Judy: The Unforgettable Story of the Dog Who Went to War and Became a True Hero

by Damien Lewis

  In her mouth was a gleaming human skull.

  She tore past the guards, leaping any obstacle in her path, reached the far end, and in a rerun of the recent hut hurdling races, she turned and started back on her second lightning-fast lap. The guards began to scream crazily at the dog and yell at each other in alarm. As every prisoner knew, the Japanese guards coupled their predilection for savagery with a seemingly unreasoning fear of anything to do with death. Skeletons, bones, graves, skulls—all of it had them utterly spooked.

  As Judy raced past them for a second time, skull gripped tightly in her mouth, their cries rose to ones of sheer panic. Cobbler Cousens and Les Searle were expecting at any moment to hear a shot as one or another of the guards leveled his rifle and fired upon the camp’s beloved mascot. Judy must have sensed it too. With a final mad dash between the two guards, she turned and sprinted from the hut, skull still grasped firmly in her yawning jaws.

  No one had a clue where Judy had gotten the skull. Presumably, she must have dug it up from the camp graveyard. But of one thing Les Searle and Cobbler Cousens were certain: she’d done what she had in the full knowledge of the grave danger two of her closest family were in and of the impact her actions would have upon their would-be aggressors.

  Few in the hut who were aware of the rice theft doubted that Judy knew what she was up to. Hers had been a mission of trickery and deception. She’d sought to trick the guards into believing she was some kind of a hellhound—a devil dog possessed by the spirits of the dead. In that she had succeeded spectacularly.

  The guards were utterly spooked. Ashen-faced and babbling away to each other, their voices unusually high-pitched and squeaky with fright, they turned after Judy and hurried out of the hut. With that the impromptu inspection was over, the purloined sack of rice lying miraculously undiscovered.

  As December 1942 approached and with it the dire prospect of their first Christmas as POWs, the men were to receive a morale boost as fantastic as it was unexpected. In the officers’ hut they had managed to cobble together a clandestine radio. Its very existence was a closely guarded secret. Only a handful of officers were in on it, and for very good reasons. Were the radio to be discovered, the men of Gloegoer One would lose a very fragile link with the outside world, quite apart from the terrible consequences facing those who had been operating it.

  News was disseminated from the radio in dribs and drabs and only as the operators saw fit so as not to raise the suspicions of the camp guards. More often than not it was released long after the event had taken place, when the officers perceived a real need to boost camp morale. Perhaps that was why in the run-up to that first Christmas in captivity the news of the heroic raid on Saint-Nazaire was made known.

  Earlier that year British commandos had launched one of the first—and among the most daring and successful—cross-Channel raids on occupied France. An ancient British destroyer, HMS Campbeltown, was packed full of explosives and rammed into the vitally important dry dock at the French port of Saint-Nazaire. The charge was hidden inside a sarcophagus of concrete and steel secreted in her bows, and it was fitted with delayed-action fuses. By the time it exploded, the dry dock was destroyed and the commandos had gotten ashore to sabotage the dock machinery.

  Five Victoria Crosses would be awarded for the raid, in which 169 were killed and 215 were captured, mostly commandos who had fought until they were surrounded and all out of ammunition. When news of this stunning operation—which became known as the Greatest Raid of All—was circulated around Gloegoer, the men jumped to the conclusion that the long-awaited liberation of Europe had finally begun. Finally, the English lion had found her roar, and those who had for so long felt utterly defeated—including one doggedly defiant English pointer—began to hope and to believe once more.

  As they headed out of Gloegoer’s gates on their work parties, Les Searle and others began to take up the words of a poem written in Judy’s honor. It had become like a sacred chant, embodying the spirit of those who found hope where there was precious little to find, embodied in the mascot of Gloegoer One. They would sing it as they marched to bolster flagging spirits.

  They would stagger to their workplace

  Though they really ought to die,

  And would mutter in their beards,

  If that bitch can, so can I . . .

  In light of the Saint-Nazaire raid, the POWs started to examine the possibility of escape with newfound vigor. It had been discussed endlessly during the long months of captivity, but it had always been viewed as nearly impossible. Getting out of camp would be easy enough, but then what? A white man couldn’t exactly blend in with the local population. Plus it wasn’t as if this was a German POW camp in Europe, where the escapee could head for the nearest border with a neutral or friendly country.

  The only escape route lay hundreds of miles across the India Ocean. An escapee would need to lay his hands on an oceangoing vessel, and to get one he would need serious money, which few if any had anymore. But most of all he’d need the help of the locals, and they were fully in the thrall of the Japanese. Moreover, Colonel Banno, the camp commandant, had warned that anyone caught trying to escape would be tortured and then shot, as would all the men in his hut who had helped him make his getaway.

  In spite of this, every soldier knew that it was his duty as an Allied prisoner of war to try to make a bid for freedom—regardless of how impossible it might seem—and news of the Saint-Nazaire raid had quickened that sense of duty. But it was now that the Japanese chose to strike a blow that would dash utterly their newfound spirit of resistance.

  Only the Japanese could have dreamed up such an idea: a contract that every single Allied POW had to sign, binding him under “law” never to try to escape. This was simply a case of the conquerors lording it over the vanquished, and it felt like it too. But to sign such an agreement ran against every tenet of international law, and all in the camp were agreed—they could not and would not sign.

  It was late in 1942 when Colonel Banno had the prisoners stand on parade so he could storm about in front of them, raging and issuing dire threats. Not a man stepped forward to sign. Colonel Banno ordered that the guard numbers be doubled. A vicious-looking machine gun was set up, covering the entire parade ground—but still the prisoners stood firm in their decision not to sign away a precious liberty. Of course, with Judy not being on the official camp roster her paw print wasn’t required, but she sure as hell wasn’t volunteering it, either!

  Finally, on Colonel Banno’s orders the British prisoners were herded into the Dutch barracks, together with the Dutch POWs, whereupon the doors were locked on the overcrowded hut. Moments later the wooden shutters were slammed closed, after which the hammering began. The Japanese guards were nailing the shutters tight. To those inside it felt like being sealed inside a gigantic coffin.

  The rest of that day and night was spent in increasing torment as the air became fouler and the heat grew to intolerable levels. No food was provided, and there wasn’t even enough space to lie down and sleep. The siege continued all through the burning heat of the following day. In the rancid, saunalike conditions of the hut’s interior men were going down with malaria and dysentery. Nothing could be done to help them. Some urged the hut leaders to give in. Others were equally determined to hold out.

  A second day and night passed in such hellish conditions. It was clear that the camp commandant wasn’t going to buckle, yet neither were the prisoners. But how far would the Japanese go?

  Was Colonel Banno really prepared to let every prisoner—dog included—die?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two things combined to break the impasse in that accursed hut. The first was an ultimatum given to Sergeant Major Dobson, the man in charge of the British contingent of nonofficers: either he and his men would sign or they would be starved to death and even denied water. The second was the advice of the British and Dutch doctors who urged that sense prevail. Much more of this and there would be an epidemic of dyse
ntery and deadly typhoid, with horrific consequences.

  It was late that afternoon when a message was finally sent to Colonel Banno, accepting capitulation. A small table was set up on the parade ground. One by one the prisoners stumbled out to sign. The officers held out for a while longer before they too were forced to capitulate. But a signature obtained under threat of death had no standing in law, as all the prisoners were told. For those who had resisted for so long, a victory of sorts had been won.

  As for Judy, she went delirious with delight when finally she was released from the barrack-prison and could tear around the camp, relishing the taste of relative freedom once again. Spirits rose still further that late November when some extraordinary news reached the camp: a vessel had docked in Balawan’s harbor carrying Red Cross parcels for the prisoners. Every man was dreaming about what impossible luxuries that mercy ship might hold.

  The air was electric with anticipation as a work party was sent out to unload the unexpected bounty. The first trucks arrived around dusk, and it was as if Christmas had come early. There were cans of bully beef and condensed milk; cases of canned fruit; sacks of sugar, beans, and cocoa; and boxes of chocolate and cigarettes; plus there was the old faithful from the Indragiri River trek—Marmite!

  For half-starved prisoners this was booty beyond their wildest dreams. The consignment had been put together by the British Red Cross and shipped out from East Africa and was intended for British POWs only. Some who remembered how the Dutch had done so little to help their fellow prisoners back in Padang wanted nothing to go to the Dutch hut. But that wasn’t the spirit that prevailed. Many of the Dutchmen had the added burden of knowing that their wives and children were incarcerated in the nearby “family camp” in Medan, and most Gloegoer One inmates—regardless of their nationality—pitied them for it.

  The food was distributed to all, with a good deal being set aside to send to the family camp. Each man at Gloegoer One got a dozen cans of bully beef, several cans of condensed milk, fruit, and other delicacies. Soon, the interior of the huts looked more like your average corner shop than the prison cells they were. With Christmas just a few weeks away, men deliberated on what to do with such plenty. Some would be eaten in a celebratory feast right away. Some would be saved for Christmas festivities. And a proportion would be kept in reserve for emergencies and barter.

  With the unexpected provisions now on hand, Les Searle, Jock Devani, Punch Puncheon, and Cobbler Cousens were able to prepare a feast fit for a queen—for Judy. But the unexpected bounty was also the cause of a rare spot of trouble between some of Judy’s gang. Unsurprisingly for men who had suffered such interminable hunger, the hoarding of the food stocks became something of an obsession.

  One evening the workers arrived back at camp after a long day’s toil, only for Jock Devani to become convinced that someone had stolen one of his cans of bully beef. He eyed Les Searle’s neat stack angrily. In an accusing tone he announced that he was going to count them all. He stretched out his hand to do so, but equally forcefully Les Searle pushed it away. In the struggle that followed, Jock’s false teeth were knocked to the ground and Les accidentally trod on them. There was a sharp crack as the denture snapped in two.

  The argument over food was instantly forgotten. Jock bent to retrieve his precious teeth, cursing Les for having trodden on them. He made a beeline for the Australian hut, where it was reckoned they could fix just about anything. Jock returned a while later, grinning broadly and with the denture back in place. It had been patched up using a length of sticky tape.

  In the spirit of reconciliation Jock brewed some coffee from his Red Cross supplies, and the two men drank to their mutual good health. Trouble was, for Jock the toast ended in a strangled gasp. He went puce in the face, grasped his throat, and choked as if he was going to die. Under the influence of hot coffee the sticky tape had lost its stickiness and gotten stuck halfway down Jock’s throat when he swallowed.

  Once his throat was finally free of sticky tape, Jock’s spirits were revived in part by the wheeling and dealing he was able to embark upon, courtesy of the Red Cross. He now had goods with which to barter. In theory, bartering was punishable by a savage beating or even death—depending on the mood of the guards. But the British block had developed a covert means by which it might flourish in relative safety. The hut still had its shower room and toilets, which flushed via narrow chutes leading to the outside. It was through these that the barter in secret was effected.

  The system required absolute trust between prisoner and local, for more often than not the two parties to a deal never got to set eyes on each other. But amazingly, promises were kept and deals completed without anyone ever cheating. The main danger in these transactions remained the guards, and so a strict watch had to be maintained. It was organized on two levels. The first set of eyes and ears were Judy’s, for she could always be relied upon to issue a warning bark if ever a guard was inbound toward the hut.

  The second watcher was a human lookout. Whenever Judy yelped in alarm, the lookout would call out a coded warning—“Red lamp.” With the Red Cross parcels having enabled a resurgence in barter, the camp guards must have grown accustomed to their every arrival being greeted by a loud cry of “Red lamp!” One of the friendlier among them even took to calling out proudly “Red lamp” whenever he was approaching, to preannounce his own arrival.

  With December 25, 1942, all but upon them, the men of Gloegoer One were facing their first Christmas in captivity. Those who’d cried out “See you in Blighty for Christmas” when leaving Padang had been sorely mistaken. Fevered preparations got under way for the festivities—and the feast, made possible largely thanks to the Red Cross. Grudgingly, Colonel Banno agreed to recognize such a “heathen festival” by allowing a day off for the work parties, and from somewhere he even secured a barrel of captured port for the coming occasion.

  Christmas morning was spent singing carols, the British, Dutch, and Aussies joining one another in belting out one another’s favorite hymns. Courtesy of the Red Cross, the cooks had managed to cobble together a fantastic feast, as opposed to the usual slop of rice. Steak, new potatoes, kidney beans, and brown gravy were served to all. And in spite of her not being on the Gloegoer One official camp register, Judy of Sussex was invited to sit down with the rest and enjoy her plateful.

  After the feast came the pantomime, a takeoff of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs that was a skit on prison life. The Japanese officers and guards formed part of the audience, and they joined in the uproarious laughter—though thankfully they didn’t seem to understand that the joke was largely on them. During the raucous and bawdy panto songs, Judy was seen to lift her fine head and howl along an accompaniment, just as any camp mascot should do—and just as she had done in the Strong Toppers Club back in the heady days of gunboat diplomacy on the Yangtze.

  But when all was said and done, the Christmas merrymaking at Gloegoer One was forced. Refusing to be cowed, the prisoners were making the best of a bad job. The sense of awfulness, the separation from family and loved ones, the homesickness—none of that could be banished by one good meal and a jolly sing-along. All in Gloegoer longed for 1942 to end, ushering in a New Year that they hoped would bring a turnaround in the fortunes of the war and see the Allies victorious, a New Year that would see their dream of liberation from the prison camps become reality.

  In truth, 1943 would be the year in which the chill wind of death would be felt, even among Judy’s gang of fellows. The Japanese decided to launch the New Year with a massive new labor project, one that would become known as the White Man’s Mountain. Little would better demonstrate Imperial Japan’s bloated sense of destiny—her belief that this one small nation alone could conquer China, India, Southeast Asia, and the United States—than the temple mount that the Gloegoer prisoners were ordered to build.

  The work began with the clearing of an overgrown tobacco plantation, after which the laborers were given the Herculean task of piling up a man-made mo
untain. It took fifty men weeks of sweat-soaked toil, using billhooks and parangs—locally made hoes and machetes—to hack away the vegetation. With the blistering sun beating down, dark swarms of mosquitoes, giant stinging ants, and other savage insects took full advantage of bare, unprotected bodies to bite, sting, and feast to their heart’s content.

  But among the dangers there were also opportunities abounding in the thick bush: notably, the sudden appearance of a Sumatran water monitor—a giant lizard. As big as a crocodile, they looked to those who had never laid eyes on one like a mythical Chinese dragon. And although Judy had never seen one either, it didn’t stop her from barking furiously, spooking one that was in hiding and sending it tearing across the cleared ground in search of safety.

  For their size and ungainly appearance, these giant lizards can move incredibly swiftly—but not as fast as Gloegoer One’s dog could. With Judy snapping at the tail of the spitting and hissing creature, a giant lizard hunt could be strung out for a good hour or more, in large part to avoid the grinding monotony of the work. In spite of their gnarly, prehistoric appearance, the monitor lizards made for fine eating, the flesh tasting like chicken but with a faint hint of fish.

  Once the vegetation had been scoured away, it was burned, after which the soil had to be sifted by hand for any tiny scrap of root, seed, or vegetation. The work went on relentlessly, the guards driving the prisoners like slaves, until the area resembled a badly plowed field. Next came the grueling job of leveling the earth, after which the only way was up. Building the temple mount proved the most exhausting task both physically and mentally that the prisoners had yet been given. Tons of earth had to be shifted onto the growing mountain, and the only way to move it was by using a pair of wicker baskets slung on either end of a pole.