by Ellie Dean
He gave a deep, tremulous sigh and ran his fingers over the scar. ‘Now it’s all over I’m exhausted. Exhausted by the sweat, the toil, the blood and the deaths – too many deaths – and all of them senseless. Exhausted from having to fight with every fibre of my being to stay alive, to keep my men alive, and to bolster their morale in any way I could – which was a hapless task.’ He fell silent.
‘Did you ever receive letters from home, or Red Cross parcels?’ asked Jim softly.
O’Keefe shook his head. ‘We heard nothing from anyone and thought we’d been forgotten by the world until the moment we were liberated.’
He looked up at Jim with a frown. ‘It’s a strange feeling to find yourself free after so long, and when the American soldiers found us, most of us just sat and waited to be told what to do and where to go. We were numbed by it all, you see, and couldn’t believe it was really over and we were free.’
He began to rub his scar again, noticed what he was doing and clasped his hands tightly together between his bony knees. ‘Since coming here my moods have swung from sheer elation to deep despondency, but receiving letters from my wife is a tremendous help, and I write long letters back. They seem to calm me.’
‘Were you moved from camp to camp during the building of the railway?’ asked Jim.
‘Several times, and I’ve since met men here that I remember from different camps.’ He took a deep breath, realised he was rubbing his scar again and gave Jim a rueful smile. ‘I’ve found I do that when I’m feeling particularly on edge,’ he explained. ‘It’s a habit I’ll have to stop, or my wife will think I’ve gone potty.’
Jim realised the man had had more than enough, and as he’d given him so much worthwhile information, it was only kind to leave him in peace. He’d closed his notebook and was about to take his leave when O’Keefe touched his arm.
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to your friends?’
Jim’s heart missed a beat. ‘I’d be very grateful and so would their families,’ he said carefully.
‘Fuller and Tarrant were with me at camp thirty-two and survived the cholera, although they were never quite the same again. Tarrant was skin and bone when he was sent to camp sixteen which was further down the line, nearer to Bangkok. And Fuller was the same, but he remained in our work party as we were sent to camp thirty-three.’ He looked at Jim, his eyes fathomless in his deeply lined face. ‘He’s still there. I’m sorry.’
Jim closed his eyes momentarily and digested the news he’d been dreading. ‘How did he die?’ he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
‘He was sick and very weak, half the man he’d been when I first met him in Changi – and one day he was struggling to help two others carry a heavy sleeper. I saw his legs buckle and hurried to help him – but he was already dead by the time he hit the ground. He was buried beside the track in the jungle, as were so many others. I left a marker – it was all I could do for him.’
‘Thank you for sharing your experiences with me. I do understand how very painful it must have been for you, but your testimony will help enormously in the trials to come.’
O’Keefe merely nodded, his face drained of all colour, his thin shoulders sagging from the weight of all the responsibility he’d carried throughout his ordeal.
Jim saluted him, then turned away swiftly and hurried to the car before anyone could see how deeply he’d been affected.
He sat there staring out of the windscreen, battling to contain the raging fury that was building inside him. He’d thought his war had been hard – thought he’d seen and heard more than any man should bear in one lifetime. But these men, these brave survivors, had witnessed and borne things that no man should bear. And although he’d never met Jock or Philip, he thought of them as real heroes.
Gathering his wits about him, he dried his eyes, tamping down on the awful tide of anguish that threatened to overwhelm him, then drove back to Raffles. The dread of having to face Sybil and her girls grew with every mile, and when he’d reached the hotel, he had to sit for a few minutes to prepare himself for what would inevitably be a traumatic and distressing conversation.
Jane looked up as Jim entered the office and knew from his expression that he was the bearer of bad news – and that could only mean one thing. Her heart began to thud painfully and her breath seemed trapped in her chest as Elsa hurried to her side.
‘Who is it?’ she managed in dread.
‘I’m so sorry, Jane,’ he replied, coming to take her hand. ‘It’s your father.’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she whispered.
At his nod, she felt the sob form in her throat, swiftly swelling and rising until it escaped in a storm of pain and sorrow. ‘And Philip?’ she wailed. ‘Is he gone too?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said a distressed Jim. ‘The teams will be out searching now we know where he was held.’
Jane turned into Elsa’s embrace and sobbed against her even though she’d prepared herself for this moment – had known instinctively that it would come. But the reality of knowing he was gone, that she would never see him again, talk to him again or be held by him was stark and unbearable.
She was vaguely aware of Jim leaving the room, and hearing Elsa’s soft words of comfort, but all she could see was her darling Pops – big and bluff and fully in charge during any crisis – and yet soft-hearted, loving and oh so gentle with them and their mother. Snapshots of memories flashed across her mind, and she saw him striding through the rubber trees, tanned and fit, his sturdy legs and broad shoulders giving him an aura of strength and capability.
She withdrew from Elsa’s embrace eventually and pulled herself together. ‘I’m sorry, Elsa, I didn’t mean to let go like that.’
‘You have absolutely nothing to apologise for,’ said the older woman. ‘It’s natural to cry at times like these.’
‘But I almost knew this would happen and thought I’d steeled myself against it.’ Jane mopped her face. ‘Oh, God,’ she breathed, ‘how am I going to tell Mother? This will kill her.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Elsa softly. ‘Your mother’s tougher than she looks, and I think she’s already accepted that Jock would most likely not come back.’
Jim entered the room with a tray of glasses and a bottle of brandy. ‘Don’t ask where I got the brandy,’ he said, pouring generous measures. ‘Just drink it and let it do its work.’
Jane took a huge gulp which made her cough. ‘Was Philip with Pops, Jim? Or had they been separated?’ she managed when she’d recovered.
‘They were together until the end of 1943, and then Philip was sent to another labour camp further down the line.’
Jane digested this and took a tremulous breath. ‘They were both on that horrendous railway then,’ she said flatly. ‘Is that where Pops died?’
Jim nodded, and Jane could see he was deciding how much to tell her.
‘I’ve heard enough from the men who survived that horror, Jim. Tell me what happened.’
Jim took a breath and told her. ‘It was swift, Jane,’ he finished. ‘And I suspect a blessed release.’
‘Poor Pops,’ she murmured, the tears streaming down her face. ‘At least now that we know where he is the burial teams can give him a decent resting place.’
She finished the brandy and collected her things. ‘I’d better go and tell Sarah so we can face Mother together.’
Jim had driven Jane to the hospital and waited outside as she’d gone in search of her sister. He paced back and forth, smoking one cigarette after another until his head began to throb and his throat went dry.
He’d lost track of what time it was when he spotted Jumbo, who was in charge of a group of Japanese prisoners repairing the brickwork at the side entrance to the hospital clinic. He went over to tell his friend what had happened, and warned him he probably wouldn’t make the supper he and Myfanwy had organised for this evening.
Jane appeared with a red-eyed Sarah, and he silently opened the car door for them and t
hen drove towards the bungalow. He glanced repeatedly in the rear-view mirror and saw that the sisters were now dry-eyed and holding fast to one another, probably preparing themselves to face their mother with their devastating news, and as they approached the bungalow, his heart sank.
Sybil was just paying off the rickshaw boy, and she turned to smile and wave at Jim as he parked outside the front gate. She looked so animated and attractive in that summer frock, that he hated the thought of destroying all that with what was to come.
He swiftly climbed out of the car and opened the door for the girls.
‘Hello, Jim, what are you doing here?’ she asked cheerfully before glancing behind him and seeing her daughters. ‘My goodness, you are arriving in style,’ she teased. And then, as she saw their expressions, her smile faded.
‘What is it?’ she breathed, her hand fluttering to her chest. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Let’s go inside,’ said Sarah, attempting to take her arm. ‘We have something to tell you, Mummy.’
‘No. Tell me now,’ she demanded breathlessly. ‘Is it your father? Have they found him? Is he …’ Her words faltered and died and the colour went from her face as she realised what they’d come to tell her.
Jim just managed to catch her as she crumpled in a dead faint. He scooped her into his arms and carried her up the path to where Amah was waiting in the front doorway and watching it all with sad, knowing eyes.
Once he knew Sybil would be well taken care of, he left them to mourn in private and went to find a dark, quiet bar in which he could drink enough to blot out the stories and the images they’d invoked.
21
As the days went by and there was still no news of Philip, Sarah began to believe that he’d suffered the same terrible fate as her beloved father. She knew that the search and burial teams were slowly making their way down the torturous route of the Burma railway, and that more and more camps, makeshift cemeteries and survivors were being found – but having discussed it with Jim and Elsa, she realised the list of the dead was growing, and she could only hope that if he was buried out there, someone had left a marker to remember him by.
She didn’t know how to feel about Philip, for he’d become a shadowy figure – a blurred memory from a past age that was gone for ever. But she had loved him once, and because of that she could mourn him and all they’d lost.
Elsa had been a stalwart supporter over those first few terrible days, and had come back the following evening with a traditional white mourning sari, incense and candles for Amah. The elderly woman had quietly and efficiently tended Sybil, who’d made a remarkable recovery. Sybil had clearly accepted that her worst fears had been realised, and although she was grieving, decided she needed to go back to her work at the orphanage.
‘I need to do something,’ she said a week later. ‘Your father wouldn’t want me sitting about here feeling sorry for myself when he gave his life so we could be free.’
Sarah had thought it was far too soon, but Jane and the others agreed with Sybil. None of them had any idea of how long they would have to wait to hear what had happened to Philip, and there was urgent work still to be done at the hospital and in the RAPWI office.
Telegrams had been sent to Australia, and to Peggy and Jeremy, who’d now returned to England. The routine of their lives in Singapore stuttered to a start again, and they all found that it helped enormously.
The respite camps were beginning at long last to be cleared, and the men, women and children were now on their way home in the ships that came in almost every day. Raffles was slowly returning to its quiet, almost sombre self, but the hospital was still overwhelmed as prisoners were brought in from Sumatra, Java and the islands off Japan. There was a real sense that no one had been left behind or forgotten, for those who’d died were now laid to rest in cordoned-off cemeteries, their names, ranks and numbers marked on stones if known – unless they were known only to God.
It was the last week in October and Sarah was wading through the latest batch of almost indecipherable doctors’ reports on patients who’d come in the previous day. The heat was stifling despite the ceiling fan, and she was looking forward to the end of the day when she could relax with a long cold Tom Collins and think about seeing the plantation house again.
It wasn’t known what sort of state it was in after the Japanese had left it, but Sybil had decided they all needed a break from Singapore and that it would do them good to go back there just for the weekend, and perhaps lay a memorial stone for Jock. Sarah had been dubious, for it wouldn’t feel the same without Pops, and every nook and cranny of the place would just be a sad reminder of him. There was also the fact that she hadn’t heard anything about Philip, and it would be awful if she was away when news came.
Sarah had pored over the long list of the dead, and checked the names of the passengers of every plane and ship coming in. She’d even gone through the seemingly endless list of those who’d been sent home to Australia in case the authorities had heeded Sybil’s pleas and sent him there. But there had been nothing, and she was beginning to accept that he must have been one of the many who’d died anonymously.
She paused in her typing and leaned back in the chair. The whole thing was tragic, for Philip had been young, virile and energetic. If anyone could have survived it should have been him. The knowledge that he must have been cut down in the prime of life and left in an unmarked grave tore at her heart. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer that he hadn’t suffered like so many others, and had died as her father had done – silently and in an instant.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed away from the desk and lit a cigarette. Throwing open the shutters and thereby risking an invasion of flies and bugs, she leaned on the sill to watch Jumbo patiently instructing the Japanese labourers on how to lay a line of bricks.
The sight of him made her smile, for she liked Jumbo enormously, and was delighted that he and Myfanwy had tied the knot in a simple church ceremony the previous weekend. Jim had been the best man, and given a rousing speech at the reception, which Sarah had abridged in her letter to Peggy. The celebrations had lasted long into the night and Jumbo had serenaded his bride with a stirring rendition of ‘Road to the Isles’ on his new set of bagpipes. Where the heck he’d found those was anyone’s guess, but they certainly made the party go with a swing.
She finished her cigarette and was about to return to trying to decipher the doctors’ writing when there was a soft tap on the door, and Matron stepped in.
‘Hello, Matron. What can I do for you? I’m afraid I haven’t finished these yet.’
‘Don’t worry about those, Sarah,’ she replied softly.
Sarah looked at her unsmiling face and felt something lurch in the pit of her stomach. ‘Philip?’ she breathed. ‘Have they found him?’
‘Yes, my dear.’ She approached the desk. ‘He’s just been brought in.’
‘He’s alive?’ Sarah gasped, her pulse beating wildly.
‘He is, but in a very bad way. I don’t believe he has very long, so I’ve advised your mother and sister to get here as soon as possible.’
Sarah pushed back from the desk, suddenly desperate to see him. ‘Where is he? Which ward?’
‘Intensive care,’ the other woman replied, reaching for her hand to stop her from leaving the room. ‘But, Sarah, he might not recognise you – and you must prepare yourself for a shock when you see him. It’s incredible that he’s survived this long.’
Sarah nodded although she didn’t feel prepared for anything. The fact that Philip was alive was a miracle in itself – which only proved to her that she’d been right to call off her engagement to Delaney and wait for his return.
She ran down the endless corridors – something strictly forbidden at all times – and finally reached the intensive care wing. Out of breath and dreading what she might find, she smoothed her hair, mopped the perspiration from her face and steeled herself to open the door.
The sister in charge met her
before she’d taken more than a few steps. ‘Miss Fuller?’ she asked barely above a whisper. ‘Matron said you were coming.’
‘Is he really close to the end?’ Sarah whispered back.
‘I’m sorry, but yes,’ she replied. ‘But I’m sure that seeing you will rally him. He’s in the last bed on the left.’
Sarah’s legs threatened to give way as she tiptoed down the ward, trying to avoid the heart-wrenching sight of the other patients. Approaching the last bed, she hesitated momentarily, her heart in her mouth as she walked to his bedside and looked down at the man lying there.
She felt almost jubilant, for this wasn’t Philip. Couldn’t possibly be Philip. They’d made a terrible mistake, and he was out there somewhere still waiting to be found.
She turned to find the nursing sister standing by the end of the bed. ‘It’s not him,’ she said raggedly. ‘That’s not Philip Tarrant.’
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Fuller, but there’s absolutely no doubt that it is.’ She pointed to the dog tags hanging from the iron bedpost, and held out the filthy remnants of his identity papers for her to read.
Sarah’s legs finally gave way and she almost fell into the bedside chair. She stared down at the old, haggard man in the bed who bore no resemblance to the handsome young man she’d known. His skin was parchment yellow and stretched across his skull so tightly she could almost see the white of the bones beneath. He’d lost most of his teeth; his head was shaven and covered in sores; the muscles of his arms now wasted flesh; his once broad, tanned chest a cavernous cage of rib and scar tissue.
Tears pricked and slowly ran unheeded down her face as her heart broke. ‘Oh, dear God,’ she breathed. ‘What did they do to him?’
The nurse squeezed her shoulder. ‘You’ve been here long enough to know what these men went through, Miss Fuller,’ she said quietly. ‘If he wakes, try not to let him see you cry. He’ll find it very upsetting.’
