The eucalyptus trees had come to an end and beyond the unkempt tangle of gnarled rubber from an abandoned smallholding rose the attap[1] roofs, close pressed, and the four towers of the detention camp. Three high barbed-wire fences surrounded it. Four khaki-clad and smiling mata-matas struggled open the ponderous outer gates, and the mechanized procession wormed its way into the perimeter of the camp.

The men got out of the cars, shaking their trousers, which stuck damply to their thighs. Clerkwell paced up and down, breathed largely, and remarked on the excellent quality of the air provided for the detainees.

‘A healthy spot!’ he said impetuously. ‘Beautiful site! I’d like to live here. Wouldn’t you, sir?’ This remark he addressed to Mr Poh, who opened his mouth wide and said: ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ happily chuckling at Clerkwell’s wit, while his glasses gleamed in sudden terror … (‘Was Mr Clerkwell joking, in the subtle manner of the British rulers, or did he really intend to relegate Mr Poh to this salubrious spot one day?’)

Sir Moksa Bakrar, to whom Clerkwell next communicated his delight with the atmosphere, took his handkerchief off his mouth for a moment, then put it in his pocket.

‘Good morning, sir!’ The Chinese interpreter now came up to Clerkwell: ‘I am sorry the Commandant is not here yet. You are a little early. Please to follow me. Ah! Here is Commandant Hinchcliffe!’

Commandant Hinchcliffe had changed his shirt after an early morning hurried tour round the camp, but already was damp right through. Six foot tall, and a great beer drinker, he was one of the kindest men alive. Although doing his job ably, he never forgot that detainees were human beings, and would aver that fully one-quarter of the people in detention camp had done no harm at all and were there by mistake. Of all the commandants, detention camps, Malaya, he was one of the best.

With a clang and drawl of wood the gates of the second enclosure were now drawn open and the party, on foot, walked around the offices, the police barracks, and the huts where ‘white’ detainees, on their way to rehabilitation, were allowed to work during the day, twining rattan baskets, sewing slippers, cutting barbed wire for fences, and machining police uniforms. Hinchcliffe explained about the three grades of prisoners. The ‘black’ grade were the hardened ones, that had never shown the slightest willingness to cooperate; the surly ones; the really bad lot. His burred voice dropped to the whisper of official secrecy. Only a week ago the ‘blacks’ had again formed a communist cell within their enclosure, and some of the ringleaders had been extracted and removed to solitary confinement …