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CHAPTER I
We say welcome to sunny
Singapore
In Changi, after three moves in a week, the regiment settled into army huts in the prison camp, and remained there for the next six months. The time passed very slowly.
As the regiment maintained military discipline, the colonel decided that the Regimental Mess should have a proper mess night, once a week. Thursday was chosen for the night and officers from other units were invited, on a scale of four guests per week for the colonel, two per week for majors, one per week for captains, and one per month, if they were lucky, for subalterns. The Japanese gave a ration of 10 cigarettes per week to each officer, and one cigarette had to be handed in to form a prize for mess night. After dinner we played whist, usually with fancy rules, to see who would get the prizes. Many enemies were made by rash play – with 20 cigarettes at stake for the first prize.
I had a major part to play in this weekly fun, as I was Mess Secretary, and had to devise special dishes from the somewhat limited rations. The regiment had a wood party, consisting of an officer carrying a flag announcing the fact we were POWs seeking wood for fires; I always went on this wood party, trying to find anything edible that would improve the mess dinner. The party had the usual stripped-down lorry chassis, hauled by a dozen men; whilst collecting wood I looked out for food. On one trip I saw a tree with fruit in the shape of a bean, so I took a specimen, cut it open, and decided it was tamarind. When I returned to the camp, I looked up Corner’s Wayside Trees of Malaya to confirm that it was, having studied the leaves and fruit, indeed, a tamarind tree. Tamarind is a dark brown, fleshy pulp with a tart, fruity taste. On the next trip, we picked enough fruit to form a pudding, and the cook went into ecstasies at the thought of a tamarind tart. The tart was duly made and served with a flourish at dinner.
Everybody in the Mess enjoyed it, and the colonel said: ‘Damned good tart, that: haven’t enjoyed a tart so much for a long time. Good show.’ The evening was a great success, although I had a partner whose attempts at whist were abysmal, and no cigarettes came my way.
About midnight I awoke with a ghastly stomach ache, and made a quick dash for the lavatories. There I fell in behind the colonel and all the officers from the Mess. The colonel said, tersely: ‘That damned tart, find out what it was.’
The next wood trip found me searching for the tree, which I located and collected fruit and leaves. I took these to Southern Area, where the local Volunteer Units had people who had been members of the Agricultural Department in Malaya. I showed them what I had collected, and they eagerly inquired whether I could supply the camp with more of the fruit. I said I could but why did they want it? They replied that the hospital would require a lot; it was cascara, a good old-fashioned purgative. I wondered what the Mess would think when they found that they had been fed on cascara, but at least the doctors were happy. I did find out, also, that it required an expert botanist to distinguish between tamarind and cascara, so that put my mind at rest.
The dull, uneventful camp life was broken one day by the new Japanese commander, General Fukuye Shimpei, announcing that all ranks had to sign an undertaking that they would not escape. This was contrary to the international code for prisoners of war, and all ranks were told to refuse the Japanese order. When the General was told of the refusal he took action which surprised the camp. We were ordered to pack up our belongings, load them on to our wood-collecting trucks and march to an army barracks about a mile away. This was Selarang Barracks, previously used to house a battalion of British troops, but now all the POWs were packed into the one barracks. This consisted of a hollow square, with buildings around three sides of the square, which before had been the parade ground, covered in tarmac, for the battalion.
A road ran round the barracks, and our trucks were left on the other side of the road, while we were made to enter the barrack blocks. Japanese guards covered the road with machine guns, so that once separated from the trucks we could not go back to them. In the buildings, which had three storeys, each person was allotted a small space, about five feet by one and a half feet, hardly enough room for sleeping. The first necessity was the provision of lavatories, and these were dug as holes off the parade ground, with a rough cover, in some cases, of a canvas screen. Very soon queues formed and as time wore on it took about half an hour to work through the queue to a lavatory. One always seemed to get on the slowest queue, and there was much rude muttering. One private remarked, as he was retiring behind a screen, that he wished his sergeant-major could see him now – he had always wanted to do just that on the parade ground.
Food, of sorts, was made available, but conditions slowly became intolerable. The Japanese repeated their demand, but it was again refused. After a day or so the Japanese threatened that if we did not sign, the space we occupied would be halved every day. After a lot of consultation and as symptoms of illness became apparent amongst the prisoners (an outbreak of diphtheria), a decision was taken to sign, emphasising that the signatures had been made under duress. This was done, and thankfully we returned to what had now become the luxury of our old huts.
About the middle of summer 1942 an event occurred that gained the regiment a certain amount of notoriety. On a very ordinary day a fatigue party was called to fall in under the command of the sergeant-major. An altercation took place on the parade, although the origin of the words that started the event did not seem entirely clear to the rest of the regiment. However, the sergeant-major reported to the duty officer that the men were refusing to obey a command. This was passed on to the colonel, who decided that an incipient mutiny was threatened and after that events moved fast.
Most of the regiment were completely unaware of what had happened and what was happening. The colonel called for a court-martial, and one was duly convened. Rumours reached us but we had no firm information. The court-martial was held and some of the men who had been on that parade were judged guilty of disobeying a lawful order. Varying sentences of imprisonment were imposed and quickly promulgated. The regiment fell in on parade in a hollow square, the sentences were read out, and the prisoners marched off under an escort of military police. As far as we knew the police formed a military prison inside the POW camp, and the prisoners served their sentences there. To anticipate the remainder of this story, when we returned from Siam there was no trace of the military prison, and no news of the fate of the men – no information on the subject at all.
In October 1942 most of the regiment was transported to Japan and even farther afield, indeed one of my friends ended up working in a salt mine in Mukden in Manchuria. This left about 170 officers and men in Changi, and as time went on further small drafts were taken away and sent to other parts of the Japanese-occupied territories.
We, the final remnants of the regiment, had arrived in Changi village about the end of 1942. The date was uncertain for we had little means of marking the passing of time; every day was the same since Sunday had ceased to be observed as a day of rest. This was not abnormal because both the Chinese and Japanese use a month as the measurement of time and there is no equivalent of a week. The Chinese celebrate the second day of the second month, the third day of the third month and so on, a useful way to get work done. It eliminates the western weekend and the concept of a poet’s day.
We were now down to a strength of 80, the final remnants of the regiment, and were organized as a battery in our particular area.
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It is evening and tranquillity is about to descend on Changi village. Twilight in the tropics lasts for only about ten minutes, going from full daylight to complete darkness in that time. Just before, during, and just after this period there is a hush in the world.
The air is perfectly still, smoke from wood fires ascends lazily and sounds appear magnified. A conversation at a normal level can be heard up to a quarter of a mile away and even further in the valley. There are no animal noises, the daylight contingent is settling down for the night and the nocturnal contingent has not yet woken.
A metalled road runs through the village, bordered on each side by a wide grass verge on which tall, leafy angsana trees are growing to give shade. Behind the verges, on both sides of the road, are several rows of wooden Chinese shophouses, spread out alongside the verges.
A shophouse consists of an open room with a concrete floor. The front is protected by a low wooden wall with posts supporting an upper storey in which are bedrooms for the shopkeeper’s family. Below, at the back of the shop, there is a concrete kitchen and wash place, the latter doubling as a lavatory. In the wash place is a square concrete tank, waist-high and tiled. The tank is filled with water from a tap and a dipper is used in bathing for throwing water over yourself.
At the back of the shophouses are several rows of coolie quarters – government property built of concrete with tiled roofs. In 1943 one of the shophouses was used as the battery office, sparsely furnished with only a table and a bench. The regiment had consisted of two batteries, whereas most regiments were organized into three batteries. Each battery had eight howitzers, guns capable of firing at a high elevation for low ranges to a target. The Changi office was the headquarters of the battery and it held all the records of pay, sick personnel, and the distribution of food; there was little else for which to keep records.
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Peter Piper and I shared a coolie quarter. Peter was a lieutenant in a Jat battalion with the 45th Indian Brigade which was sent to defend the Muar River on the west coast of Malaya, part of the main defence of the State of Johore. The Japanese attacked down the river towards its mouth, while, at the same time, sending a force in small boats along the coast to attack the rear of the defensive position. After confused fighting the brigade withdrew southwards and was reinforced by two Australian battalions.
The withdrawal took the brigade south to Batu Pahat, with a defensive position on the river by the town. This position was overrun by the Japanese, and the Indian Brigade destroyed. Peter, with a few Indian soldiers, escaped and made their way to Rengam.
At Rengam, the main north-south trunk road crosses the road joining Batu Pahat to Kluang, and to Mersing on the east coast of Malaya. In the Rengam area Peter met up with British troops, including our other battery, and retreated with them to Johore Bharu, and thence to Singapore. As there were no other surviving officers of Peter’s battalion, he joined our regiment in Changi, and finally came to Changi village with me.
* * *
In the twilight of the evening we used to sit on the porch where we had a couple of chairs and a kerosi panjang. This is a wooden chair, rather like a deck chair but with arms. Instead of canvas the seat is made of wood slats connected by string, so it takes up your shape when you sit in it. The arms have extensions which swivel to any angle, usually straight out in front. You drape your legs over the extensions and sit with arms and legs akimbo. The chair is especially suited to the tropics because air flows over your whole body and gets to the parts other chairs cannot reach. As we had only one kerosi panjang, we each sat in it on alternate days – with Sunday reserved for guests.
Coolie quarters were government quarters Class 12, the lowest grade of accommodation. They were reserved for menial staff – such as labourers in government service – who were given the quarters free of charge.
Each quarter was roughly divided in three, with a large porch at the front, a room in the middle, and an enclosed small yard at the back. The middle room had a big plank platform – the sole article of furniture – which served as a bed and table. We slept on this platform, which was covered with a rush mat, as had the original occupants. It was not ideal for sleeping but apparently had been good for the fecundity of the pre-war occupiers.
The yard had a covered way with a concrete table; this was used for cooking, with concrete raised portions to hold a pot and with a fire underneath. A small bathroom with a tap was used for washing and sanitary purposes. The covered way and the bathroom surrounded a small courtyard about eight feet by six feet. Friends from other regiments used to visit us and comment on the comparative luxury in which we lived.
At the start of the Japanese invasion the regiment had been in the 9th Indian Division, but when that division was eliminated the regiment had been transferred at Gemas to the 11th Indian Division. When the POW camp was formed each individual command was allocated a particular area. Together with all other Indian army units, the regiment was accommodated in the 11th Indian Division area.
The Indian other ranks were put in camps away from Changi, so only the British officers of these units were in the area. Our regiment was entirely British so we were one of the few units with officers and other ranks together. The other areas of the POW camp were the 18th British Division area, the Australian area, the hospital area and Southern area. Southern area accommodated the volunteer forces of Singapore and Malaya.
To get a picture of the entire POW camp imagine a triangular piece of land jutting out to a headland which was called Changi Point. This head land is at the north-east corner of Singapore island, about twenty miles from Singapore town. Along the northern coast was the Tampinis road and along the eastern coast was Changi road which lead to Changi village. The village was about half a mile from Changi Point, on the Changi road.
The base of the triangle ran from the eastern coast to the northern coast and was marked by a continuous line of barbed wire entanglements, with an entrance on the Changi road. This entrance was about two hundred yards from Changi Gaol, with the gaol outside the POW camp. Each of the camp areas was also enclosed in a ring of barbed wire with a guard hut at the entrance. The areas were connected by the existing road system.
Should you visit the area now you would find the road system has been completely changed and Changi village has many large concrete buildings. In a small museum next to Changi Gaol there is a map of the original POW areas, for comparison with the present layout.
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CHAPTER II
We’ll never get off the island
Our billets in Changi village were in Southern area which measured about one mile by half a mile. The area contained several little conglomerations of buildings, old army and naval quarters and small hamlets from which the original inhabitants had been displaced. It was thus possible to walk round the area and visit other army units, but prisoners were not allowed to go out of the area except under special circumstances.
The guards were mainly Indian soldiers who had joined the Indian National Army, formed by the Japanese. Japanese soldiers conducted the roll calls and administered the working parties but that was the only time that the Japanese came into the area; the Indians never did. There was an exception and that was the Kempei-tai, a branch of the Japanese army that was roughly equivalent to the Gestapo. These gentlemen had black triangles on the sleeves of their uniform and were usually seen cycling round an area and between the areas. Both Japanese and Indian troops were distinctly afraid of these men.
The battery had four officers, three of whom were gunners and the fourth was Peter Piper who shared the coolie quarter with me and who came from a battalion of the Jats.
Peter and I had a small garden in front of the coolie quarter that we shared, and in it we grew vegetables for ourselves and for the chickens we kept. The soil was poor so we adopted the Chinese practice of using night- soil. Urine is collected throughout the night and day and put on the garden after dark.
In villages in mainland China, there was always a large earthen tong or jar, about four feet high, with a platform around it so that the farm labourers could provide a ‘specimen’ on their way to and from work. Nightsoil is a precious commodity in China and also used to be collected in Malaya and sold to the farms. It is an excellent form of manure and our garden plants thrived on it.
The use of nightsoil is a true form of conservation because little is lost from the nitrogen cycle and compares very favourably with the losses incurred by dumping sewage out to sea. The Chinese, with a quarter of the world’s population and a small fraction of the world’s cultivatable surface, have had to discover the most efficient means of producing food. The use of nightsoil solved the fruit and vegetable situation and the animal protein situation was solved by raising pigs and ducks, the fastest throughput of animal protein from the available land.
The eggs we obtained from the hens and ducks were made into omelettes and supplemented the normal diet of rice and vegetables. Our quarter was one of eight or so in a row of quarters and the other quarters each had two officers installed in them. Each quarter had its own little garden and every body grew their own produce.
We also tried to grow fruit, the obvious choice being papaya which had a rapid growth rate to the first fruiting. We planted three seeds and hoped for the best, but Murphy’s law intervened. Two seeds died and the third produced a male tree with beautiful, heavily-scented flowers but useless as it had no fruit. This reminded us of Donovan’s law – Murphy was an optimist. Time was to prove too short to experiment with other fruit trees of which Malaya has a surprisingly great variety.
All ranks received the same rations of food from the Japanese, consisting of rice and vegetables. The diet produced many vitamin deficiency diseases with beriberi the main scourge. Beriberi causes a slow deterioration of the nervous system, giving rise to a condition known as ‘happy feet’ in which it was not possible to raise the feet when walking, thus producing a shuffling gait and, in extreme cases, only the ability to crawl along with the aid of a stick.
The first signs of beriberi appear when the hairs on your leg are pulled and nothing is felt. Rice polishings (bran) and red palm oil were used to cure the disease, with the cure being almost as bad as the disease. Lack of vitamin A, owing to a lack of animal products and red-coloured fruit and...
