Tells how Senior Aircraftsman John Newton, an engine mechanic by trade, came to be working in RAF Changi’s Technical Wing Disciplinary Office and how he schemed to make his unofficial position permanent.

A Cushy Number

I flew into RAF Changi, Singapore on a moonlit April evening in 1961. After twenty-one hours cooped up with a score of squabbling RAF families, I desperately needed fresh air. Stepping eagerly onto the aircraft’s gangway, I took a deep breath – and choked. You can cut Singapore’s atmosphere with a knife. Even at nine in the evening humidity tops ninety percent.

Having spent a restless night sharing a hut with a tribe of lively cockroaches, I reported to the Station Warrant Officer’s headquarters to collect my blue ticket. Still itching with revulsion, I bent the admin sergeant’s ear. “That vermin infested transit billet should be condemned, Sarge. It’s bloody disgusting.”

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After banishing RAF airman Nobby Clarke’s latest, and noisiest, car from their billet’s forecourt, Newton feels guilty when the car is stolen. With a passionate Nobby urging them on, Newton and Halliday burn up Singapore’s highways in pursuit of the thief.

A Hell of a Lot of Power

Oh hell. That idiot was off again. I raised the needle from my record, got off my bed and went to the balcony. The parking area outside Block 151, RAF Changi, had been floodlit. Under the lamps stood a rakish, silver-finished American car. Its six-cylinder engine roared aggressively as the owner tested his latest modification.

Someone below me yelled, ‘Give it a rest, Nobby!’

An oily hand emerged from the driver’s window, two fingers extended. I sighed. Nobby Clarke’s lewd gesture signalled the end of my record session. Even up on the first floor, it was impossible to listen to music while Nobby played with his new toy. Snooker would have to replace Ellington as the order of the evening.

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A worried airman makes a confession to Newton. He has lost his RAF Identity Card, known as a ‘1250’. It turns out he is not alone. Joining in the investigation, Halliday falls foul of the people who are stealing the cards which could gain saboteurs access to British service establishments.

A Loss of Identity

I was chuckling over an advert for a magic potion in Singapore’s Straits Times

—“Are you Listless; Do You Suffer from the Early Morning Blues”— when, for the first time in days, Flight Sergeant Ellison came into the office. Despite his rest, Chiefy still looked decidedly pasty-faced. I vacated his desk but left the paper.

‘Morning, Chief. How are your kidneys?’ I pointed to the advert. ‘You should try a spot of Wang’s Elixir.’

Chiefy pulled a face as he sat in his chair. ‘All right, Newton, one sarky remark, but only one, yes?’

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Newton and Halliday’s seaside supper is spoilt by the sight of a man terrorising a small girl. Incensed by the horrifying scene —unusual, even in sixties Singapore— the airmen attempt to rescue the girl; a humanitarian act which leads them to a part of the city very few Europeans see.

A Roti at Dawn

Halliday stared over my shoulder, loaded chopsticks halfway to his mouth. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘What’s going off here?’

Pete Murphy and I followed his gaze. A small, ragged child was running across the road, making for the tables standing under the stars. I clicked my tongue in disapproval; even in Singapore City, little girls should be fast asleep in their beds at three in the morning.

Ours was the nearest table to the road. Suddenly we had a fugitive hiding amongst our legs.

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Some disaffected National Servicemen from RAF Changi’s Tech Wing are being incited by Communist agitators to stir up trouble in Singapore City. Worried that strikes and riots might be triggered, Sergeant Rushton from Changi’s Station Warrant Officer’s headquarters charges Newton with sorting it out. He and Halliday hatch a plan.

All Aboard the ‘Changi Flyer’!

As usual, it all started with the phone call.

‘Tech Wing Discip – how can I help?’

‘Sergeant Rushton, Station Warrant Officer’s Office – that you, Newton?’

‘In the flesh, Sarge –’ a bad tempered grunt came over the line, ‘and a very good morning to you too.’

‘You won’t think it’s such a good morning when you hear what I’ve got for you.’

I sighed. ‘Bringer of bad tidings, are you? Go on, Sarge – do your worst.’

‘Two-o-clock this morning the last bus back from Singapore was smashed up by a mob of drunken Europeans. The police put a stop to it, took some names and sent the idiots on their way.’

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Nobby Clarke (‘A Hell of a Lot of Power’) is being financed by Big Joe (‘The Men from the Moon’) to run a saloon car race meeting at ‘The Back of Beyond’ on Changi Camp. Newton and Halliday suspect Big Joe is rigging the races – but how to prove it?

An Ace in the Hole

Halliday planted the two glasses on the table. Sitting opposite me, he looked around the Union Jack Club’s crowded function room, as if to check no one else was listening, before saying, ‘You remember Joe Stukely?’ Servicemen from all over the island came to Singapore City for Saturday’s Tombola Night.

I pulled my beer toward me. ‘Big Joe Stukely – the poker player? The bloke who lost his car to Chan?’

‘Aye.’ Halliday jerked his head. ‘He’s over there, with his pals. It’s not poker any more. He and his mates are running a book.’

‘So our Joe is into organised betting now, is he? What on? What comes last at the Singapore Races?’

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Beset by the hornets that are increasingly making dangerous forays into his billet, RAF airman John Newton muses on the hazards of living in the Far East: bedbugs, snakes, poisonous shellfish et al. And, more importantly – how does he get rid of the hornets before someone is badly hurt?

Beasties that Bite and Sting

Every so often a posse from the health department would descend on RAF Changi’s barrack blocks with fumigating tools. They would strip all the beds, spray the mattresses with atomised kerosene and leave them doubled over the balconies to dry out like so many drunken tramps. A few days later they would repeat the process to kill any bugs that might have hatched in the meantime.

On one such occasion the posse arrived in Block 151 before I had risen. It wasn’t that the health workers were all that early. I had had a late night and then not been able to get to sleep for the noise being made by an airman in a nearby bed.

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Sammi asks for Newton’s help to extract his sister from the machinations of a Singapore gang. The gang is using Sammi’s naïve sibling, Aisha, to filch money and materials from RAF Changi, the Royal Air Force’s largest station in Singapore. It is Newton’s first encounter with Chan, the gang’s boss.

Corporal Reggasammi’s Dilemma

‘Mr Newton? Can you spare me an ever so short minute?’

I turned from the shelf of Registry files I had been searching. ‘Of course, Sammy – I can spare you as many short minutes as you desire. What’s the problem?’

Corporal Reggasammi peered up at me from his desk, his eyes huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘I am so very worried about my sister, sahib. She has got in with a fast crowd – a very fast crowd.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Sammy.’ I gazed down at him. ‘But I’m not sure how I can help –’

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Changi Village’s garage owner, Eng Seng, has lost his newest car. The Tech Wing airman who hired it has also gone missing. Newton and Halliday find the car upside down in a Singapore ditch. But where is the driver? The intrepid airmen risk fire and brimstone to find out.

Eng’s Missing Minx

I answered the phone in my customary manner. ‘Morning. Tech Wing Discip – how can I help?’

‘Hello? Mr Newton?’

‘Speaking.’ No one on Changi’s RAF camp would address a Senior Aircraftsman as Mister. I asked suspiciously, ‘Who is that?’

‘This is Eng Seng, Mr Newton – from the garage in Changi Village.’

‘Oh – is it, indeed?’ Silence at the other end; had my tone offended? Quickly, I added, ‘Morning, Eng. This is a pleasant surprise – what can I do for you?’

‘I’ve lost my new car, Mr Newton. The 1961 Hillman Minx.’

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Newton and his Chief are shocked to hear that an airman has run up a colossal bill with a Changi Village retailer. After his quiet word falls flat, Newton, with Halliday’s help, sets out to show “the Ferret” the error of his ways.

Everything on Tick

I gasped. ‘How much? Bloody hell!’

Flight Sergeant Don Ellison came into the office. ‘Language, lad,’ he said in a disapproving tone. ‘Remember where you are.’

I put down the phone. ‘We have a corporal who owes a Changi shopkeeper almost a thousand dollars, Chief.’

‘Bloody hell!’

I hid a smile. ‘Precisely, Chief.’

‘Corporal who?’

‘Ferris. He’s an instrument fitter – ASF recently loaned him to 48 Squadron.’

‘Ferris?’ Chiefy’s frown deepened. ‘Corporal Martin Ferris?’

‘That’s right, Chief – you know him?’

‘I know of him. A bit of a loner. He’s a photographer and an archivist in his spare time; he’s doing his party piece in the Sergeant’s Mess on Saturday evening – a slide show on Singapore’s historic buildings.’

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Newton is told that valuable high octane fuel is being stolen from installations on RAF Changi and beyond. He and Halliday call on Chan, believing the local gang boss to be a likely suspect. Their visit stimulates an explosive situation.

Fuel for Thought

‘Hello, Jock – you’re straying, aren’t you? What brings you to Tech Wing Discip?’

Junior Technician Jock McDougal hovered in the doorway. ‘I have “strayed”, as you put it, from my office in Aircraft Servicing Flight for a very good reason, Newton.’

The slim, grey-haired Scot continued to survey me thoughtfully; Jock was a great one for choosing his words carefully. ‘Do tell,’ I said patiently.

‘Aye, I will. I believe that our fuel pump has been tampered with.’

‘In what way, tampered with?’

‘Several gallons of fuel have been taken.’

‘Several gallons more than the loss through normal filching, you mean?’

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Halliday joins Newton on a trip to Frazer’s Hill in up-country Malaya, the venue for a jungle survival course. On the sleeper to Kuala Lumpur, Halliday overhears a plot to ambush a member of Frazer’s Hill’s staff. He and Newton seek a way to unmask the potential offender.

Hollywood Jungle

I blew cigarette smoke at the NAAFI’s ceiling. ‘I’ve been lumbered.’

Halliday laughed. ‘So what’s new?’

‘What’s new is Chiefy has volunteered me for a jungle survival course.’

‘Frazer’s Hill? Where the MO sent him a couple of months ago?’

‘Yes. I extracted the Michael once too often – I’m away upcountry on Sunday week. It seems there aren’t enough keen types signing up so Chiefy put me down for a basinful.’

Halliday looked thoughtful. ‘Book a place for me, Zack. My Chief has been getting a bit jumpy lately – be good to be out of his sight for a couple of weeks.’

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Mary’s bar in Singapore’s out-of-bounds “Great World” is being terrorised by three airmen. She appeals to Halliday for help. On learning that the bullies work on Tech Wing, RAF Changi, Halliday talks a reticent Newton into visiting the bar. But, of course, it is Halliday who engineers a solution.

It’s a Great World

I gaped at the fiery-headed airman coming into Technical Wing’s Disciplinary office. In the six months I had been stationed at RAF Changi I had never before seen Halliday sporting the marks of battle. ‘Gawd help us, Red – what hit you?’

‘A fist – what d’you think?’

‘It’s not like you to get into a brawl – what happened?’

‘Some bully-boys from Changi were wrecking Mary’s bar. I tried to stop them.’ Halliday shrugged. ‘There were three of them…’

‘In the Great World,’ I stated. ‘Out of bounds – like you.’

‘Okay, okay – that doesn’t make it all right to destroy someone’s business, does it?’

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Technical Wing’s Adjutant, Warrant Officer Lesley Pocket, is in a stew. An important parade is imminent, involving all RAF Changi’s personnel. But Chiefy Ellison, charged with organising Tech Wing’s reluctant participants, goes sick. Only the overworked Adjutant can rescue the wing’s poor reputation. Newton, anticipating disaster, keeps his head down.

Mr Pocket’s Parade Ground Blues

The hatch at my shoulder slid open. Technical Wing’s Adjutant, Warrant Officer Pocket, peered into my office. ‘Morning, SAC Newton,’ he said. ‘Is the Flight Sergeant not in yet?’

‘He phoned to say he’s going sick, sir.’

Mr Pocket’s face dropped. ‘Oh, no – not today of all days.’

My Chief, Flight Sergeant Don Ellison, had picked a very good day to go sick. Tech Wing’s CO, Wing Commander Laurence Gilpin, had called a meeting to discuss RAF Changi’s upcoming inspection by the Air Officer Commanding Far Eastern Command.

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Charlie Song blows a mean horn – a very mean horn. Entertainment in Mary’s bar is obliterated whenever Charlie plays in Gloria’s Club opposite. Halliday plots to cut Charlie out. Meanwhile, Newton is directed by Chiefy Ellison to look out for a junior officer who’s gone AWOL in the Great World.

Music, Maestro, Please

Halliday leaned across the table. ‘Good, isn’t he?’

I nodded, too busy listening to the trio to speak. The piano player Halliday had remarked on clearly modelled his style on that of Oscar Peterson. His trills and runs never missed a beat and the melody —‘Have You Met Miss Jones,’ a Peterson favourite— was always discernable amidst his delicate improvisations. The bassist and drummer —both Chinese— were pretty good too, forming a discreet but solid foundation to Eddie Davenport’s flashing fingers.

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Unwittingly employed as a carrier of stolen money, RAF airman John Newton, of RAF Changi, Singapore, sets out to return the money to its rightful owner and to bring an errant fellow airman to book. His quest acquaints him with the highest and lowest strata of Singapore society.

Out of Bounds

I stared up at the high brick wall. Only windows; no doors or gates. I’d have to return the way I’d come. Except that I couldn’t remember the way I had come – I was lost. Lost late at night in a strange city, on a tropical island that, for me, had lived only in pictures until a short month ago. I’d have asked for directions – if I’d dared. The only people I’d seen during the past half hour were Chinese, all looking ready to cut my throat – I’d clearly strayed into one of Singapore City’s less wholesome districts.

A window slid up in the wall that had baulked me. A man poked his head into the alley. Flame coloured hair, pugnacious jaw.

His eyes met mine. ‘Anyone about?’

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Believing he is being unfairly victimised by Pahkar, his 48-bed billet room’s bearer, Royal Air Force Aircraftsman John Newton calls on a streetwise airman, Red Halliday, to help him get his own back. Unfortunately, Halliday’s ploy brings about frightening consequences.

Pahkar’s Revenge

‘A very good morning to you, sahib.’

I looked up. A round-faced Indian stood in front of the desk. Eyebrows raised, I returned his greeting. ‘Morning, Pahkar. What brings you to Tech Wing Disciplinary?’

My surprise at seeing my barrack room’s bearer in my office was increased a hundredfold when Pahkar placed a small bottle on the desk. He waved away my frown. ‘Just an unworthy token to show my appreciation, sahib.’

‘Appreciation? What for?’

‘Ah…’ Pahkar touched the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘For perceiving what a difference a full billet has on our comfort, Senior Aircraftsman Newton.’

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Barely settled in at RAF Changi, Big Joe Stukely and his poker-playing henchmen are already ripping off unsuspecting airmen. Halliday and Newton take a hand to see fair play.

The Men from the Moon

Placing a lily-white forearm on the windowsill, the burly khaki-clad airman thrust his head and shoulders into the office: RAF Changi’s Technical Wing Disciplinary and Manning Control.

‘We’ve all come to Singapore from the same squadron in the UK. We’d like to keep together. You’ll fix that for us, won’t you, squire?’

I leaned back in my chair so that I could study him and his companions. Senior Aircraftsmen J Stukely, T Burton and F Boggis. Their blue tickets told me they had journeyed from Bomber Command’s RAF Upwood, an operational station on the edge of the Fens. An unprepossessing trio.

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Once again, John Newton’s comfortable sojourn in the Disciplinary and Manning Control Office is in jeopardy. RAF Changi’s new Technical Wing Adjutant doesn’t believe an engine mechanic should be running the wing’s affairs. With a little help from his friends, Newton endeavours to show him the error of his ways.

The New Broom

Our new adjutant didn’t let Warrant Officer Pocket’s seat get cold. Flight Lieutenant Maurice Harley took possession early on the Monday after Mr Pocket’s weekend departure. The first I knew of the take-over was when the small hatch in the wall between Tech Wing Discip and the Adjutant’s office flew open and a grey haired stranger looked through. I noted the two light blue bars on each of his epaulettes.

A pair of belligerent eyes looked me up and down. ‘Flight Sergeant Ellison?’

‘He’s on his way in, sir. Shouldn’t be long.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Chiefy’s… the Flight Sergeant’s clerk, sir. SAC Newton.’

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Tech Wing’s Adjutant, Warrant Officer Percy Locket, is to retire after 40 years’ service. Chiefy Ellison promises a big bash to see him off. However, Communist agitators spoil the party. Can Newton, with Halliday’s reluctant help, save the day?

They Don’t Make ‘em Like that Anymore!

Flight Sergeant Don Ellison cleared his throat. ‘You know we’re going to lose Mr Pocket shortly, don’t you?’

‘Not to worry, Chief. Warrant Officers are like bad pennies – he’ll turn up.’

‘Very droll, lad – you know what I mean. Les has come up for retirement.’

‘I can’t believe he’s that ancient.’

‘Fifty-five’s not ancient,’ Chiefy protested. He sighed. ‘Although I have to admit – forty years in the mob sounds like a lifetime – he joined the RAF as an apprentice in ’22.’ Taking up a batch of leave applications, Chiefy said sadly, ‘He’ll be missed – they don’t make ’em like that anymore.’ Starting to sign the forms, he added, ‘Our new adjutant will be a commissioned officer.’

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