The following anecdores about Doc Evans were included in some Regimental correspondence recently passed to me by Colonel Denis Wood, having been sent to him by Major John Lamond . We are grateful to Denis for agreeing to their publication here.
Lieutenant Colonel Herbert ‘ Doc ‘ Evans MBE DL (1915 -1998) was commissioned into 9GR and transferred to the 2nd Goorkhas in 1948, serving with the 1st Battalion during the Malayan Emergency. He retired from the Army in 1968 to live in Pembrokeshire, where he was appointed Deputy Lieutenant of the County. He earned his nickname from having been a medical student in Edinburgh before the start of the Second World War. He was also a fine tenor and was said to have had some training as a singer. Indeed, after a convivial evening at a Bugis Street Chinese restaurant in Singapore , he would often sing an aria from his favourite operas and attract a small but bemused audience.
Kalo Paltan
A Welshman hailing from Pembrokeshire, Doc was one of a fast disappearing breed; a genuine eccentric left over from the War who did not give a damn for anybody or anything except good companionship, Anchor beer and grand opera . In 1948, when Doc was Brigade Major Brigade of Gurkhas in Seremban, his wife had given up and returned to the UK to manage their estate, complaining about his eccentricity and the amount of time he spent drinking. On one particular occasion during an official visit to 1/7GR, he joined several like-minded individuals for a post-lunchtime session in their Officers’ Mess, where outside he had parked his small MG two-seater. The Mess was of a bamboo and rush construction, which was common in those days in Malaya, being sensible, cool and attractive. Pictures were hung and regimental silver displayed. It was very much the Battalion’s home.
Long after lunch, and while Doc was going through his operatic repertoire in his fine tenor voice, including a rendition of his favourite song ‘Santa Lucia‘, his ‘ friends in the ‘kalo paltan‘ [black regiment, named after their all-black mess kit] thought it would be amusing to jack up the rear axle of his MG on bricks. Eventually, and much later that afternoon, Doc emerged somewhat unsteadily, climbed into his car, put it into gear and attempted to drive off. Not comprehending what was wrong, he moved rapidly through the gears and trod heavily on the accelerator. The car began to shudder as the wheels spun madly and the axle threatened to bounce off the bricks. The windows of the Mess were full of grinning faces in the know, but their grins soon turned to horror when the MG suddenly shot forward like a whippet out of a trap and crashed straight through the Mess wall. Perhaps by this stage, Doc had an inclination of what was happening, for he was clearly out of control and could do nothing as the car flew on and out of the other side of the Mess, while he disappeared in a burst of song and alcoholic haze, but leaving two large holes in the shape of an MG and Doc’s head … or so the story goes.
Target Practice
Doc was appointed 2IC 1/2GR on three occasions during the Malayan Emergency, and in 1954 was with Tac HQ located near the main road in a rubber estate a few miles south of Kota Tinggi. As life at ‘ Tac ‘ was all too humdrum for Doc, he was in the habit of livening it up by visiting friends outlying company bases.
The usual means of travel in those days, when ambush was an ever-present danger, was by Humber scout car. That admirable workhorse of the Emergency had a crew of three: a driver in the well of the vehicle who had to peer through a small slot in the armoured plating, a wireless operator hunched at the side of the driver, and a ‘ commander ‘ seated above in a revolving turret with a pair of twin-mounted LMGs fitted plus one hundred rounds at his disposal.
And so early one evening, Doc set off. He soon reached the base of D Company (Major P T Bowring) located on the Nam Hang Estate, without incident, and a splendid company nautch followed. However, all good things must come to an end, and (with apologies to Robert Burns) “ The hour approaches Doc maun ride “. It is claimed that Doc had left D Company base in fine voice, and the scout car successfully negotiated most of the five miles of rubber estate road without any real difficulty. However, after a while, it occurred to Doc that it might not be a bad idea to scare off any bandits with some prophylactic fire. And so, singing as he revolved the turret, he succeeded in killing or at least wounding a few score rubber trees en route. But it was not long before edgy planters were quickly on the radio to Tac HQ with reports of ‘ There is firing at the 33rd milestone Nam Hing Estate ‘ to which came the reply ‘ Yes, we know about it, no need to worry ‘. Then shortly later, came another report, ‘ Firing now at the 32nd milestone ‘, and the reply, ‘ Please don’t worry. Everything is under control, and thank you for your call. We are taking action.’ Meanwhile, inside the scout car, the wireless operator’s attention was being divided between getting a sitrep through to Tac HQ and dodging red-hot empty LMG bullet cases from going down the back of his neck. The po-faced driver was having to concentrate hard, peering through his metal slit at the winding estate laterite road using the faint beams of light from the angled headlights. Above these two, Doc continued singing and squirting fire in an alcoholic haze at the serried rank of rubber trees.
Then suddenly, as the scout car rounded a bend, the soft ‘thump’,’ thump’ of rubber trees being hit mysteriously changed from thump to ‘clang’, ‘clang,’ ‘clang’. The driver and operator both heard the new sound, but with muffled cries of ‘arre ‘, got on with the job in hand. Doc, oblivious to his particular Kirk-Alloway (‘When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze (’Tam o’ Shanter by Robert Burns )) eventually reached Tac HQ, where he dismissed the scout car crew and hogsnarled, collapsed into bed.
The officer in charge of the local Police Tactical Unit, which had been ambushing a rubber estate, was not amused at the line of bullet holes in his transport. Fortunately, his men had heard the singing and firing getting nearer and had the good sense to get under cover. The Commandant at that time was not a Gurkha born and bred, but he was black-buttoned and a man who appreciated ‘ style ‘. (Lieutenant Colonel G P Rickcord DSO, late Royal Ulster Rifles ). As he emerged from his room onto the verandah at 06.30 hrs with his morning tea, sniffing the exquisite Malayan dawn and listening to the shrieks of the gibbons, he was somewhat surprised to see that Tac HQ was being cordoned by a circle of men with serious intent. To cut a long story short, the angry Police Officer explained what had happened while Doc snored the sleep of the damned in his room at the back of Tac HQ. To cut the story even shorter, Doc in turn had some fast explaining to do, but being Doc, he survived, reformed for a few months, and then went on to further successes!
Peking Ducks
The worst of the Malayan Emergency was over and the Battalion was based at Slim Barracks, Singapore. Doc was still 2IC and life was altogether much easier.
Doc possessed a gruff, hearty extrovert manner, and his actions on meeting others in the Lines always followed the same pattern. He would stride along a road with a scowl rather like King Kong, and before the person coming the other way had time to salute, Doc would growl in rough, ready and very impolite Gurkhali – ‘Ke garchhas?’ [‘What are you doing?’]. Then, without waiting for a reply, he would spit on the ground, thump the startled person in the stomach, shout ‘ Lato ‘ [‘Stupid’]and walk on. This greeting became Doc’s SOP, was expected by everyone and caused much amusement. Indeed, had he not acted in this way, there would have been something seriously wrong!
One year, a local Chinese contractor had presented Doc with a dozen ducklings. Doc planned to fatten them up for Dashera, and he cared for and guarded them lovingly. They followed him round the Lines like a Jack Russell terrier, and living on bhat had rapidly put on weight. Some even claimed Doc fed them with codliver oil and ‘diabolical steroids‘, but by September they had all become very fine ducks, and Doc was beginning to slaver. Sadly, other eyes must have been on the ducks because one day, Doc woke up to discover they had all gone AWOL. Doc was furious. He followed up every possible clue without success, but he was like a bear with a sore head. On the day of the loss, it had been raining heavily, and someone suggested, perhaps with tongue in cheek, that the ducks might have entered the monsoon drain and been swept down towards Holland Village. Doc took this seriously and followed up on the lead. Yes, someone had indeed heard ducks quacking just outside Slim Barracks, and so wearing his Empire building shorts, bush shirt and chukka boots and armed with his blackthorn, Doc set off along the monsoon drain, questioning everyone he met.
The modest-sized monsoon drain near Slim Barracks was soon joined by many tributaries, and as Doc approached Holland Village, it was about nine feet wide.
A Chinaman was standing idly on a footbridge over the drain, with a Good Morning towel around his neck, picking at a mouthful of gold teeth. The inscrutable face of the East momentarily flickered at the sight of this strange, red-faced Englishman ploughing his way down the drain, waving a stick and screaming at innocent bystanders. Doc stopped at the bridge, looked up and shouted, ‘Ke Cheena – mero hans dekhis?’ [‘Oi, Chinaman, have you seen my ducks?’]. Getting a blank stare in response, Doc spat and shouted ‘Lato!’, then strode on towards Collyer Quay and the sea.
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