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Sergeant Alf Waterhouse
Back to Singapore
We were on our way back to Singapore. Travelling mostly in silence, listening to the rhythm of the train across the tracks we looked back and there was a sense of sadness, no matter what had happened, Thailand had been our home. Travelling south, we now faced the unknown, a further chapter in our lives under the Japanese.
The train pulled into a fairly modern railway station and was stopped at what may have been a parking lot. It was obvious this was our night’s overstay. Why were we forced to leave the wagon, the train we left was just standing there, I’ll never understand the Japanese minds.
The next day we travelled with no breakfast, feeling grumpy and ill at ease. After the train had turned off the main line, we came to a fairly large railway stock yard. Not knowing if this was Thailand or Malaya, there were no roads, where was the Singapore Express going to?
* Notes:-
It is believed this was the Mergui Road construction, running from Pratchai in Thailand to Mergui in Burma. It would be a bypass route if the Thailand Burma Railway, was put out of commission. Thus allowing supplies to reach the Japanese troops in Burma. It could also be used as an escape route for the Japanese Army from Burma.
In the early evening we disembarked and were marched a short distance to what we thought was a large lake or perhaps a sea. A large Chinese junk with massive single sail was lying on the shoreline with a single wooden pier reached out to it. Either side of the bow were huge staring eyes. It looked solid enough but was dirty beyond belief. We were all pushed and shoved aboard, we just about fitted with nothing to spare. From my position I could see the pointed bow with a small religious altar. Bent over the sides of the junk was a fixture with flowers, inside this was seen bundles of money and small cakes. It looked like it was to speed some corpse to a better life.
Suddenly there was a bang, voices shouting, ropes were hauled and the sail began to swirl about looking mighty dangerous. With the smell of fish, perhaps going back generations, we settled ourselves down as best as we could.
Unable to sleep in these conditions my thoughts went back to Nong Pladuk. I had to smile when I remembered Doctor Tomlinson inoculations against cholera. He had to use the same needle many times owing to shortages. On my turn he said not even humorously,
“By the Hell Waterhouse you’re got skin like an elephant”.
Just after twelve months in captivity, through no one’s fault, many of us got a skin complaint that many, including myself.
It all started quite innocently no one bothered, just a small irritating itch. A small cluster of pin head red sores on the lower parts from belly button, high between legs. The itch was most compelling, I must say that I was not the worst but it was bad enough. Scratching made matters worse and caused further spreading and further annoyance. I am quite satisfied that if bandages had been applied you would have torn them off. The M.O told us this was known as prickly heat, and hard to effect a cure, he could do nothing but hope we would cease causing greater irritation. In my case these spread across my stomach and below. A staff Sergeant Marshall was off sick and just lay on the floor, he could not have anything near these hundreds of red small pimples, puss coming out if he touched any. There is no doubt he was near madness as morning, noon and night he had no reprieve. The cause of this condition was at last found to be through our army issue shorts which were cut at the waist well fitting and fastened with three straps and three buckles. They were never intended to cope with the increased sweat through hard work in tropical conditions. The cotton held the sweat and the rubbing started this frightful condition. Seeing the Staff Sergeant in such distress I determined not to touch these parts. I was positive this condition was started in Hell. Slowly the spots began to disappear, they were gone. No one seems to know about this torment and torture the army shorts had caused.
On board this junk and under the conditions we suffered, I often repeated ‘THIS TAKES AWAY YOUR FAITH IN GOD’. In the afternoon of the following day we disembarked and started to march. We had no idea where we were, but I thought the RAF will have a job to find us, at least that was something. Thinking, I quickly altered this as unworthy of the men still fighting and trying to release us.
We were walking, not marching, down a well-made road with no traffic. It must be Malaya as Thailand had no made up roads. Seeing a big bunch of buffalo, as I had many times in Thailand, but as before there were no cows only bulls. I never did find out what happened to the cows.
The journey by train and the sail in that junk had taken its toll. The walking was now causing blisters, I supposed it was the hard made up road which was proving hard on the feet. Many like myself were bare footed and our feet were so hard we found no trouble, but it must have been agony for some.
Several of us were finding our 4 gallon, ex petrol, tin buckets, now half filled with water, were causing a problem. With the weight of the water, the handles, made of wire, were sinking into our palms. I asked another man walking next to me to carry my tin bucket for a mile, and I would share my water with him. At every mile we would pass a milestone and change over.
We entered the usual style bamboo and attap, but the huts were not as long and less men per hut. The next day, having had breakfast, we waited to see what work and where. All day we waited, thinking this was quite different from past working parties. However, on the second day we were marched out to a small village which had six shops with the usual open fronts. The shop owners watched us with curiosity but made no effort to speak or show any humanity.
A truck pulled in and we were given junkals and a rare sight, spades. We now understood we had to cut away and made a track or road suitable in width for two vehicles. Using baskets, the soil was emptied into lower areas to get a straight and level surface. I started off carrying soil, with my partner, Bombardier Stevenson, carrying on a conversation mostly about the present. It felt queer, unnatural. The Korean guards were quiet for them and the few Japanese were ill at ease. This carried on for some days, the road seemd to be leading nowhere, with no shouts of ‘Speedo’.
To give myself something to do whilst carrying the soil, I thought of a stage act that required no scenery or clothing. It required four men. Rehearsals would not be required. It was perfect. We could make it as long as we liked or short.
All men were asked if they would care to come to our hut the next night after tiffin, when we would act a play of murder. So, they came again a captive audience sitting on the bed space ends, they were wondering how and why ?
THE CASE OF MURDER OF MRS ELSIE CASSIDY
Prosecution: A. Waterhouse KC Defence: Mr Nickalus KC
The following is ad lib but near enough.
“I am Mr Nickalus, Defence councillor and I hope you will take in and agree with my statement of facts. My client is Mr. Bob Cassidy and lived with his wife Elsie at their home, 21 Wonder Lane, Bury. He is gainfully employed in a printing works and been married seven years. Did he Mr. Cassidy believe that on the fateful afternoon of 3rd March honestly believe that his wife was having unlawful sex with man unknown ? the persecution will not be able to prove that the mysterious man was ever seen near or even entering her home. The house is part of a long row of terraced houses it would be impossible for a strange person to even walk down that street let alone go into a house without being seen. The police have found no neighbour who has seen any such person.
That Mrs Cassidy was stabbed to death but by whom ?
Let us look at what is known. At about 1pm on that fateful afternoon Mr. Cassidy developed a nasty dose of flu. Apart from obvious temperature he seemed bewildered in his mind, uncertain and unsteady. He was sent home with the advice of a doctor. Next we know is about 1am that night, when Mr. Cassidy went downstairs looking for his wife and to make a cup of tea.
Finding his wife dead and blood everywhere he just sat down in a daze. It was some half hour later he roused himself, and unsteady and completely bewildered he managed to get to the police station. He was taken to hospital.
To question him was not allowed by the medical staff for three days, when he proved unhelpful. It was the kitchen knife that puzzled the police. It had been wiped clean but the kitchen towel was next to it on the table. Nothing was found disturbed or missing.
Strange but unsolved were fingerprints, these were found in the unlikely spot, on the handle of the toilet chain also two on the balustrade. These were from a person unknown or traceable. Mr. Cassidy could not recall any friend or anyone apart from his wife and self who would use their personal toilet. The prosecution will make light of these. I suggest it may be the murderer.
Let us accept as reasonable and possible. Mr Cassidy coming home very early, his wife in bed with a stranger. How did he avoid curtains twitching, lonely housewives always looking for anything to gossip about ? Simple my dear Watson.
I rest my case on the fact the police have not proved their case against Mr. Cassidy a wronged man.
The guilty mystery man used the back door. No neighbours thought of that entrance. High walls also made for privacy. This was the route he used so successful. Hearing Mr. Cassidy coming home, this man grabbed his clothing and hid in the second bedroom. He felt reasonable safe. Hearing no movement in the house he thought it safe to make his way to the back door. Elsie was waiting for him and said in a slow serious voice.
“My husband is lying upstairs in a terminal condition. He looks so ill and miserable I feel a deep sense of guilt. I must ask you to finish our relationship. Please go and goodbye “.
Mr X looked at her nearly shouting
“Oh no you don’t I’ve spent too much money on you, let him die it’ll solve a lot of questions”.
“You vile unspeakable animal. I’ll kill you” and picked up the knife. He was quicker than her and tried to take the knife. As the Defence lawyer said
“Who knows or how the knife entered poor Elsie’s neck. It would be a miscarriage of Justice if you found Mr. Cassidy guilty.
I am prosecuting council and I compliment my learned friend and his brief in the death of Mrs. Elsie Cassidy. If you believe his brief you will be that the man is then free to murder. Let me tell what really happened believe you me.
From early marriage his wife had encouraged him to go to the Engineer’s Working Men’s Club. She was from birth and as she grew older flirtatious a taste for money and a general good time with money. Did she regret marrying a working man, charming perhaps and good looking, but would remain a working man.
From somewhere she found the man who could satisfy every instinct. With her husband encouraged to play darts including away matches overnight. Dominoes, poor man’s poker she had time for her own enjoyment. Many expensive jewels hidden in biscuit tin under the kitchen sink. Expensive outfits in the double wardrobe.
He had never been known to look inside the wardrobe or the big bottom drawer filled with expensive underwear Mr. Cassidy would never believe had even been made of such quality. Mr. Cassidy was not dumb it began to penetrate that his marriage was not exactly right. He didn’t want to think of her in anyway being improper. He was willing to let matters remain quiet for his own peace of mind. His fellow club members made matters worse. How could any wife allow the husband such time away and at a club, so they talked. Suspicion was there and it only needed one spark to let the firework set alight.
This fateful day in his life he managed to get home, staggering, nearly falling, his memory not good, high temperature. A large hammer beating his head, groaning he was home.
Elsie was not about, why ? He was groggy and nearly unconscious. Trying to find the stairs he saw Elsie coming down. Helping him upstairs and leaving him to undress himself whilst she went to get a doctor.
Bewildered even in his present state, he muttered why was the bed unmade in an afternoon. This played on his mind why, why ?
He did not know that in the other bedroom was a man trying to dress himself and in minutes going down the stairs.
The doctor concerned, apart from bad condition of flu he was muttering to himself something about unmade bed.
At around six o’clock he badly wanted a drink of anything. He was like a man in a dessert, arms outstretched “water, water”. Eventually he never knew how he got downstairs. He saw the knife sticky with blood. Without thinking except clean it he used the kitchen towel. Then he saw his dead wife. Stumbling weaving staggering he managed to get to the police station. Some days later on being questioned “Had a stranger perhaps a plumber someone had been in the bathroom.
It could be that Mrs. Cassidy had brought in a plumber for a minor trouble, and not bothered her husband with the details.
I consider that Mr. Cassidy is not an unintelligent man, he had known for some time that his wife had been wearing too much makeup and why any if she had been a dutiful wife sitting at home waiting for her husband to return. He knew full well she was a beautiful woman. He had often wondered what she saw in him sufficient to marry her. Bright, could be full of fun and certainly attractive.
Not wishing to think other than a dutiful wife, but sub consciously had thought she was not all that proper and correct. It is more than possible perhaps he doesn’t even know himself, but lying in hospital bed, perhaps even feeling sorry himself. His mind going back and remembering little details, coming to a head. Yes, on coming home he would ask questions and clear the air. His thoughts started taking on dark troublesome provoking thoughts.
On coming home he commenced without tact asking for explanations. The unmade bed, where was she if not at home at 3 in the afternoon ?
She was taken aback and plainly guilty about something. The police questions and a double meaning. He knew they thought he had killed her, what reason ?
Suddenly he knew and in his great temper and the thought she had played around, he picked up the knife shouting “whore”
Sympathy and understanding,
I believe MANSLAUGHTER is the possible verdict,
Tubby Waite the judge asked the crowd acting as jury. If guilty shout out guilty, if not guilty shout out NOT GUILTY.
By far the greatest number shouted “NOT GUILTY”
We were again moving on but to where?
We marched back the way we had come, but this time no man had blisters. At the railway station we again boarded a train with open trucks, but it had less trucks, hence the trucks were overcrowded, causing unnecessary pain and aches, and with no food or water.
At around 4 o’clock we were ordered off and into similar trucks. Some wise lad approached the engine driver asking for a little water, on getting some, a queue formed, each of us scared the train would start, we only got a sip before clambering back on board.
Just before darkness fell we arrived and stopped at a platform were we tried to sleep on the platform. Where to now, it seemed we were going south and away from the jungle.
On the train, and not moving very fast, we wondered why, were aircraft about? Darkness fell and we were still steaming along, the train nearly stopping as it was moving so slow. Houses, real built brick and stone now appeared. Were we to be camped in a built up area? I with two other sergeants were sitting with legs dangling over the open doorway when we saw a sight that made us gape, not really believing the sight before us. In view was a large fairly high double door way, lit in all sorts of colours with an electric bright light across the road, illuminating us. This was like fairyland to us having spent the last years in thick jungle, with light from primitive coconut oil. I firmly believe I had forgotten there was such a light from electricity.
This day about one hundred of us were sent in strength to a large steam locomotive its engine cold. We understood that we should line the side of this engine and pull or push the thing at a reasonable speed and bump it into three empty open wagons, and keep doing this until all three wagons had been pushed into a side line.
The open wagons had an oil canister, long and narrow, attached to each inside wheel, these were filled with oil to lubricate the wheels. Several times I added sand to these canisters hoping to cause a possible seizure.
A large, covered wagon arrived filled with cement bags, which we had to unload. I went inside and hauled the bags to the open doorway and men collected them. Around mid morning we stopped to enjoy our hot cuppa. Sitting down on the rail track the men suddenly started laughing and I realised why, the dust from the cement bags had covered me, and my sweat from shifting the cement bags, had caused the cement on my body to bake me in concrete. Looking down I started to try and crack this covering. I need hardly say, for the remainder of the unloading I had others doing it.
Word had been passing along that in about a month it was Christmas Day, last year we worked in the morning but had the afternoon off. We sergeants started to discuss what could we do to make Christmas memorable, so we decided to make a simple wine. Sergeant Dewhirst was a confectioner. Did he know how? No, but he would try, he needed balm and the ingredients. After some suggestions, perhaps silly, he said,
“Save a few pence and I’ll buy two or three bananas. Saving a little rice, I’ll mash the lot and put in the large jar under the hut. Who knows it may mish mash. I’ll get some paper from the office and sketch on top of each jar the Royal Artillery badge. Dewhirst from a French menu”
True to timing Christmas Day allowed us to have the afternoon off. As usual of course we queued and to our complete astonishment we saw a row of drovers. We had seen a few times the Australians having a pasty pie similar in shape and size as a Cornish pasty, and this name was the name given by the Aussies to their pasty. With the drovers, a boiled duck egg was served. There was just the right amount of pie and eggs, nothing was left over.
On my bed space I was filled with good thoughts. The cooks had saved small pieces of meat, then mashed the rice into shape and filling the inside with mashed rice and meat driblets. It perhaps was not a lot, but to us it was a great surprise, their kindly thoughts helped us, Father Christmas was alive.
In the afternoon we took our drinking cups and were given a drink of banana and rice water. Raising our cups we wished everyone a Merry Christmas and may this be the last, home next year. As was perhaps expected, it was awful and undrinkable but Sergeant Dewhirst had tried.
Christmas gone we were loaded onto railway trucks again, and after some days, we eventually reached Singapore, pulling up at the the station. I and many others, looked in disbelief as a pony horse taxi stopped near our truck, and out stepped the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen. Hair perfect, jewellery, green dress with collar and a slit leg dress. Her escort was a fat Chinese in tuxedo. Gulping and lost in wonder, was I seeing right. The first white woman, even if Chinese, in three years. I had certainly forgotten that women existed, especially dressed in beautiful clothes. Was I mistaken, were they human or from some other planet, it was just unbelievable. I looked down at myself and then to the others. It had never struck me to pass an opinion, but at that point I saw in the others, what should be young men, but, instead they had round shoulders, shaven head, mostly bones, over mahogany bodies, with a modest ‘G’ string. The ‘G’ string was a handkerchief size piece of the cheapest cotton covering their private parts, with their backside uncovered. Eyes sunken in black hollows, watching this beautiful woman.
A shadow came over me, we were miles apart, these people would look at us in disgust, we had been taken straight from the jungle, yes we were jungle people. We ought to be back on that stinking green hell with unknown insects, snakes, cholera, malaria and blood sucking bugs. We shuffled, didn’t walk or even look up, but our eyes looked downwards.
Was the next step Changi? We were loaded into the many trucks ,which were lined up in the streets, lined with street lights, large shops, with their windows lit. Not too much traffic but rickshaws and pony taxis. We were dazzled, uncomprehending. No one spoke each being lost in his own thoughts.
It wasn’t Changi, we learned it was called River Valley Camp. We were later told that on capitulation, many Gurkhas were hung out of high buildings here by the Japanese, with their outstretched arms in the window frame.
As usual we were counted on the padang. We were walled in by rusty corrugated iron sheets. with a main double rickety iron gates. Looking across we could see a high building of flats, each flat had a veranda. There was a young Chinese woman standing on the veranda about four stories high, brushing her teeth. After being counted and dismissed, she was still there brushing. The whole time we spent in this camp she was doing exactly the same thing, we never saw her doing anything else.
Over the next few days, I knew that my life had again altered. I felt as if a great worry had been taken from my shoulders, we were now back to civilisation, the Railway was living in some sort of nightmare. On the Railway we had in our subconscious accepted the fact this is where we would live and die. No one will ever know we were a body of men damned into Hell.
We learned to our horror many things which had happened just before the war ended and after, the massacre in the Alexandra Hospital when the Japanese rushed in and bayoneted patients including a surgeon during an operation. What shocked us most was the ship, a naval vessel carrying nurses and hospital staff, which was captured badly damaged. Twelve nurses were taken ashore by the Japanese and told to walk into the sea, when knee deep they were bayoneted to death. Worse to follow, a large ship with 500 POWs on board was torpedoed, all lost.
After about a month, just after roll call and breakfast, we usually had about half an hour to hang about, something happened. I was idling on the outer perimeter near the ditch which ran right through the centre of the camp, it was a shallow dirty ditch about a foot wide. On approaching this ditch I heard, or did I, a gramophone was playing 1930s British Music to say that I was thunderstruck is the understatement of the year, I was suddenly mesmerized. It was like being deaf and suddenly hearing, don’t stop, please don’t stop. I fell to the ground near the corrugated walling from where the music was coming, and looked through the gap made for the ditch and water. I could now see the usual open fronted Chinese shops across the road, and outside one sat a large Chinese man in a cane chair, he was smoking, and beside him on a bamboo table was a gramophone with a large horn. The music came from the large horn, oh, the joy of entertainment was beyond words to explain. Knowing I must now go or face punishment, but I left that ditch with a song in my heart. I must go back as much as I can as he may have songs and records which were beyond any price.
As regards life at the camp, it started to have quite a style. Out came the racketeers, a new race of men, they were courageous, daring and never to me ever caught. A ship would come into the docks and we were speedily unloading from the holds by hand as these ships had no mechanical lifting machines. The racketeers would find the ship’s galley, taking tinned fruit, in fact anything, and then they were back unloading. That night, down the middle of all the huts they were shouting their wares, a bit like the old cries of London town.
The huts were just the same as any British Army hut but the sleeping was now on the two tier construction. I slept next to the Sergeant Major on the second floor. Somehow it gave a little more privacy.
We were unloading large square bundles of leaf tobacco, before this I did not realise how large each leaf was. Now leaving for the camp, a merchant seaman gave French three leaves. French was a quiet young lad in my squad from London, before enlisting he had been working in a chemist’s hoping to be a dispenser. He was delighted with this present. Just about to get aboard the truck the Nip Sergeant Major, who was a heavy-handed man, had suspected thieving was going on, spotted French with his leaves. He bad mouthed, spluttered, hardly believing anyone should be so bold carrying the leaves for all to see. Poor French tried to explain but how could he? No one could help, we just had to stand as he got a bad beating and lost his present.
It may seem impossible, but one day seating for tiffin our backs against a low wall, Nickie and I saw four men with us collapse, shivering and sweating, we knew it was Malaria. It may be hard to understand but knowing they would not want anything to eat, we both got up collected their mess tins, and collected their tiffin. Their food was not wasted as it was shared between us.
On a winter day we started coaling a ship from a large steel tender on the roadway, full of coal. A line was made and we now passed lumps of coal from the tender along the line to the ship. This was not heavy work, but was boring, when someone started singing ‘Old Man River’ Paul Robson style. Soon we were all singing away. This, I am quite sure, was the only time we sung at all except for a Christmas gathering.
A Ginger haired lad, before his head was shaved, was called Green. Without any of us knowing, Green had come across pile of brown sugar crystals. He was between the devil and the deep blue sea as he wanted to hide them, if not he would be forced to give them away. He filled as much as possible into his canvas worn out boots. Walking quite unsteady, his feet twisting and turning but it was worth it. On the way back to camp our lorry broke down and we were forced to walk back. Being a distance of some three miles, poor Green found it was impossible to manage. Sweating his perspiring caused the sugar to become a sticky mess. We wondered what was the matter with him. The gift from heaven had now filled his sweaty boots with sodden sugar. He had to stop and take off his boots, carrying them hoping he would be able to sweeten his rice for a few days. I don’t know if he enjoyed the mess in his boots, but the cruel remarks brought him much unhappiness. We had to laugh although in reality it was far from funny.
The Japanese were well aware of the thieving which was going on and they were determined to stop it. Our tiffin was brought coolie style, by two men with a long bamboo pole on their shoulders, three buckets dangling and swinging from the pole. The men hid what was possible inside the hollow bamboo pole, with more hidden in the buckets, covered with their hats. The racketeers undaunted carried on with great success, it was surprising how long it took for their thieving to be discovered. When discovered the coolies lost their job, after a beating and time in the cooler.
In an air raid we were herded into a large go-down and left to our own devices. We set about looking into boxes and cases stored there, we were like rats scurrying about trying to find goodies. One lot found a wooden trunk and gleefully set about trying to force it open. When open, a high ranking Japanese officers army uniform was discovered, complete with sword. To their utter dismay they found no buyers amongst the Chinese.
In the evenings men would go down the centre of the huts asking the racketeers for something needed, and it was incredible, if not surprising, the item was often found. One evening an optimist was shouting for wire cutters, who would want these, we had no wire anywhere it was so unnecessary. A man four bed spaces down from me had some and a bargain was made, one Singapore dollar per day for their use. We all wanted to know why they were wanted, but it was kept a secret for five days until the borrower said he was finished with them. The borrower told us what he used them for,
“At the bottom of stage 3 on the docks, against the wall, you will see rolls upon rolls of army barbed wire. I have been snipping small pieces and selling these for a dollar a time as flint for Ronson lighters”.
I wondered how many lighters had been ruined.
Our work now was humping, on our backs, large sacks of rice and loading them on board ships, presumably for Japan or other occupied countries. I must admit that the work was no harder than an English labourer was asked to do and here in Singapore there was no speedo. We worked at our own pace. A soldier I knew, but never spoke to, asked if I could have a chat with him, and I agreed to this unusual request. He started by saying,
“I know you are Saturday Afternoon Soldier, I am a regular”
For some unknown reason regulars always had a poor opinion of the Saturday Afternoon Soldier (meaning a territorial). and we accepted this.
“Yer know we regulars have a certain sympathy with yer Terriers, yer having a raw deal. Well, take a look at this. You are prisoner of war for the duration. No repatriation even for amputation or shell shock.”
I was rather surprised at this what could he mean, I replied,
“Yes we accept that and so do you”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Take me, I have eight years service to put in before I’m out. This POW stuff can be thought a bad posting, always a possibility with us regulars. If and when I am released from this lot I hope I have some years to do in peace time soldiering“.
It was funny but I had never thought about it like that. The Regular, time serving man, accepted this with equanimity and just waited, no hurry, he still managed to live.
Another day we were pushing and groaning up a gradient from a large parking area. Inside this area was a large number English Bren gun carriers with their caterpillar tracks. Many had sunk into the soil and had to be prised and lifted clear. It had to be a gradient upwards towards the docks and ship. Were these British army miniature tanks going to help some Japanese invasion? Hope we sink the bloody lot, or at least they won’t start after being idle for so long.
I cannot say that the last two years had passed quickly but it can be said it was no surprise to hear men talking about yet another year in captivity.
The Japanese Sergeant Major was now searching more thorough.
The racketeers now in the money decided to become businessmen. They made it known that on a certified bank cheque, they would money lend for each Singapore dollar paid on a chitty, to be paid back £1 on release. One of them either knew or had sought advice, a piece of paper with bank name and address, was made out properly and signed. A British officer who knew the signer would write saying the cheque was in the right name etc.
We certainly knew this was extortion. In normal times the dollar was worth about five shillings. They were entitled to a more than fair exchange as they risked like torturous imprisonment by the Japanese Kempeita, military police. I knew one man who had suffered this imprisonment. One period of three months he spent squatting on an open frame just above ground level on a wooden square, with his hands tied. The posture brought on dreadful pain. He said he thought he would go ‘do lally’ (Indian mental disorders).
If the guard ordered a sergeant to ask a man to do faster work or some other work the POWs would now spit out “Jap Happy” a bit unfair but it had to be accepted. Finishing one day standing behind the truck before being ordered to get aboard, the Japanese Sergeant Major made us into a circle, arms outstretched. He searched each man, it was not too difficult having nothing but hat and ‘G’ string. Having satisfied himself having found nothing we boarded and were standing up. I cannot explain or say how it was done, even Magic Meg would not be able to tell, but as we drove off a tin of fruit was thrown to him with a yell of ‘have that on us’. The Sergeant Major’s face darkened, and then in great anger he threw his rifle onto the floor then his cap and he started jumping on them shouting obvious obscenities. Roaring with laughter we sped away, there was no way he could stop us.
Back at camp I had tried several times to look for the Chinese and his gramophone but sadly him or the gramophone were no longer there. So passed away a very happy memory of the music heard with the pleasure it had given me.
A squad of us was now sent to Bukit Timah, a large village some miles from Singapore. We knew that a battle had taken place on the hillside. We were working on the plateau and around us were the upturned rifles planted in the ground, with the dead soldiers tin hats on top. A little way off was a solitary Bren gun carrier in which we were told that in battle soldier was in each corner firing, there were no soldiers firing now.
We didn’t know what we were supposed to be making but we were inside a large open sided tall, wide building. To start with a plan had been marked out starting on one side. It was about 15 feet long and 7 feet wide and a 5 feet mounds were to be built with dirt which had to be carried. We understood that when completed we could return to the camp. The soil was very sandy and would not keep to a sloping side to make a pyramid, as it would slide. We had found an old fallen tree and carried this and inside the working, saving a number of baskets of soil. On the last pyramid of five we had to build, we found out the secret of these strange mounds. Six really beautiful motor limousines were placed inside, obviously to help protect them against bombs or shells. These cars most likely had belonged to wealthy Singapore men.
It may be worth mentioning that at the start of our captivity the Japanese asked for three men to learn Japanese and become interpreters. One man I knew in our Regiment, in civvy life he was a clerk in a small modest garage, he went on this interpreter course. It was perhaps around six months when he returned, he told me he had not found it too difficult. He had not learned to write or read Japanese just speak it. After some days he left, I did not hear or see him again.
The strange case of Sergeant Japp who learnt Thai. How I’ll never know. We were not allowed to fraternize with the Thai natives and as he had been employed by the Blackpool Cleansing Department handling a sewage pump, it all the more remarkable. He was hardly the intelligent type. It was, of course, useless to him but he had set about learning it.
We were well aware that we were losing weight, but nothing could be done. The cooks had large scale hanging from the roof which was fully automatic. We used this to weigh ourselves on this. A standard saying was,
“What weight are you”.
He would reply with his weight and get a reply.
“Then put your foot on this” and a cigarette end would drop at his feet. It never failed.
It was about this time that a large contingent of black and white Dutchmen arrived. They looked like they were all in good health and their uniforms and clothing in good order, speaking good English. It soon got round that one Dutchman was thought to be a woman, so I thought I would take a look, making my way to his hut. I found him a true blonde and sitting crossed legged sewing. There was no doubt he was like a woman, too dainty, not at all like a rough soldier. He had been a ballet dancer in a famous Corps de Ballet Company. We found out that he was an expert on sewing, so fortunately we could use him for repairs to our sparse kit.
It is interesting to mention that in our previous camp, River Valley, was an old nearly falling to pieces blue marquee, sat in a corner. It had not been used for perhaps years. A valance down each side of about four feet was in a thin dark blue cotton. Men had started pulling off pieces to make patches on their shorts as no other material seemed available. Many of the shorts at that time were mainly this marquee blue as much of the original material had long gone.
The Dutchmen were mainly very friendly, but suffered no criticism. It seems they had put up very little fight against the Nips. The guards did not conceal their very contempt of them.
A young black Dutchman made a friend of me, he had very deep wish to know all about England and our Government and law, asking many questions. I won’t bore you with these, but the Prime Ministers, the law made and on and on. It made me realise how little I knew about important parts affecting my life back home.
It was now approaching Christmas 1944, but with no let up on work. The Dutch were friendly but had little stomach for captivity.
We kept hearing about other prisoners in Changi and it seemed they were more lucky in every way, we thought it was only talk. Jumping some years ahead, I was back home and at Fleetwood Golf Club with my brother-in-law, a member. Standing at the bar was a man known as a dental surgeon, without any warning and a loud voice
“Are you one of those Far East telling these far-fetched stories of torture or worse and thousands dying?”
I replied that I had certainly worked on the Thailand Burma Railway and no one could tell the actual truth of what happened. Then he hit me with,
“I was at Changi, and yes I know the real truth”.
Who believed who I don’t know, but I never went to the Golf Club again.
Coming in from work on Christmas Eve 1944, I think we were all thinking of the next day and possible a bit more grub. After I had eaten my evening meal and taking the usual walk about the camp, little was I to know about the shock I was about to receive. A white Dutch spoke to me, we did know each other.
“Alf in our hut we are having a sing song of Christmas Carols, come and join us”.
I wasn’t too emanated, but it would perhaps pass on an hour or so, we off I went. On entering I stopped dead, the scene before me was one of unexpected beauty. From somewhere near where they had been working they had brought back large fern leaves. The whole of the roof of the hut was covered in them. Perhaps forty or so half coconut shells were lit with a small piece of cloth.
At the far end on a box was the tall blonde Dutchman. He was the choir master and tenor lead. The men were standing in single file down each side of the hut. I stood there spell bound, it was so beautiful. We poor pathetic creatures with nothing had, love, affection, friendship, plus a future. Suddenly they broke into a Christmas carol, perhaps not a Philharmonic Choir no organ but a deeply moving scene. The tenor sounded like a boy singer at Westminster. Not knowing all the words we just sang.
Now half a century later, I can still stand there, looking at that moving scene, feeling an unashamedly sob in my throat. Jesus was surely born in that lovely cavern amid hell.
It was a few days after this that word was being passed round that in a few days we were going to Japan, this filled us with dread. After all our hardships, illnesses and yes loneliness, were we to drown at sea.
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