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And Now The End Is Near
Soon after the air raid, we were loaded into decrepit railway wagons, the occupants of each wagon were split into two groups, and each group penned in by barbed wire. So it was hey-ho for the open railroad, our ultimate destination, we were told, was Japan, by way of China. Then onto Korea and across the straits of Japan to our new prison camp. Little did we know that we would be digging fox holes along the China part of the journey for the Jap defensive positions, as they did not know at which point the U.S.A., with their initiative and predominance of the sea and air, would strike if they attached the Chinese mainland at all. At certain times, we would disembark, defecate, and dig – in that order. At times we were employed in other tasks, such as unloading timber from railway wagons. This brings to mind another Micky incident. Rumour had it that a U.S. civilian prisoner had been repatriated, via a neutral country, to his homeland. (By the way, Micky was well-known to the Japanese, but his surname, Myles, seemed to be hard for them to pronounce, and the nearest they could get to it was the name of that internationally famous rodent, Micky Mouse, except that the Japanese equivalent to mouse was “moussoo”, so Micky Moussoo he was to the Japs). Where were we? Ah, yes, the rumour of the repatriate. Mick would never let a good rumour go begging – the rumour being that the repatriated man was mentally unstable. Obviously psychological disturbance seemed as good as a ticket home to Micky. We had unloaded rough timber from a wagon, and made a huge mound of it on the ground. We were then lined up to be counted, and one of us was missing. Guess who! Yes, Mr M. Myles. We were counted, discounted, uncounted, but, no, there was definitely one short on the count. Cries of “Micky Mousoo” rent the air. The officer in charge was informed. “Micky Moussoo? Hey, Micky Moussoo!” Again a recount, same result, one short. The local Japanese gendarmerie were called in, the head of which rode a white stallion, the badge, it seemed, of Japanese high rank. A group of officers and non-combatants surrounded the bloke on the white horse, gesticulating like mad. The mounted officer looked puzzled, and quizzed the name “Micky Moussoo? Horrywood Micky Moussoo?” surprised to find that the celebrated cartoon character was now a Prisoner of War, but eventually it sunk it. While this was going on, there was a movement from the base of the timber, and Micky emerged, looking dazed, a drop of blood trickling down his face from a slight cut on his forehead (no doubt self-inflicted). “Where am I? What has happened to Glesga? Who are these people?” The Japanese rushed at Mick, who feigned surprise. He was taken from us and isolated for questioning. We did see Michael again, although until the war had virtually finished. He was a survivor, our Mick
Eventually, after much more digging etc., we arrived in Japan, and were rushed to the rail station in Tokyo. This coincided with the civilians finishing work. They chased us through the station, enraged at the severe bombing from the air by U.S. aircraft. Carpet bombing had made a mess of Tokyo, razing large areas to the ground. The Japanese troops guarded us, albeit with kicks, punches and slaps, no doubt to satisfy the civilians. Eventually, we got onto the rail station platform and waited, amid a hail of stones and bricks from the enraged crowd. The train arrived, and we were herded into the carriages. The blinds were pulled down, and the train moved, much to our relief.
We arrived at our ultimate destination, a small coal-mining village named Hakodate, on the island of Honshu. Needless to say there was no ‘welcome in the valley’. 0n arrival, we were issued with mining tools and marched through the village to jeers from the villagers. We were set to work in the mine, only two of us, Welsh miners, having had previous experience of mining work. Reaching the coal face involved walking, or rather sliding, down a slippery tunnel about five hundred yards long, at the sides of which hung high powered electric cables from which a lot of the insulation was bared. At the coalface we met our foreman, or ‘Honcho’ in Japanese. He was too old for military service, and looked too bloody old for mining. He spoke no English, had no teeth, which did not help, and he did not like us one bit. I assumed that he would not be an ideal I instructor. This was made evident whenever we planted explosives to blow the coalface. He steered clear of us on those occasions. Mind you, we also did not hang around to watch when it happened, in view of our inexperience. However, after a few months, we would have done credit to Huw Morgan of “How Green Was My Valley”. We sustained no major casualties for all our inexperience of mining, but no thanks to our ‘Honcho’. Of course there was a few minor casualties. For instance little Willy Mitchell dropped his jacket into the hole which served as our toilet. He attempted to slither down the sloping sides of the hole, and one of the chaps said “Leave it Willy, it will stink to high heaven even if you do reach it”.
But Willy still tried to reach the jacket. “Give it up Willy!” “No,” said Willy “my sandwiches are in the bloody pocket, and I am f------ hungry”. Needless to say, he did not get his jacket back, or his grub. I suppose the food must be rotten by now.
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