Throughout the lead-up to the Japanese invasion, Singapore had never taken its defences seriously. Even General Percival was reluctant to install fixed defences because of the negative effect it might have on civilian morale.
Churchill was seething when he learned about the lack of preparedness on the island and ordered his Commander-in-Chief, Field Marshal Archibald Wavell, to urge the entire male population to get involved in defending the island. ‘The most rigorous compulsion is to be used, up to the limit where picks and shovels are available,’ he stipulated. ‘Not only must the defence of Singapore Island be maintained by every means, but … the city of Singapore must be converted into a citadel and defended to the death.’17
Amazingly it was not until mid-January 1942 that the order was given to prepare field defences. After years of indecision the authorities were at last goaded into action.
It wasn’t enough, though. As Brigadier Simson confided in a memo at the time, although as much as possible had been done to construct air-raid shelters and the like, only a small percentage of the real requirements for such a large population were met ‘owing to all this work not having begun or even seriously considered until half-way through the campaign’.18
The fact was that the British military had given little consideration to the idea that the Japanese might attack from land. The heavy artillery defences, which were placed in an arc from the southwest round to the east, assumed that any invasion would come from the sea. It is why the large-calibre coastal guns were left pointing defiantly to the south. Although they could in theory be turned the other way, they were mostly equipped to fire armour-piercing shells, which were fine for penetrating the steel hulls of warships but useless for attacking infantry targets.
Among all the gloom and doom there were occasional glimmers of hope. Back in Australia, and after much pressure, Lieutenant-General Vernon Sturdee, Chief of the General Staff, agreed to send the machine gun battalion and 1800 reinforcements to Malaya. It was a step in the right direction but fell far short of Bennett’s demand for a full division.19
If nothing else, the Christmas Eve news provided some cause for celebration. Bennett spent the early evening hosting a party for 80 officers and staff, as well as a group of nurses from his 2/13th Australian General Hospital unit.
The next day he went to church at St Christopher’s in Johore Bahru. ‘Within the church was the spirit of peace and goodwill – but outside it was war, bitter war,’ he wrote in his diary entry for 25 December.20
Of immediate concern was how the enemy had become more active in the air, thanks partly to their occupation of Allied airports at Alor Setar, Kota Bharu and Kuantan, halfway down the east coast.
Japanese troops had also managed to cross the strategically important Perak River. Once over the other side they got up to their old tricks of sending soldiers around the flank to the rear of British and Indian forces in the area.
Bennett realised the end game was approaching. ‘It cannot be long before the Australians are put to the test. It seems certain that they will soon be moving forward to their battle stations in the north of Johore,’ he noted later that Christmas Day.
As for the men themselves, he wondered whether they appreciated they would soon be fighting for dear life. While walking among them as they ate their Christmas lunch of turkey, ham and plum pudding, he found them full of cheer. There was much banter as the officers waited on the lower ranks who addressed their superiors as ‘boy’ and jokingly demanded better service.
Bennett had a heavy social calendar that day. Soon he was off to lunch with the Sultan’s eldest son, Tungku Mahkota, followed by dinner with the Sultan of Johore himself and his attractive European wife, Marcella. It was a convivial evening, with the Sultan promising to stand or fall by the Australians in the war against the Japanese.
Christmas Day had provided a brief but welcome interlude in the depressing saga which was unfolding to Bennett’s north. How much longer could the Allies contain the Japanese? And when the hour came would his men be up to the job?
Bennett need have no doubt there. The next few weeks would produce the 8th Division’s finest hour.
By now the division’s commander had been forced to accept that most of the men he had left behind in Australia would not be joining him in Malaya. The 22nd Battalion had already been sent to Rabaul in New Britain under the name of Lark Force, which also included an RAAF bomber squadron, a coastal artillery battery and members of the New Guinea Volunteer Rifles. New Britain was then part of Australian territory and close to the Caroline Islands to the north, which would fall under the control of the Japanese. Rabaul’s location in the Pacific was of immense strategic importance, providing an airfield for the RAAF and a flying boat anchorage, which allowed the Australians to keep an eye on Japanese movements in the region. As an Allied outpost it was also extremely isolated, so when 20,000 Japanese marines landed on the island on 23 January 1942, Lark Force was quickly overwhelmed.
Around the same time Sparrow Force, which had been sent to Timor a month earlier, came under attack from the Japanese Air Force. Initially 1400 men drawn mainly from the 2/40th Battalion were assigned to Sparrow Force, which also included commandoes of the 2/2nd Independent Company. Even accompanied by about 650 Dutch East Indies troops, the force was no match for the Japanese, who rapidly overpowered Sparrow Force and took control of the island.
Gull Force, which had left Darwin for Ambon in the middle of December, had the hardest job of all. Nearly 1200 soldiers, mostly Victorians from the 2/21st Battalion, were given the task of defending one of the most strategically important islands in the Dutch East Indies, but with insufficient manpower and inadequate hardware. Even their CO, Len Roach, was able to predict the inevitable disaster long before the men arrived there. Not mincing his words, he warned his superiors that if Gull Force was defeated it would not be a case of ‘gallant sacrifice but of murder due to sheer slackness and maladministration’.21
As the 2/21st Battalion steamed across the turquoise waters of the Arafura Sea on their 520 nautical mile (950 km) voyage north, they were as lambs to the slaughter. Most of them had never heard of Ambon, but the Japanese certainly knew its value. Whoever governed Ambon, with its large deep-water port and airfield, also controlled much of the region.
It was 17 December when Eddie Gilbert and his mates sailed into the island’s well-protected harbour aboard the Patras, the Bhot and the Valentine, three inter-island ferries which were being temporarily used as troopships. ‘We were on our way to war,’ he reflected. ‘That’s why we enlisted, not to spend eight demoralising months at Darwin digging slit trenches and learning how to be defensive.’22
But soon Eddie and his friends would rue the day they ever set foot on Ambon. Like their counterparts in 8th Division to the north, west and east, they were to end up either prisoners of war or dead.
Chapter 5
‘IT WAS A BLOODY SHOW, I CAN TELL YOU’
It is a warm spring morning as I set off for Helensburgh, a semi-rural community bordering the Royal National Park, nearly 43 miles (70 km) south of Sydney. I have arranged to meet Arthur ‘Bluey’ Kennedy, who lives alone in a ground-floor flat and refuses to move into a nursing home. He is as independent now as he was as a boy growing up in Sydney’s western suburbs.
Bluey was born at the Royal Hospital for Women in Paddington on 11 September 1917, which makes him 99 on the day of my visit, though you wouldn’t believe it if you saw him. He is short but erect with twinkling eyes and a devilish grin. Despite his age he doesn’t need reading glasses and has a healthy appetite. (One meat pie a day and perhaps a slice of pizza in the evening are his favourite dishes.)
Perhaps it’s because he never smoked or drank alcohol that he has lived so long. Whatever the reason for his longevity he agrees he’s had a charmed life. Born during World War I, growing up in the Depression, captured by the Japanese, imprisoned on the Burma-Thai Railway and bedevilled by all manner of tropical diseases along the way, it is a
miracle that he has lived to tell the tale.
He is also one of the last survivors of the battle of Gemas, which is etched in 8th Division’s history as a defining moment in Australia’s valiant attempt to halt the Japanese advance. Bluey was a member of the 2/15th Field Regiment, which was raised at Rosebery racecourse in Sydney on 12 November 1940. His memory of the war is as sharp today as it ever was, which makes his eyewitness account of what happened during the Malaya campaign so extraordinarily vivid. To hear about the fighting in the Gemas–Segamat sector some three-quarters of a century ago from a man who was actually there is to experience a unique link with history.
By now the 8th Division had been divided into Eastforce and Westforce, with the latter including the 27th Brigade, which was to act as a shock absorber when the Japanese attacked. Their mission: to kill and injure as many of them as possible.
An elaborate plan was hatched to ambush the enemy as they approached the bridge over the Sungei Gemencheh River close to the main road and rail links that connected southern Malaya and Singapore with the north.
It was the perfect spot for an ambush. Dense jungle grew on both sides of the road for about 600 yards (half a kilometre) and included a cutting some 12 feet (3.6 m) high and about 24 miles (40 m) long. The cutting ended about 60 yards (55 m) from the bridge, rendering the enemy totally exposed.1
Gordon Bennett called a conference with Brigadier Duncan Maxwell, CO of the 27th Brigade, and Lieutenant-Colonel ‘Black Jack’ Galleghan, CO of the 2/30th Battalion. They knew that much depended on the success of this operation. As Galleghan told his commanders and staff on the eve of battle: ‘The reputation not only of the AIF in Malaya, but of Australia, is in the hands of this unit.’2
Galleghan’s troops were desperate for action. They’d been so highly trained for so long that they were like a tightly coiled spring. The fact that they would be the first Australians to fight the Japanese only added to their sense of purpose. They were Galleghan’s chosen ones and they wore the accolade with pride.
The surprise element was the key to the mission’s success. Silence was paramount. Even a snapping twig or muttered Aussie oath from behind a bush could give away their presence.
Captain Des Kearney, who was second-in-command of the ambush, remembered the long wait, ‘not moving and hardly daring to speak’.
‘One slip on the part of any man and the whole carefully prepared scheme could fall through.’
Hours went by and they were beginning to expect another night in the jungle when they heard a peculiar ‘swishing sound such as a swarm of bees might make’.
Kearney looked up and caught his first sight of the enemy.
‘As they approached us we realised that the noise we could hear was caused by the cycle tyres “singing” on the tarred road.’
They were overwhelmed by intense excitement as they knew this was the moment for which they had trained so long. ‘According to plan, we made not a move as the column rode only 10 feet beneath us, all laughing and chattering and often looking up into the jungle which hid us so well.’3
The idea was to wait for the advance party of Japanese to cross the bridge, blow it up and then commence the ambush. As Colonel Charles Kappe described it in his narrative of the operation on 14 January 1942:
The object was to destroy with one blow not only the forward elements, but also a large proportion of the main force moving against us from Tampin. At about 10.00 hours a small advance Japanese patrol of four or five mounted on bicycles was seen approaching the bridge. This information was quickly passed on to Battalion HQ … Behind the patrol at a distance of about 150 yards came a column of about 150 strong (4 or 5 abreast) riding bicycles. Immediately following them was a further group of about 100 or more.
When it was estimated that 250 cyclists had passed beyond the eastern limit of the ambush position and 500 more were in the ambush area itself and a further 400–500 (5–6 abreast) could be seen riding down the road tightly packed in a compact group, Capt. Duffy, the Coy Commander, at 10.20 hours then gave orders to engineers to blow the bridge.4
It was an almighty blast. The charge threw timber, bicycles and bodies high in the air. Three platoons of Captain Duffy’s B Company hurled grenades at the enemy and swept them with Bren gun fire, Tommy guns and rifles. The noise was so great that when Duffy ordered artillery fire, the artillery forward observation officer thought his own battery’s guns were firing.5
The Australians who had hidden themselves in and around the cutting overlooking the bridge had opened up with all guns ablazing.
‘They were firing machine guns and rolling hand grenades down the slope and the Japanese didn’t know what hit them,’ Bluey Kennedy recalled.
‘It was a bloody show, I can tell you.’ 6
The gunfight lasted for about 20 minutes, with about 800 Japanese killed or injured, for the loss of one Australian. Lance-Sergeant Athol Nagle, aged 32, from Bellingen in New South Wales, would gain the unenviable title of becoming the first Aussie to die in action against the Japanese – on 15 January 1942.
‘The Bren gun fire unfolding along the road combined with the explosion at the bridge had accounted for a very large number of the enemy,’ Colonel Kappe reported.
‘All opposition across the bridge was wiped out with the exception of a few enemy who made for the jungle.’
The ambush had caught the Japanese totally by surprise. They didn’t even have time to unstrap their rifles or automatic guns from the bikes.
As Captain Duffy was to relate afterwards: ‘The sight from my observation post was a grim one. The entire 300 yards of road was thickly covered with dead bodies and dying men.’7
But the Australians also had a problem. At Company HQ the order went out to the forward observation officer to bring down the artillery fire. However, signal orderlies reported that the line was dead.
The advance party of Japanese had found the cable that linked Battalion and Company Headquarters and had severed the line. As a result those enemy soldiers who had managed to cross the bridge unscathed also escaped the follow-up artillery barrage from the Australians.
‘The failure to provide an alternative means of communication in the event of lines being cut had allowed the enemy beyond the bridge to remain untouched,’ Kappe explained.
It was a valuable lesson and one which would have serious consequences for the success of the Battle of Gemas.
Within hours the Japanese had managed to rebuild the bridge, thanks to material available from a nearby timber mill which had been left intact. Soon the bridge was strong enough to carry light tanks and motor vehicles, allowing the Japanese to continue their advance towards the 2/30th Battalion.
At the same time those of the enemy who had been allowed to pass through the ambush had doubled back and were now engaging the forward posts of the company.
Eyewitness reports from the time spoke of ‘dreadful hand to hand fighting and fierce bayonet work until returning Japanese had also been decimated’.8
With at least eight Australians wounded no time could be wasted in getting B Company clear. Slowly they moved off in single file to the south. The 8th Division’s retreat, which was never part of General Bennett’s strategy, had begun.
Enemy gunfire made movement extremely difficult, forcing the Australians to change their direction. To avoid being detected they had to lower their voices, with the result that the company was split into two parties.
It was difficult to know which way to turn. Then came another surprise encounter in the form of friendly fire from the battalion’s own mortars. Death by enemy action was one thing, but to be killed by your own side was not the way to go.
As the Japanese advance and aerial bombardment continued, the Australian gunners remained in constant action. Not only did they have to cope with the full might of the Japanese Air Force but also a squadron of light tanks supported by massed infantry. Part two of the battle of Gemas was underway.
A stick of bombs fell on a signals tru
ck, destroying all communications. Incommunicado with his men, ‘Black Jack’ emerged from his command post quivering with rage, but no-one could hear his voice because of the surrounding noise level.
As Stuart Peach recalls in Stan Arneil’s biography of Galleghan: ‘He was heading in my direction and I stood petrified. I had never seen such a look on his face and I wondered if he thought we had let him down.
‘My first impression was that we had been overrun by the Japanese,’ he added.
Black Jack need not have worried. By the following morning Sergeant Hall had scavenged a few items from another wrecked signals truck down the road and purloined several telephones from local homes. It was enough to restore full communications within a few hours.
For Bombardier ‘Bluey’ Kennedy the fighting was far from over. While returning from the command post, where he’d been asked to deliver a message, he stumbled across four 25-pounder guns that had been left unattended during the withdrawal. There were three shells lying beside one of them, which proved too much of a temptation for the boy from the militia who had trained as a gunnery sergeant. Normally you need the support of a fellow gunner to operate the mechanism, but on this occasion he decided to fire it by himself.
‘I put the shell home, loaded a charge and then thought how the hell am I going to fire it by myself? I can’t keep on jumping around.’
Somehow Bluey stretched his arm over the barrel and pressed the trigger. ‘Well the whole box of dice, the bloody works went up. There was a burst of flame but it didn’t harm me.’
Bluey Kennedy had a lucky escape, one of many he was to enjoy as the war progressed.
By now the gun crew had returned but the tractor on which it was placed was out of action, making the weapon impossible to move. Exposed to enemy fire, some of the gunners were hit by slivers of bronze.
Hero or Deserter? Page 7
