by Gillian Chan
I have never covered 75 yards so fast in all my life.
We were lucky there were trees to aim for — most of the hillsides were just covered with scrubby bushes about waist high. I doubled over, panting, allowing myself a few seconds to try and get myself back together for whatever would come next.
“Jacko, Jacko!” Ike was tugging at my sleeve. “It’s Paddy. Come quick.”
I ran after Ike. Paddy was propped up against a tree. At first I couldn’t see what was wrong, then I looked down where his leg was stretched out in front of him. He had taken a bullet in it, below the knee. Bone shards were visible in the wound. The urge to vomit came back, but I forced myself to kneel down next to him. He was conscious. His teeth were clenched and his skin was grey beneath his tan.
I rummaged in my pack for some of the field dressings we all carried and did my best to bind up Paddy’s leg. He groaned every time I touched him, but it had to be done. Blood seeped through almost immediately.
“Ike, we’re going to have to get him back somehow. We can’t leave him here.” I was hoping that Ike might have an idea of how to do this, because I had none. Paddy was a big guy, not as tall as me, but probably heavier. I couldn’t carry him myself. The height difference between Ike and me would make acting as human crutches impossible, even if Paddy could drag himself along between us, which I doubted.
Paddy spoke up for the first time. He was panting and it was an effort, but we could just about make out what he was saying. “Leave me. I’ll take my chances with the Japs.”
I had a pretty good idea what those chances would be, so I shook my head. “Nah, not going to happen, buddy.”
Ike rummaged through his pack and produced his groundsheet. I didn’t see what good this would do, but he looked up and said, “Get yours too. We can make a kind of sling.”
I didn’t get how it would work. By that time Sergeant Oldham was next to us, telling us to move out quickly. Ike started to explain, but Oldham seemed to grasp his plan immediately. He helped Ike lay both groundsheets out flat, one on top of the other, and then he got me and Ike to manhandle Paddy so he was sitting on the middle of them.
“Bring the corners together on each side, then tie as big a knot as you can on each of those ends,” Oldham ordered. “That will make gripping it easier. It’s not going to be easy, but you might be able to get him down the hill like this.”
We grabbed hold beneath the knots and we could lift him, but he was barely a foot off the ground with his legs hanging over. I could see no way that we were going to be able to carry him without his wounded leg dragging against any obstacle we might have to pass.
Sergeant Oldham moved round in front of Paddy. “We’re going to get you out, boyo, don’t you worry about that,” he said. “But we’re going to need your help, do you understand? I’ll be quick, I promise, but this is going to hurt like hell.”
I had been so intent on listening to Oldham that I hadn’t realized he had been moving all the time and had quickly grabbed Paddy’s wounded leg in both hands and swung it up so the ankle was now resting on the knee of his good leg, which still dangled down.
Oldham had a towel round his neck — a lot of the older guys used them to soak up the sweat. He pulled it free and roughly tied it around Paddy’s leg and ankle, securing them together. Paddy had his eyes closed and his jaw clenched, only the smallest grunts of pain escaping.
“Thanks, Sarge,” he managed in a whisper.
“You’ll be all right, boyo.” Oldham looked over at Ike and me. “I’ll keep guard on these two and gee ’em up if they slack off. I promise you that.”
Oldham was true to his word. He stuck with us all the way down, caught hold of Paddy when we stumbled, spelled Ike when he was done in, called in others to help too.
I don’t remember all of that nightmare journey, but it was dark when we finally made it back to Stanley Mound, with rain lashing down, right back where we had set off from that morning. We had gained no ground whatsoever. Yes, we had knocked out the machine-gun emplacement, but so what?
Paddy was barely conscious, sagging in our makeshift sling, but he managed a weak grin and a thumbs-up.
“Medical orderly, at the double!”
Oldham’s bellow shocked me. We had hardly made a sound on the way down, just grunts of effort and whispered warnings if the ground was particularly rough, and the whimpers of pain that Paddy tried so hard to stifle.
I don’t know whether the orderlies had been waiting for our return or just reacted quickly to Oldham’s command, but they were there in seconds and had Paddy loaded onto a proper stretcher. He waved and I saw his mouth moving, but couldn’t make out what he was trying to say.
Ike and I just collapsed where we stood, too tired and numb to even speak. I sat with my head in my hands, resting it on my knees. I felt nothing but despair.
I sensed rather than saw someone standing over me and when I looked up it was Sergeant Oldham.
“Thanks, Sarge,” I said.
“What have I told you, Finnigan?” he bellowed. “It’s Sergeant or Sergeant Oldham to you, boyo!”
“Sergeant,” was all I managed. As he walked away I gave him the one-fingered salute.
North Point Camp, Hong Kong Island, August 1942
Poor Ike, he was stuck outside our hut for a couple of hours, keeping watch while I got carried away writing that. It was the first time I’d consciously remembered it all. I get flashes of memory, pictures that suddenly appear, like the way the mules’ carcasses were blackened and burnt, but I try to shut them out. It’s the only way to keep going. Everyone has to, and if you don’t, then madness comes.
Routine helps. You know when there will be a roll call, when the meals are served. If you’re not on a work party, you find ways to fill the time. Me, I don’t like just sitting round talking, especially when people start to talk about food, which they do all the time. Some guys will remember every detail of a meal they had, be it in a restaurant or at home. To me, that just makes things worse. I want things that will keep my mind off that.
Now that the camp is more organized, there are lectures and classes. One of the sergeants here used to be a cobbler and I’ve been helping him out. Some of the guys lost their boots and we make shoes, or rather sandals, out of anything we can find — bits of rubber, wood, even the hard covers of a book that fell to pieces. I like working with my hands. Maybe it’s something I can do if we get out of here. I said if because sometimes I get down and think I’m going to die here and that no one will be able to tell my folks what happened to me. I think about Alice too, and remember how we’d spend hours just talking as we walked through the streets downtown. I never had much money to take her on a real date. That makes me sadder still, because she’s so pretty and nice that I convince myself she’ll have dozens of boys back home chasing after her. Everyone gets the blues sometimes. It can lead to trouble.
One of our guys — I never even knew his name — lost it within a few weeks of being a prisoner. He couldn’t stand it, just couldn’t stand it. He was a big guy, tall and beefy, when we came in, and it looked like he had come through the fighting with only minor scratches.
I started to see him round the camp, always by himself, walking and muttering. Sometimes he’d stop and dig something up from the ground and eat it. I was wondering what he was finding that I wasn’t, because if there was extra food to be had, I wanted in on it. I followed him a couple of times and soon realized that it was just dirt. Can you imagine that, being so desperate you’d eat dirt?
I don’t know whether he was eating what rations he did get or not, or whether because he was a little bit touched that some unscrupulous bastard was taking advantage of him and taking his food from him, but the guy was getting thinner and weaker. In the end he looked like a shambling, leather-covered sack of bones. Then he just wasn’t there any more.
Four others took a different way out.
Last week we were rousted out of our beds in the middle of the night as all hell
broke loose. We were ordered to parade, and the guards were in a high old state, using their fists, feet and rifle butts if we didn’t move fast enough for their liking.
It was pelting down with rain and they didn’t even give us time to pick up anything we might have had for cover. Some men are crippled and on crutches and don’t move too fast, but old Shig the Pig proved his stupidity. He harassed them in particular, kicking their crutches away so they fell, making them slower than ever.
I knew that something serious was going down because even the sick from the hospital were being dragged out. They were usually left alone. Some were crawling; others were on stretchers. The guards mimed that the orderlies should just drop the stretchers on the ground and leave them.
It seemed to take forever to get all of them out and the rest of us just had to stand there and wait. Ike was in for dysentery again and he was lucky — he was on his feet at least, being supported by another one of the orderlies. I managed to work my way over to them, only getting one cuff around the head for my trouble. I put my arm around Ike’s waist, noting as I did that he was thinner than ever.
The guards were busy running along our ragged lines doing a head count. Once they passed us, I whispered to Ike, “What’s going on? Why’ve they brought you guys from the hospital out?”
Ike drew in a shuddering breath. “I think there’s been an escape. Four Grenadiers, one of them an orderly.” He was shivering now. “I saw them. They were in a room at the end of the ward about an hour ago — full battle dress. They had food and were packing it into their kit bags.”
“Hell, Ike. Are you sure?” My mind was racing, half cursing them for what they’d brought down upon us, but half understanding that they had reached their breaking point and just couldn’t stand being here any more and had to get away, whatever the cost. They were fools, but they were brave.
Ike’s voice brought me out of my thoughts. “Yeah, I heard someone on the roof, so that’s probably how they got out. What they’ll do next, who knows.”
I pictured the hospital hut in my mind. It was the only choice really for trying to escape, being close to the wire and with a roof that almost touched some of the buildings outside. But where would the men go or what would they do once they were out? None of us spoke Chinese. We’d been in the colony such a short time before it fell that it was unlikely they had friends or contacts on the outside. We had heard a rumour that the Japanese were offering a reward of $300HK to any civilian who helped prevent an escape. That would buy a lot of food.
“It’s stupid!” Ike burst out, not even attempting to keep his voice down to a whisper. “They’ll just get caught, and then what?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, just kept going. “What do they think the guards will do, pat them on the head and march them back in to us like nothing ever happened? We’re going to get it in the neck for this.” His voice was rising now.
I pitched mine low, in the hope that if he spoke again he would take the hint. “Yeah, it’s foolhardy all right, Ike, but I can see why they had to give it a go. The grind of the camp just gets you down until you feel like you’re going to burst with it.”
I could see Shig the Pig looking down our line to see who was talking. I prayed that Ike was too exhausted to say any more.
“Tell me about it. At least you get to go out,” he hissed. “Me, I’m stuck here and there’s nothing to look forward to, just getting weaker and weaker, sicker and sicker …” He stifled a sob. This was bad. Ike didn’t usually give in to self-pity. Even when he was sick he kept joking, trying to keep everyone’s spirits up.
I could feel him starting to sag as if his legs were giving way. We had been out in the rain for nearly two hours. Still keeping one arm around his waist, I crouched a little and got his arm around my neck as well, so I was supporting him as much as I could.
“Ike, buddy, we’ll get through this. If we stick together, like we’ve been doing.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a rifle butt swinging down. Shig the Pig had crept up on us. I turned so I took the blow on my shoulder, shielding Ike as best as I could. That enraged Shigematsu and he began raining blows down on me. I had to let Ike fall when I tried to protect my face and head with my arms. The pain was awful. The rifle butt kept thudding down. The pain of each blow was merging into an agony I had never felt before — an agony that was so bad it took away my senses.
I came to just as the order was given to stand down. The faint pink of dawn was showing over the huts. I was lying on the ground. I tried to push myself into a sitting position but I couldn’t take any weight on my arms — they felt heavy and aching at the same time. Looking down, I could see red blotches where Shig’s blows had landed. I was going to be covered with bruises later on. I felt dizzy. As I tried to stand, a wave of nausea washed over me. I turned my head and threw up. A hand patted my back. I appreciated the gesture but my upper back was as painful as my arms.
“I’m sorry. It was my fault.” Ike was peering anxiously at me from where he sat on the ground. He looked uninjured, thank God. “I shouldn’t have got so riled up, raised my voice.”
“S’okay,” I mumbled, feeling my teeth with my tongue to make sure they were still there. My lips felt cut and swollen, but my teeth seemed intact. “The guards were all looking for an excuse to beat someone up, because they know they’re going to get it from their officers for allowing the escape.” I was keeping my head down because every time I moved it, I felt sick again, but I could see that a pair of dirty feet in sandals had appeared in front of me.
Sergeant Oldham was standing there looking down on us. “Ah, I think we have two for the sick bay now, boyos. Someone come and give me a hand getting them there,” he called out.
It was agony being lifted to my feet. As I was helped to the hospital hut, Oldham kept pace alongside us. He had a black eye himself, and blood crusted in his moustache. It wasn’t until we had been looked at by the doc that I asked Ike what had happened to Oldham.
“He pulled Shigematsu off you,” was all Ike said.
We’ve had no news of the Grenadiers who escaped. I hope they made it.
Hong Kong Island, December 21–22, 1941
We got little sleep the night after we got back, even though we had some shelter, as we had been marched to Chung Am Kok and there were buildings that at least offered protection from the rain. We lay on the floor and pulled our groundsheets over us, not caring that they were spattered with Paddy’s blood. We could hear artillery in the distance. Some poor bastards were under fire still.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Ike whispered.
He didn’t need to explain. I knew he meant Paddy. What could I say? “Maybe. Who knows? He’s got a chance, at least. There are some good docs here. I doubt they’ll be able to save his leg — the bone was shattered.”
“Yeah, it’s not going to be easy going back to a farm with just one leg. God, he was brave.” I could hear rustling as Ike sat up, giving up on the sleep that wouldn’t come. “I know we were jarring him all the way back, but he never complained, and he tried not to cry out. I don’t know that I could have done that.”
I sat up too, rested my back against the wall and pulled my groundsheet around my shoulders like a cape. “You don’t know, Ike. You never can tell what’ll happen to a guy when he comes up against it. Paddy’s a good one.” My thoughts had turned to Killer but I said nothing more.
Maybe Ike was picking up on my thoughts. “Do you think he’ll end up with Killer?”
I wondered how much Ike had seen back in the dugout and hesitated before I spoke again. “It’s likely, I suppose. Transport’s non-existent now with the Japs bombing the hell out of the roads, so I don’t think they’d take the wounded off the Stanley Peninsula.”
Lance Corporal Durand joined in then. “They’re probably at St. Stephen’s. You know, the boys’ school just up from the village. They’ve set up a hospital there.”
Durand was all right. He was the one who took out that sniper sin
gle-handedly, the first time we came under fire. He stayed talking to us through much of that night, letting us know what he’d heard from Sergeant Oldham and Lieutenant Mason. Brigadier Wallis was mad that the assault on Violet Hill had failed, even though we would have been slaughtered if we’d carried on. What irked him in particular was that the mortar crew had abandoned their guns. I hadn’t seen that, being too busy with Paddy, but Durand said that it was a crock, because they’d have been captured if they’d tried to lug the mortars back — and anyway, they’d rendered them unusable and thrown them away.
I didn’t like not having a Canadian officer in charge of us. Some of the British officers were okay, but others acted like they had a broom stuck up their arses, all stiff and proper, expecting you to salute and kowtow to them.
We were like the walking dead the next day. Everything seemed chaotic. We had little food, the field kitchen having been shelled. Sergeant Oldham told us to make sure we filled up our water canteens. I had Paddy’s and filled that too. Most of East Brigade was in the Stanley area now so we were being regrouped.
We were sent out again, this time with some Hong Kong Volunteer Defence Corps companies — the local guys, like our militia back home — and boy, were they fighters. After all, this was their home they were fighting to protect. It must have been hard for them, as many still had their families here on the island and they must have been wondering how they were, what with the bombardment from Kowloon.
I’m sure there was a grand plan, but no one really let us in on it. I guessed that we were aiming at connecting up with the Grenadiers again in the Wong Nei Chong Gap, but to do that we had to clear the Japanese off those bloody hills between it and Stanley. The whole day was spent coming under fire, taking the hills or not taking them, being driven back. You become numb after a while, not scared any more, or maybe it’s that being scared becomes normal.
