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The Final Curtain
August the 15th, 1945, arrived. Coincidentally, my 28th birthday. I told my mates. “Perhaps the war will finish today”, said one. I replied “No, nothing happens on my f------ birthday, I just get one year older”. How wrong I was. We had not long to go before our work for the day was finished, when the ‘Honcho’ told us to assemble at the pithead. The rumour was that there was an epidemic of some sort in the village, although that made no sense, so something was afoot. As we marched through the village, one observant optimist pointed that the streetlights were on, and the hopes and spirits of the most pessimistic were raised. When we arrived at the camp, the Jap guards were gathered around the radio, listening to a speech being broadcast by their Emperor. The guards were solemn and some were near to tears.
The news was filtered to us slowly, but as we had more than an inkling, the import of it made us cautious, as we had no idea how the Japanese troops were going to react. To our relief, they seemed to act quite normally, luckily for us, particularly in view of their threats as to our disposal if the allies had invaded Japan. It seemed the atomic bomb saved our bacon. Some of our men were given rifles, but I doubt if they were loaded, as, until things had settled, and everyone was used to the changed situation, anything could have happened, but things went fairly smoothly.
After a few days, we were allowed to go to the village. The population did not seem to be too hostile. They were more, in fact, curious, and after a while they even smiled at us. Of course, being away from the towns and cities, they had no bombing, and consequently were not so embittered against us.
I must relate this little episode re Micky, who had been released from close custody by this time, went to the village one day. On his return to camp, which was no longer our prison, he was followed by, guess what, a duck! It was led by Mick, attached to a piece of string, quacking merrily, and most surprising of all, the duck sat at the end of Mick’s bunk, eating of all things, an egg, and seemed to be enjoying it. That was the last I saw of Micky ‘Mouse’ and his friend ‘Donald’ Duck, as a few days after, we were released and went to our separate destinations. Mick to his wife in Hong Kong, me to the U.K.
This tale is nearly complete, except that I arrived home, eventually married. We had four children – grandchildren 8, so far, and 3 great-grandchildren, and who sit around, looking bored whenever I mention the war, with expressions that say “here he goes again”.
I have never seen Mick again, but have been told that he was thrown out of Hong Kong. I don’t know if it was true or not, but with him it was credible. Micky, a loveable rogue, a con man, a man with many faces, a face that one could trust, yet a calculating face, like “what’s in it for me?”, but he saved my life. I owe him fifty-seven years of married life to a good lady, who was taken from us recently. I owe him four children all of whom have been a great solace, help and comfort to me, although grieving themselves, for the loss of a loving wife, mother and grandmother.
Thanks Mick.
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