional strain of not establishing a radio link was telling on my nerves. Into the bargain, great waves of tiredness engulfed me from time to time.

Meanwhile, the four volunteers travelled quickly back along the track. They had just entered a jungle clearing when out of the jungle stepped a group of well-armed aborigines. The group was from Perolak village, and after a brief consultation with our two guides, both parties headed toward the old SAS campsite. There was great commotion as both of the groups entered the camp and as Lt Power met with them they related a tiger had attacked and killed a dog in their village the previous night. It was either an unusual coincidence another tiger should be working in the same area . . . or else the man-eater had proceeded to Perolak shortly after his attack at our site. That's when I thought about the animal that coughed outside my basha door at Perolak. Was it this tiger, after all!

I found out later that tigers mostly have their own strict territory for hunting, so the assumption that the tiger had gone back to Perolak village was correct.

Just then, the radio interrupted any interest I had in the aborigines. The headphones didn't sit on my head properly because of the excessive bandaging, so I balanced them so that only one ear was covered and read the signal being sent. This was a strong signal, in English, well within range and, best of all, was from a New Zealand patrol working back to Maxwell Hill. My adrenalin increased rapidly and my heart beat a faster rhythm with the excitement. I eagerly waited, anxious for the communiqué to finish. Unfortunately, it appeared to take for ages. Then I hastily attempted to contact the signaller at Maxwell Hill. There was no reply! I tried again. Still no reply! Then the signaller who had contact with Maxwell Hill sent me a brief signal. That was when the headphones fell off my head!

I quickly grabbed for them and placed the headphone's earpieces upright on the ground and leaned right over to hear more clearly. It was very uncomfortable, but that was the least of my problems at that stage. I asked the signaller to repeat all of his last message, which didn't take long to write as it was to the point, inasmuch as that he told me to get off their network! I was very, very tired and felt frustrated and my patience had run out for protocol and correct procedure for sending messages. Ordinarily, he was right, of course, but I didn't have any other option.

I sent a special code denoting a priority message and asked that he relay this to Maxwell Hill. There was a minute or two pauses before I received an answer. It was in the affirmative. Now! After five hours' of hold-ups and various setbacks, contact finally was established. I was elated! I breathed a big sigh of relief and glanced at the Rolex. It was 1100 hours (11 a.m.). I shifted my position, stretched out, lay on my stomach and reached for my cigarettes. I took a long drag on a Capstan cigarette. I really needed that fag, as my nerves were not steady.

I told our officer I had finally made contact and he hurriedly pencilled a report announcing the attack, grid references of the LZ and an urgent request for a doctor. The transmitting and relaying to Maxwell Hill was immediate. Understandably, reaction to this news caused quite a stir. The response from Maxwell Hill was delayed and a confirmation of the grid references was requested. I was able to hear each separate transmission and was well ready even before the completion of the message. The double handling of the signals was time consuming, but eventually, I had confirmation and we also had the ETA of a chopper.

Lt Power sent some of the men 180-odd metres to prepare the LZ for the chopper's arrival. In the meantime, I recited all of the Morse code symbols, together with some other special codes, to the Lieutenant while he wrote them down.

To this day, I've never understood why a replacement signaller wasn't sent in with the doctor! At one stage, we had two signallers, now the patrol was in the position of being without a qualified signaller! It followed that in order to send or receive any messages, from then on, they had to write each symbol down and then decipher it later. It must have been a nightmare for all concerned - at both ends of the transmissions.

Lt Power made light conversation while we awaited the chopper and commented: "You'll be able to dine out for years on this story when you get back home!" At that particular instant, I really wasn't interested in that prospect - at all. Nor when I returned home to New Zealand.

The distinctive throb of gyrating chopper blades was reassuring to me and, I'm sure, that every wounded soldier, in whatever battle zone, will know that feeling and, especially, that sound. Forever and a day I will be grateful to the inventor of the helicopter.

I glanced at my Army-issue Rolex watch once more - it was 1345 hours (1.45 p.m.) and directly thereafter, a doctor began examining me. I thought it was a rather hasty appraisal, for no sooner had he knelt down beside me then he was back standing next to Lt Power in quiet conversation. Then I was bundled on to a stretcher together with my gear and carried towards the LZ. The stretcher was slid along the floor and the pilot looked at me, smiled and spoke.

"There's some good news and bad news! The good news is that we're taking off in about five minutes . . . The bad news is that I have to divert back to Fort Chabai first to refuel. So we'll take a little longer getting to Taiping."

Ironically, here I was going to be the first back to Chabai, whereas at the start of the patrol, I was the last to arrive! I really didn't care how long the trip took. I was mentally and physically exhausted, and to be able to relax was a most comforting thought. When we reached Chabai, the doctor prodded me awake to ask if I was ok, and was there anything I wanted. I was hungry, but I knew I'd be having an operation or two, so I couldn't eat anything. I settled for a couple of mugs of water. With the chopper refuelled, we headed off across the Kelantan border into the State of Perak and soon were on the chopper pad at the Kumunting British Military Hospital, in Taiping.

The time was 1450 - nearly 17 hours since the tiger made his attack.

I should like to make special comment on the devotion to duty and caring attention I received from members of the British Military Hospital:
Major Michael Whiteley, M.B.,F.R.C.S., Senior Surgical Specialist
Captain J. B. Jones, Surgeon
Captain N.S. Wright, Surgeon
Captain Evans and
Lieutenant A.O. Langlands
Sister Church, Ward Sister and her nurses.
This attention was in the highest professional manner during the whole 20-odd days I was hospitalised. Your efforts will never be forgotten.

After two weeks' convalescence, I returned to normal duties without any fuss.

Contrary to popular belief, hospital wards can really be interesting avenues of social interaction. For example, the ward was more or less a miniature United Nations Council. Nationalities present were Nepalese (Ghurkha), English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, West Indian, Australian and New Zealand. The causes of their casualty also makes interesting reading. Snake bite, Machete lacerations, Friendly fire (accidentally shot by own ambush), Jungle ulcers, Infected leech wounds, Yaws, Bacillary dysentery, Jungle sores, Broken limbs, and, even tiger bites. I was told of a story of a young Ghurkha who had been gored* by a rogue elephant in Malaya, but the details were sketchy. However, I later read an account of this episode in the book In Ghurkha Company(1).

The story concerns two members of a patrol of the 2/10 Princess Mary's Own Ghurkha Rifles. The two Ghurkhas, while on patrol, were suddenly confronted by an enraged, charging wild elephant. One of the two was initially knocked to the ground and trampled on in the first onset and, while the other Ghurkha escaped, the fallen soldier faced the frenzied animal alone and in terror. The elephant immediately surged forward and gored the Ghurkha with one of his huge tusks, which penetrated and passed completely through his right lower ribs, perforating the right lung. This, understandably, caused deep and severe wounds. Thereafter, the elephant charged off into the jungle creating a terrible commotion. A stretcher party arrived four hours later after walking through very difficult terrain to reach the wounded man. He was hospitalised for two weeks and six months later he had made a recovery.

What happened to the patrol? As the chopper lifted off, the stretcher party quickly made their way back to camp and prepared to leave. They maintained a good pace, though they all suffered from lack of sleep as they endeavoured to cover as much ground as possible while daylight prevailed. They were completely exhausted when they finally stopped to basha-up. With the memory of the attack still fresh in their minds, also the tiger may still be somewhere in the region, the men slung their hammocks in tiers on the tallest trees. One pair of trees supported three sets of the hammocks, one above the other.

A solid-built soldier occupied the uppermost hammock that was over nine metres above the ground. During the night, the solid-built soldier's hammock ties slipped. He crashed heavily on top of a slight-built soldier immediately below him and this shaken man surmised the tiger had pounced on him. With the utmost apprehension, a continuous stream of obscenities punctuated his understandable reaction. The reverberation of his screams shattered the thought of any sleep for the patrol that night. Even after all these years I don't see anything funny about this event. However, the patrol of the Pipes and Drums was finally over. The last leg had taken five days.

Four months later, this same tiger added another victim to his tally and this time, an aborigine, was not as fortunate as I was. The tiger chewed his head off. The same man-eater made another successful attack a month after this tragedy (see newspaper report), near the Fort Brooke area. I have never known the fate of this tiger, although I have heard many fabrications pertaining to his demise.

After the tiger's attack, the most persistent and troubling question that pestered me was: "Why me?"

Consequently, I came to the point where I finally concluded: what did it really matter! For whatever the odds are of surviving a man-eating tiger attack, surely, once was enough. I still have occasions when it all comes back, and I really don't believe that time heals! The scars on the outside have healed reasonably well; on the inside - those are a different matter.

Members of the Pipes and Drums patrol were:
Lt Pat K. Power (D Company)
Cpl Bryan Webb
Cpl Joe Donnelly
Pte Graham Barnett
Pte Frank Burdett
Pte Colin Campbell
Pte Des Cook
Pte Jack Harris (D Company)
Pte John Hayward
Pte Colin Hicks (D Company)
Pte Robin MacGibbon [Deceased]
Pte Colin McKenzie [Deceased]
Pte Morrie Nimmo
Pte Dave Orr
Chan (Interpreter)