by Gillian Chan
I had a near miss. I was crawling up a hillside on my belly, Ike as always by my side. As to why we were on that particular hill, Bridge Hill, I have no idea. All I remember is that we had to get to its top and the Japanese of course didn’t want us to do that. They were above us, dug in, and raking the hillside with machine-gun fire. I was caked in so much dirt that I no longer worried about them spotting me if I stayed still. It was moving that was the problem.
Bullets danced around me, kicking up dust, and then there was a resounding clang and all my teeth rattled. I felt like I’d been kicked in the head by a mule. It was stupid, I know, but I took my helmet off and looked at the top of it. There was a brighter groove on its top where a bullet had obviously grazed it. I lay there looking at it, grinning stupidly, aware of how close I had come to death.
There was a tug on my shirt sleeve. I looked round and Ike was saying something, but there was such a loud ringing in my ears that I couldn’t make out a word. He finally ripped the helmet from my hands and jammed it back on my head, none too gently.
The machine-gun fire was getting more intense. We were pinned down and had no hope of advancing any farther. My head was throbbing and all I wanted to do was lie down and shut my eyes, but Ike was worrying at me again, tugging at me, trying to get me to move. Finally he shoved his face as close to my ear as possible and bellowed, “Come on, you crazy idiot! Didn’t you hear the order to retreat? They’re going to set the undergrowth on fire to flush the Japs out.”
The thought of flames ripping through the dry scrub all around me got me moving fast and I half-scrambled and half-fell down the hillside.
The ringing in my ears stopped eventually, but for much of that day I had to rely on Ike to relay any orders and it got me in trouble with Oldham a few times when I didn’t react quickly enough for his liking. I kept going though, where I was ordered, firing when I should, not thinking, not caring.
As night came in, we got the order to call off the attack and retreat back to Stanley Mound. We knew that the Japanese would try and follow us, pressing their advantage.
Ike and I were lucky. We were battered and had minor cuts. There wasn’t anyone among us who didn’t. Casualties were rising and every time we regrouped you couldn’t help but look around, trying to spot familiar faces, hoping you’d see them.
Most of the surviving battalion was there, except for A Company. They were out at Repulse Bay at some fancy-dancy hotel where a whole bunch of civilians were trapped and besieged. I couldn’t help wondering if they were actually getting proper food there and felt a pang of envy, looking down at the stale roll I had that night for dinner.
A bunch of us were all sitting on the ground together, eating silently. No one had the energy for much conversation when Yank Wardlow spoke up. He was from Detroit and had joined up back in 1939 because he wanted in on the fighting and his own country hadn’t joined the war yet.
“Aren’t those some of the boys from the company with the dog?” He pointed to another group just a little way away.
I hadn’t thought about Gander in days, and just the mention of him brought a smile to my face.
“Yeah,” I said. “Can you see him anywhere?” It was so dark and with no fires being lit we could hardly see a few feet in front of us.
We all peered and Ike finally said, “It’s impossible. Let’s go over. Find out where they’ve been fighting and where he is.”
Yank led the way. There were a few other Americans in the battalion, and being rare, they stood out. We all liked the fact that they had come over the border to join up with us when their own country was sitting on its backside, just watching. I wondered what America was doing now that they had been attacked at Pearl Harbor.
Yank was the kind of guy who was everyone’s friend, big and larger than life, always ready with a joke, and he had enough self-confidence for all of us.
“Hey, buddies, can we join you?” Yank asked. He didn’t wait for an answer but had already squatted down. Feeling a bit sheepish, Ike and I did the same. It felt odd to be making small talk like that.
“You guys got it rough the first night of the invasion, didn’t you? Out near Lye Mun?” Yank rocked back on his heels and then sat down, his legs crossed like an eager school kid.
“We’ve all had it rough the last few days,” one of the men said. He tried to smile, but the smile wouldn’t stay put. He was older than us, maybe in his early thirties. Like all of us, he was filthy — his uniform sweat-stained and mud-spattered, his face blackened by smoke and covered with small nicks and scratches. He seemed friendly enough. By his accent, he was one of the Frenchies.
Yank stuck out his hand. “Nolan Wardlow, but everyone calls me Yank ’cause I’m from Detroit.”
“Benoit Gauthier, but everyone calls me Benny.” He grinned again as he mimicked Yank, then made introductions all round.
Yank reached inside his shirt and suddenly pulled out a bottle. I couldn’t see the label in the dark, but it was obviously booze of some sort. “Look what I’ve got, guys,” he said in triumph. “I sort of liberated it. Just what we need, right?”
Everyone nodded, smiles breaking through on dirty, tired faces. Yank opened the bottle and passed it around. It was whisky and it burned like fire going down. Everyone was careful to take one swig and wipe the mouth of the bottle before passing it on. There were eight of us and the bottle made the rounds maybe twice before anyone spoke again.
“So, Lye Mun?” Yank prompted.
“We were behind the Indians, the Rajputs,” Benny said. “Some of us in pillboxes, some on high ground above.” His English was pretty good, but his accent meant I had to listen carefully. “It seemed like thousands of those Japanese poured ashore, coming in waves like the sea. Held out there as long as we could.”
“What about your great big dog, that Gander? Isn’t his handler with your unit?” Ike asked.
Benny’s smile faded. “Yes,” he said, “he was there with us.”
I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Benny was having a hard time speaking. His buddies had their heads down. No one said anything, just sat there waiting for him to get himself together.
“Gander, he was with us the whole time.” Benny looked at us. “He was a good dog.”
I remembered how Gander had barked at the Chinese civilians who tried to steal him back at Sham Shui Po. He had a deep bark, and I bet it echoed around inside the pillbox.
“Is he here with you now?” As soon as I asked this, I knew the answer and wished I could swallow the words.
“C’etait un chien très courageux!” said one of Benny’s friends. I had no idea what it meant, and I don’t think Yank or Ike did either.
“My friend says he was a very brave dog.” Benny took a deep breath. “Gander, he was with us when we finally retreated. We were going down the Lye Mun road to the reservoir and Japanese soldiers chased us all the way. Gander did not like them one bit. He ran at them, barking and biting. I thought they would shoot him, but they did not. They ran from him. Maybe they had never seen a dog so big. I don’t know. One did not run, and Gander, he reared up on his back legs, his paws on that man’s shoulders. He was taller than him and the man dropped to the ground, maybe he even fainted.”
Benny hadn’t answered my question, but I didn’t try to hurry him up. He had a story to tell and it was best to let it come out in its own time.
Taking his helmet off, Benny ran his hands through thick, dark hair. “The Japanese were clever and once they had us pinned down, they threw grenades at us. If we were quick, we could throw them back. If not, poof !
“There were seven of our soldiers and an officer pinned down in a ditch by the side of the road. Many were wounded and they could not run because of the heavy firing. A grenade was thrown near them, too far for them to reach and throw back, but close enough for the blast to wound them or kill them. Gander, he ran like the devil himself and he picked the grenade up in his mouth and charged back towards the Japanese who threw it.”
It was a while before any of us spoke. Ike finally broke the silence. “He was, Benny, maybe a braver one than some of us. If he was a man, he’d get a medal for that, maybe even a VC!”
Ike always had a knack for saying the right thing. As the others agreed about what a great dog Gander had been, I thought of him romping on the train, strutting at the head of our parades in Winnipeg and Kowloon. Tears came to my eyes.
There was enough of the whisky left for us all to have one more swig. The bottle came to me last and before I drank I raised it high. “To Gander!” I said.
The others all echoed my words.
I just hoped that I would be as brave when my time came.
Sham Shui Po Camp, Kowloon, October 1942
It’s been a crazy time. We’ve been moved off Hong Kong Island and back to our old barracks, Sham Shui Po, which is where the Brits have been held prisoner.
When we were out on work parties, British troops from Sham Shui Po told us that men had been shipped out of there to work in Japan. It hadn’t happened in North Point, so I didn’t know what to expect. I dreaded it because they said that the Japs were taking the fit men only — well, I suppose fit means that you can stand and walk, as far as the Japanese are concerned — and that meant that Ike and I would likely be separated. He rarely complains, but he’s just skin and bones, and apart from the roll calls and mealtimes, spends most of his days in our hut on his bedroll. I don’t know how he keeps going. Sheer willpower, I guess.
Eventually, so many had gone that there was room for us at Sham Shui Po. We were marched down to the ferries with just what we could carry. I had Ike’s stuff as well as my own, and even some of Paddy’s. Yank carried the rest of Paddy’s gear, as Paddy had to manage with his makeshift crutches. He had turned up in about July from Bowen Road Hospital, his leg gone above the knee. We’d given up on him, as there’d been no word of him since before Hong Kong fell. He’d been at St. Stephen’s hospital when the Japanese overran it, but wouldn’t talk about the massacre there at all.
I noticed that he will have nothing to do with Killer. If he’s in a hut and Killer comes in, then Paddy will leave. He got moved to the other hospital at Bowen Road a couple of days after the surrender. He’s pretty nimble on those crutches and is probably in better shape than Ike, as I think they got fed better in the hospital. We were so pleased to see Paddy that Ike and I both cried. I am not ashamed to say that, either. We’d both thought he was dead.
Sham Shui Po was a shock. I thought it was okay when we first arrived there nearly a year ago. Now it’s an ugly, stinking mess of half-starved men. During the fighting the Chinese looted it, taking everything — even the wooden doors and window frames. Windows had been sealed with corrugated iron. The huts were dark, dank, bug-ridden places. Some had bunks; others had wooden shelves just above the ground, wide enough for men to sleep four or so deep. I vowed that I would try and spend as much time as I could outside.
The move didn’t upset me and at first I thought it was a good thing, even though that might sound strange. There were new faces, new stories to hear, a bigger library. (Who knew that Jack Finnigan would actually come to like reading!) Ike brightened up too. I think having Paddy around helped, since Ike appointed himself Paddy’s chief helper, especially if I was out on a work detail. It meant he was up and about more, and I think Paddy made sure that he ate properly, which I couldn’t always do when I wasn’t there.
I soon discovered one of the biggest downsides when I met the Kamloops Kid.
I had gone with Paddy to the latrines and we were walking back to our hut, just chatting, when a voice barked out, “Where do you think you’re going?”
The English was perfect and the accent Canadian, but I knew it wasn’t a buddy because of the anger I heard in it.
I spun round, looking to see who had addressed us so rudely. There were some prisoners sitting outside huts, but they all had their heads down and were concentrating hard on not looking at us. The only other person in view was a Japanese guard, standing in the middle of the dusty path, a swagger stick in one hand that he was swishing through the air. He was small, no taller than Ike, thin and, to be honest, kind of ugly, with a sour face like that of a small bulldog.
“Yes, you — the gimp and the ox!” The guard was pointing at us with the swagger stick. My brain was having difficulty hearing that oh-so-Canadian accent coming from a Jap.
Paddy whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Careful, Jacko, it’s the interpreter they call the Kamloops Kid. I’ve heard he’s a brutal so-and-so.
The guard was coming towards us, strutting rather than walking, a slight grin on his face.
“What are you whispering about? Are you being insulting? Where’s your respect?” He rattled the questions off so fast that it was almost as if he wasn’t expecting an answer.
“Nothing. We were just wondering who it was who’d spoken. That’s all.” I tried to sound apologetic. It was obvious this guy was spoiling for a fight.
“No!” he was shouting now. “You were being insulting! I heard Kamloops. That’s where I had the misfortune to grow up, suffering at the hands of ignorant louts like you.” His face was getting redder by the minute. “Now that my people are in charge of you, I don’t have to take your crap any more.” With that, he swung his swagger stick and sent it lashing across my face. He used so much force that it felt like he was whipping me with barbed wire. He raised it again for another blow and I went to grab it, but Paddy caught hold of my arm and pulled it down.
“Don’t!” he hissed. “You’ll make it worse. Take it.”
More blows slashed across my face, one of them narrowly missing my eyes. I stood there seething, dying to hit him back. The guard was giggling now, obviously enjoying himself.
“Not so big and brave now, are you?” He sniggered some more, then abruptly stopped, glancing to his left.
A Japanese officer was in the distance, but he didn’t appear to have noticed what was going on. As the officer walked towards us, the Kamloops Kid kicked out at Paddy’s crutch, knocking it away and sending him crashing to the ground. I immediately reached down to help him up, expecting more blows to come down on my back, but none came.
By the time I had Paddy on his feet and his crutch restored to him, the interpreter was walking smartly away, calling out to his officer.
“Who the hell is he?” I asked Paddy as we continued back to our hut.
“I told you. They call him the Kamloops Kid. He’s a Canadian. Grew up in Kamloops, but went back to Japan before the war. Now he’s here as an interpreter. He’s a nasty piece of work who hates all of us Canadians. Claims that it’s getting back at us for the way he was treated when he was a kid — spat on, bullied and called a dirty yellow bastard.” Paddy always knew everything that was going on.
“Maybe he was,” I said, “but we weren’t the ones who did it, were we?” I fingered the welts on my face. One was bleeding slightly. “I’ll make sure I watch out for that nasty piece of work.”
Paddy nodded. “You should,” he said. “They say he pays special attention to the big guys.”
Paddy was right. If ever he saw me after that first meeting, the Kamloops Kid went out of his way to make my life miserable. Many of our guards were brutal. To them we had shamed ourselves by surrendering. It was against their code — they were meant to fight to the death or be thought cowards. The Kamloops Kid was different though; his cruelty was malicious and it was personal.
Just like in any group of people, there were the bad, the in-between and the good among our guards, although the good were rare in that lot. It was one of the good who I know saved my life. The story behind that is another reason I hav
en’t been able to write for a long time.
Since we’d been taken prisoner, I was lucky as far as health goes. Like everyone, the starvation diet had done me no good at all. I don’t know for sure, but I must have been down by about 50 pounds. The hunger pangs were brutal. I’d had dysentery, too, which didn’t help. But then, who hadn’t?
I’d been spared some of the worst things — no electric feet. Poor Paddy had it and what was worse for him was that he felt that burning, prickling feeling that never let up, even in the foot that wasn’t there any more. Doc Crawford, our senior medical officer, said it was called “phantom limb pain.” Paddy was pleased to know that he wasn’t just going crazy, but it didn’t help with the pain at all.
So like I said, I was “healthy” and I didn’t pay much attention to the fact that my throat started to hurt something rotten. It was as if the lining of my throat was on fire and it hurt like hell to swallow. I should have realized, because there was an epidemic of it in camp — diphtheria is what they said it was.
Ike, who was kind of a barometer for all illnesses, had been carted off a few days earlier, only he hadn’t got a bad throat. Instead, the diphtheria germs were in a sore he had on his leg — they formed this funny-looking membrane over it. It was weird and made me feel like throwing up.
The Japanese were terrified and many of them wore face masks. In a way it was a good thing, because it kept the Kamloops Kid off our backs for a while.
I probably should have gone in earlier to see the doc, but I worried about Paddy if I wasn’t around. It was only when my throat felt like it was closing up and I was so hot that you could have fried an egg on me — if you had an egg, that is — that I finally went in.
I hardly had time to say what was wrong before I was rushed off to the Jubilee Buildings at the end of the parade ground, where the Canadians who were ill, as well as some of the doctors, were being kept in an isolation ward.
