CANTON EXPRESS
By AN OCCASIONAL PASSENGER
BEFORE the present hostilities reached South China one travelled from Hong-kong to Canton either by day or night steamer, which took about seven to eight hours, or else by the twice daily expresses of the Kowloon-Canton Railway, which covered the ninety odd miles in three hours. There was also an air service, but that along with the night boats has been indefinitely suspended.
The river route remains, of course, the most comfortable method, but it may take the whole day. The Japanese blockade has seriously restricted the coast traffic whose ten or twelve ships a week did much to keep clear the narrow navigable channel of the muddy Pearl River. Now with no such traffic the channel needs more water than ever, and anchoring to wait for the tide is a daily occurrence.
For those, therefore, to whom time is of some importance there only remains the train. The track is bombed on an average about three times a week, so it is with some little sensation of martyrdom to the call of commerce that every Sunday night for the past two months I have boarded the Fei Lung (Flying Dragon) Express.
The crowded train pulls out at six o'clock with the hope, seldom realised, of arriving in Canton at nine. The first thirty miles through the British New Territories are easy, and by seven we are across the border and taking on Chinese sol- diers at Sum Chun. The roofless shell beside the track is all that remains of the huge gambling house built with such high hopes three years ago, before Chan Chai Tong retired and the New Life Movement penetrated Kwangtung.
A babble of questions and laughter at the end of the car is intimation that Colonel Foley has come aboard. He is an Australian employee of the railway company attired in the uniform of the Chinese forces, and is responsible for this section of the track. In pursuance of his duties he will accompany us to• Cheung Muk Tau and then return to Shek Lung on the down train which leaves Canton five minutes before we leave Kowloon. According to the Colonel it has been a pretty average day—one raid which damaged about thirty yards of track at Ping Fu, fifteen miles on. That was at three p.m., and he has no doubt we shall find everything fixed by the time we get there. And so we do, slowly and with much bumping we cross the hastily repaired section, and then speed up again. The railway authorities have done marvellous work during these last seven months, and deserve all praise for their maintenance of a schedule in face of the greatest difficulties.
Cheung Muk Tau, the halfway point, is reached at eight, and we estimate that with luck ten o'clock should see us in Canton. That, however, must remain speculative until the arrival of the down train, and with a patience born of practice we contemplate the milling mass on the platform till fifteen minutes later we are on our way. About the same time there is put in front of us the steak we ordered nearly an hour previ- ously, calculating nicely the length of time it would take for the steward to fight his way up and down the cars which separate us from the kitchen. While travelling that distance the steak has cooled down a bit, but as compensation the beer has warmed up, and with this nicely-balanced repast we occupy ourselves until the dimming of lights and closing of shutters warn us of the approach of Shek Lung and its vital and vul- nerable bridges.
Shek Lung means little to my companions, but it has memories for me. Heft, for the first time in my life I enjoyed the sensation of being bombed from the air. It happened last September. We had crossed the bridge and were almost alongside the platform when two ,aeroplanes appeared out of the quick-falling dusk. The train jarred to a standstill, and the passengers fled for shelter to the ditches and paddy-fields. I counted myself lucky in finding a low bank behind which I hurled myself spread-eagled, clutching the wrist of the man next me in a quite involuntary gesture. The planes dived twice, I think, dropping something each time but failed to hit either the lines or the station.. In fact, they did no real damage at all, for all the passengers had taken cover on the north side of the railway, and we saw later from the train four craters in the bit of water meadow on the south side. It was all over in five minutes, but we must have lain another quarter of an hour before the whistles and shouts from the train crew summoned tfs to return.
By this time it was quite dark and as I rose I addressed some remark to my neighbour whose shady and unquivering arm I had grasped in the first few panicking seconds. No response and no movement. I touched him and something in his rigidity made me strike a match. A fattish fairly prosperous shopkeeper I should guess, but he had forgotten the warning against looking up at hostile aircraft and now there was a huge hole where once his left eye had been. It had happened during the morning raid I imagined, so he had lain there a good ten hours. I was glad to see the lights of Hong-kong that night when we eventually arrived just before midnight.
These reflections and the filling in of a Customs and Pass- port form eighteen inches in length occupy me until a stirring in the car announces that we are running through the suburb of Tungshan. An uneventful journey, we are alongside the platform of Tai Sha Tau station at 10.15, and prepare to face the greater hazards of the drive to Shameen, the British and French concession. Drivers in Canton use their lights for about five seconds a mile, but to compensate they do not press their electric horns, they switch them on. To anyone with delicate nerves the three miles by car is infinitely more wearing than the ninety miles by rail.
(This article was written before the recent intensification of air attacks on Canton.)
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