Much of my recollection as a prisoner of war is hazy, but the events of that day stand out in my mind as clearly as the Singapore sun shone on the beach where they took place.
It began like any other day.
Up before dawn; No need to dress. We slept in what clothing we have. Nothing survived the three and a half years of captivity, but the Japanese and our dead have provided some covering for our emaciated bodies. For the rest we have bartered or stolen from the local population, in some cases from each other.
A visit to the latrines; a perfunctory rinse of hands and face. The latrines are our Fleet Street. Here the latest news is discussed, the latest rumours circulated. For years the "Boghole Gazzete" has fed us with a little hard fact and a mass of gossip. In recent weeks, however, the news has been firmer, more reliable, or so we are told. Quietly, making sure no guards are within earshot, we discuss last night's news.
Two or three evenings a week an officer had slipped into our hut to give us the latest news. We post lookouts, for caution is essential. The Nips certainly suspect that there is a wireless hidden somewhere in the camp, although their many searches have failed to discover it. The officers talking to us is one of the two or three prisoners who know its whereabouts. If the Nips learn this he will undoubtedly be handed over to the dreaded Kempital, the Japanese military police for interrogation.
Of late, a feeling has grown of living in two worlds. One is the world we have almost forgotten. The world the lieutenant brings us; of Japanese defeats and imminent allied victory. Soviet Russia has declared war on Japan and is advancing through Manchuria. A new type of bomb has devastated the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Japs are negotiating for peace. Each night we hear the most cheerful news since our incarceration began and in the huts there is an atmosphere of hope. This is while we are actually in camp.
Then there is our other world; the one the Japanese inflict on us. Each day we go out from dawn to dust under the eyes of guards, building, tunnelling, digging. The Nips seem no different. Their attitude is as implacable as ever. Don't they know that their immortal Emperor is agreeing to surrender? That they are defeated? That their dream (our nightmare) of a Greater Asia has proved to be just that - an illusion?
This is bizzare. It is becoming difficult to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Can it be that the news we hear in our hut is false? Listening to the Lieutenant at night this seems inconceivable. We know this officer; he is giving us the news at great risk to himself. But in the morning light, jammed into trucks, slaving in the heat of the bright tropical sun, it is hard to believe that the war is almost over. For years we have fed on rumours; "The Boghole Gazzete." Why should this be different? We are bewildered. Are we becoming schizophrenic?
Frank and I slip out quickly to avoid the crush at the bogs and wah taps. Ar the latrines we hear a rumour that General Itagaki, commander of Singapore is determined not to surrender the island. There is a story that we will be herded into the tunnels we have dug in the hills and then mown down. This fits wht we know of the Japanese ethos, that surrender is betrayal. It could account for the uncompromising attitude of our guards. None of us can bring ourselves to believe this. If it is credible, it is also too frightening.
We lined up for breakfast. No question what would be served into our mess tins. Rice, either plain or with a faint flavouring of herbs; a tantalising aroma rather than a taste. This with a mug of milkless tea which we could sweeten from our minute sugar ration would enable us to work, hungrily, until mid-day.
* * * * * * * *
At first light on that particular morning we paraded as usual for tenko (roll call). The guards marched us out of the camp and onto the waiting open trucks. Forty men to each truck, forty ragbags of skin and bone, packed like toothpick in a carton, swaing a the vehicle lurched over the neglected road surface and bumpy unmade tracks. Frank and I managed to get up to the front end, pressed against the driver's cab. Squeezed in there, we felt more protected in the event of and accident, of which there have been several.
Somehow we arrived withou mishap just beyond the beach, where the Nips had us building concrete fortifications. This was our first indication that the war was going badly for them. Organized into shifts we commenced mixing sand, cement and ballast. So far a day like all the others of the past months. With variations, like all those of the last - how long? I had to think hard. Three and a half years, forty two months.
"How many days?" I must have spoken out aloud. Frank who was (is?) an accountant, said, "one thousand two hundred and seventy, give or take a few."
We were divided into three parties, two working while the third rested. In the yasmi or rest period, there was little supervision and during the morning, Frank and I wandered away from the work site on a foraging expedition. We had done this before. We knew that beyond the trees edging the beach, there were little cassava plantation, where we might find a few roots to add to our evening meal.
Survival is all! We did not try to justify our stealing. We knew that the long Japanese occupation had left the local population with severe shortages. But they were not restricted to a handful of rice and an ounce or two of dried fish. They had money, they could grow and sell produce and buy necessities. They had some freedom.
On the edge of the trees we looked around to ascertain that the guards were not watching us, then made our way separately through the prickly wood. It was not very deep and I got half way, then stopped short.
"Frank," I called as loudly as I dared, "come here, quickly. Look what we've got!"
Frank came running up. "Better than tapioca," he grinned. Cassava being the root from which tapioca is made.
Ahead of us, fluttering frantically in a bush was a live chicken. A string tied to its leg had caught on a twig and its desperate efforts to escape were twisting the string more and more firmly round the branch.
It was left to me to deal with the squawking bird. I don't suppose that in civilian life Frank had ever handled a live chicken let alone slaughtered one. It took only a few minutes for me to grab it by the wings, give its neck a sharp twist and stow it away in Frank's haversack.
"We'd better be getting back before we're missed," I said.
"Before the bird's missed, you mean." You could always rely on Frank for a light answer.
We got back only just in time. A gunso, a Japanese sergeant, waving his arm frantically, was shouting, "Tenko! Tenko! All men tenko!"
"What does he want a rollcall for at this time of the day?" asked Frank as some of the men, not ungratefully, stopped work and lined up to be counted.
A number of prisoners were standing around. One of them told us, " we think he's saying that there should be fifty men working and he can only see about thirty. There's a story got round that it's all over, and some of us have decided we've had enough."
The gunso by now was almost hysterically calling the guards to round everybody up. It looked like developing into a very dangerous situation indeed. A shoko, a Japanese officer, appeared on the scene and we watched his reaction as the angry gunso gave his report. The officer listened, said something to the sergeant - then shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Japanese officers do not usually act in so casual a manner. Something significant was afoot.
We were still awaiting the next move, when a motor cyclist came riding across the sand and handed a despatch to the shoko. It was a tense moment. Was the war over, or would Itagaki carry out his threat to fight on?
The men were murmuring. Someone said, "if they're going to kill us all we might as well rush the bastards and take a few with us!"
I looked around and for the first time saw us as we were. A ground of half starved, skeletal figures; clas in ragged shorts and little else. I looked across at the Japanese soldiers, tough and well armed. How far would we get? I caught Frank's eye and saw that he had a similar thought. It was Frank who spoke.
"It won't come to that. Look at that shoko. He isn't acting like a man who's going to fight on."
As if to confirm his comment, the Japanese officer held up a had. "All men yasmi," he called, "our Emporer make peace. War finish!"
It was over! The moment we had waited three and a half years for. There was no cheering, no elation. Conditioned to our environment we sat passively until the truck arrived to take us back to camp for the last time.
In the camp there was little change. The Nips, instructed to maintain order until British troops arrived, kept their weapons. To prevent any reprisals we were ordered to remain in camp. It took some days to arrange any substantial change to our dit but Frank and I were able celebrate the end of our war with a chicken dinner.