by Gillian Chan
I don’t remember too much about the next few days. I know there were needles. I was lying on a floor and there were others around me. Someone was spooning soup into my mouth, but it still hurt to swallow. I thought it was Ike, but sometimes he had a reddish moustache, which was odd.
One day everything came back into focus as a familiar voice said, “Back in the land of the living, boyo. You had us worried for a while.”
Sergeant Oldham was squatting down next to me, a damp cloth in his hand, which he proceeded to wipe my face with. “Caplan,” he called, “you better get over here. Sleeping Beauty is finally awake.”
Ike’s smiling face loomed over the sergeant’s shoulder. “Silly bugger,” he said. “Why did you have to be a tough guy? You nearly bought it.”
Between the two of them they helped me into a sitting position with my back against a wall. I felt weak, but my throat felt better. “It didn’t seem too bad,” I said. “I thought it would pass like sore throats when I was a kid.”
“No, not diphtheria,” Sergeant Oldham said. “You’re lucky that we finally got some serum to treat you and the others.” He nodded his head to the doorway, where a small, grey-haired Japanese man was talking to Doc Crawford. “If it hadn’t been for the Rev over there, and some others on the outside, many more would have died.”
I was puzzled. I knew that the little man was a priest — a Christian one, if you can believe that — and one of the interpreters like the Kamloops Kid. This man was the Kid’s opposite in every way — gentle where the Kamloops Kid was brutal, kind whenever he could be — but he wasn’t a doctor.
“Watanabe’s been smuggling the serum in,” Ike told me. “It saved your life.”
“Yours too?” I asked.
Ike’s grin got broader. “No, I didn’t need it.” He laughed. “For once I was the tough one. If you get diphtheria in a sore like I did, it’s not so bad. I’m just being kept here in isolation to build up my strength.”
“And you, Sarge? Did you get it, too?”
Oldham looked his usual, wiry self, all sinew and skin. He had lost most of his uniform, so was wearing one of those loincloths that many of the men now wore. I couldn’t help grinning when I saw that he had carefully sewn his sergeant’s stripes onto a strip of cloth and wore them tied round one pipestem arm.
He didn’t have a chance to reply before Ike spoke. “No, Sergeant Oldham’s here of his own free will! Can you believe it? He came in to work as an orderly. It’s been me and him doing most of the looking after you.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Sergeant Oldham gave a rusty sounding laugh, changing it into a cough. “Half the bloody platoon was in. You’re such a weak lot, going down like flies, that I thought someone had to look after you and wash behind your ears for you because your mothers can’t!” He grinned and produced the canister with these pages in it from behind his back. “You’re going to be here for a while, so I took the liberty of bringing you this. As long as you’re careful, you can get some serious writing done. I don’t think there will be many guards coming here. They’re all terrified of catching diphtheria!”
Sometimes angels take strange forms.
I was in isolation for another two weeks, and I used that time well. Once I was strong enough, I helped Sergeant Oldham and Ike nurse the others who were still sick, but now I have time to write and I want to make sure that I cover everything that happened in those long days we fought without relief to try to hold the island.
Hong Kong Island, December 23, 1941
There was no good news in the days before Christmas. The Japanese had succeeded in cutting us off from West Brigade in the Wong Nei Chong Gap and those of us in East Brigade were being pushed farther and farther back onto the Stanley Peninsula. No one said, but everyone knew that we’d probably make a last stand there.
There had been a big shakeup and new defensive positions were ordered. D Company was in the front line. At least the senior officer in command was our own, Lieutenant Colonel Home. In fact, he was the Canadian officer in charge now, as Brigadier Lawson had been killed in the Wong Nei Chong Gap.
We didn’t get much time to sleep because in the early hours of the morning we were sent to take Stanley Mound again. It was the same, just the same, as all those other fights for hills. By 0730 hours we had taken it, fighting our way up through the scrub, dodging raking machine-gun fire, fighting hand-to-hand against those holding the hill when we reached the top.
We held it for less than three hours. How many men lost their lives that time, I don’t know. I cared about that — how many men — but I don’t think the top brass did. It took us most of the day to get back to safety, and when we did there were rumours swirling around that we would be sent out early the next morning to take Stanley Mound again. I prayed that they were just rumours.
I lost track of time, but towards the end as dusk was dropping down, it was more hand-to-hand fighting, and to use that old saying, every man for himself.
Not that it was like that for me. Ike and I worked as a team when we could, standing side by side, looking out for each other. We used our bayonets, stabbing with them, and if an enemy got too close, I used my fists, the butt of my rifle, even my feet if I had to. Ike was like a little whirlwind. What he lacked in size and strength, he made up for in speed and agility. In fact, he was of a size with many of the Japanese soldiers and he gave as good as he got from them.
Three or four Japanese soldiers went for Lieutenant Mason at once, swarming him. He was holding on, but I couldn’t see him doing it for much longer. I put my foot on the guy I had just bayoneted and pulled and twisted to get my bayonet free. I tapped Ike on the shoulder and we fell back to the lieutenant. I was too close to effectively use my bayonet, so I brought the butt of my rifle down on the backs of the attackers’ heads, trying to swat them aside at the same time. Ike was behind me, making sure no one ran me through.
As soon as I cleared one lot off, more came running and the lieutenant was bleeding from several places — gashes on his arms, and what looked like a bullet wound in his shoulder. I caught his eye as I picked one Japanese soldier up and threw him as hard as I could, using him almost like a bowling ball to knock some others down. It was just a melee — bodies all around, packed close. I was terrified that I would skewer one of our own men, the fighting was so dense.
We had started to edge backwards when the lieutenant tripped and went down. I immediately straddled him and started to swing my rifle like a baseball bat, hoping to keep the enemy off him and give him time to get to his feet. He was scrambling up when out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of metal arcing down towards him.
“Lieutenant!” I yelled.
He heard me and reacted, grabbing at what I realized was a sword with his hand. God, it must have been as sharp as a razor! It sliced his palm down clean to the bones, but he held on, his face twisted, sheer strength stopping the blade from cutting down into his body.
I twisted round, trying to bring my bayonet into position to spear the lieutenant’s attacker — one of their officers — but I was too late. He pulled a pistol free from his holster and blasted Lieutenant Mason in the face. The lieutenant flopped down, his face a ruined mask of blood and bone. I rammed my bayonet as hard as I could into the Japanese officer’s throat, twisting it for maximum damage. I wanted him dead.
I was pulling it free to stab him again, but Ike tugged furiously at my shirt.
“Enough, Jacko!” he bellowed. “We’re retreating.” When I didn’t move, he started to pull me by my arm.
I shook him off. It was hard to see. There was blood running down into my eyes. I didn’t know whose it was. I didn’t care. I threw the strap of my rifle around my shoulder, reached down and picked up Lieutenant Mason’s body and ran as fast as I could down Stanley Mound. When I think back, I don’t know how I did that, but fear, or maybe fury, gives you super-human strength.
When we finally regrouped I had no words. I just stood there, still holding
Lieutenant Mason. I didn’t know what to do.
“Put him down, boyo.” Sergeant Oldham was standing in front of me. “You’ve done what you can for him. Put him down!” The last instruction was barked at me and it freed me from the paralysis I was feeling.
I laid the lieutenant gently on the ground and knelt down beside his body.
“Are you wounded, Jacko?” Ike was dancing around me. “You’re covered in blood.”
I shook my head, but did not speak.
“Caplan, take Finnigan away. Clean him up if you can and get him something to eat.” Sergeant Oldham looked down at Mason’s body. “I’ll sort everything else out.”
I slept that night. That sounds strange after all the fighting and what we’d seen, and what had happened to the lieutenant, but by then we had been in the field for so long, with little food and little rest. It was getting so bad that if we stopped even for a minute or two, men fell asleep and they were the devil to wake up. You could be talking to someone and they’d fall asleep on their feet.
Sham Shui Po Camp, Kowloon, November 1942
I still haven’t finished writing about those last desperate days, and I must.
Ike and I were let out of isolation at the same time, but Sergeant Oldham stayed on helping with those who were still sick. I don’t know how the old man did it. He was scrawny to start with, and even scrawnier now, but he must have been made of steel wire and leather. He just kept going, and he never got diphtheria despite spending weeks up in isolation working as an orderly. He told me that he had had it back in Wales as a kid, so was probably immune.
I got careless — maybe being in the isolation ward, I’d forgotten what it was like to suddenly find myself under the scrutiny of a guard. I had a close call once we were back in our normal hut.
It was a Sunday morning after roll call. I was writing this, sitting outside in the dirt at one side of our hut. Ike and Paddy were out front and if there was any problem, they would start whistling. The tune we had agreed on was “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”
I heard nothing, no whistling, then suddenly the voice of the Kamloops Kid almost screaming and then the voices of other guards yelling. I couldn’t stay where I was. If they did a roll call and came up one short, it would be deadly. Even if they were doing a search for contraband, then I still didn’t want them to get their hands on my diary, particularly not the Kid. If he read it he would have even more reason to make my life a living hell. I couldn’t use the canister — if I had it on me, they’d open it for sure.
I was as scared as I had been in battle. At least I still had my uniform shorts and they were in decent repair. I shoved the pages down inside them, hoping they would stay put and not slide out through the leg. Carrying the canister, I walked as nonchalantly as I could to the front. Ike, Paddy and maybe fifteen others from our hut were lined up before it, standing rigidly to attention.
Every group told us the same story afterwards. Guards were swarming the huts, tearing things apart, obviously looking for something.
“Where were you?” The Kamloops Kid was immediately on me, almost bouncing on his feet with excitement. He thought he had me.
“I got caught short,” I said. “I had to pee.” As the words came out there was an eerie sense of déjà vu and my mind flashed back a year to Northern Ontario when I first met Sergeant Oldham.
“Don’t lie.” Spittle was flying from the Kid’s mouth. “You were hiding something! You knew we were coming to search! Why do you have that canister?”
I opened the canister, showing its empty inside. “I use this for extra water. I was going to fill it up after.”
He slashed his stick down on my hand, knocking the canister out of it. “I don’t believe you. You were hiding something back there.”
My heart was racing. I had no option but to bluff it out. “I told you, I went to pee. You can check back there. You’ll find nothing but wet dirt.” I was praying he wouldn’t check. When he made to walk away behind the hut, desperation set in. “Look, I’ll pull down my shorts, if you like!”
I stopped breathing, but my ploy had worked. He turned and began beating me round the head with his swagger stick. I crouched down, protecting my head and face with my arms.
“Don’t be insolent!” His stick whipped down on my exposed back. “You are mocking me!” Another blow lashed across my shoulders. I took the beating, knowing that he would eventually exhaust himself. I have to say he had stamina. He was still going when the search ended and the guards were called off.
As soon as they could, Ike and Paddy helped me to my feet.
“Geez, Jacko, I’m sorry,” Paddy said. “The Kid’s a sneaky little bastard. We didn’t see him because he came round the back of the hut. Thank God he chose the other side from where you were.”
I don’t know whether I felt relief or fresh fear then. If he’d caught me, I would have had no chance and would have been dragged away for who knows what punishment. Who knows if I would have ever returned?
“It’s okay, guys.” I winced as I straightened up. I was going to have one nasty set of bruises.
It could have been worse. We heard later that day that some British officers had been found with parts of a radio hidden inside false-bottomed water canteens.
No one saw them again.
It took a while for my heart to stop racing and the fear to subside. It’s difficult to describe what it feels like to be in the camps. There’s fear for sure, but it’s different from the fear you feel when you’re actually fighting. The fear here comes in bursts, such as with that shakedown. Most of the time I feel just this dogged determination that I will survive and make sure that my record of my time in Hong Kong will be read.
Moments of pure joy are rare, but they do exist. They can come from the smallest of things — the kindness of a friend, fish that is not rotten with your evening meal, a win at a card game — and then there are the big things.
One happened that was so big, I have to write about it.
There hasn’t been any news of the outside world since we were imprisoned. Rumours maybe, some from the concealed radios more credible than others, but no one has had a letter. We were allowed to send a communication (I won’t call it a letter because there were so many rules about what we could write) back in June. I have to fight the feeling that we have been abandoned here, that no one cares except for our loved ones, who have no idea what has happened to us.
But that feeling burst like a balloon on November 29. Every man in camp got a parcel from the Red Cross!
It was like Christmas and every birthday you have ever had all rolled up in one. The parcels themselves were a bit battered and some had been ripped open. I bet the guards had pilfered those. We didn’t care. It was a message from home that we had not been forgotten.
Everything was in tins and I got:
¼ lb. of chocolate
1 pkg. of hard candies
¾ lb. strawberry jam
2 oz. of tea leaves
½ lb. of margarine
10 oz. tin of tomatoes
1 bar of soap
½ lb. of bacon
10 oz. of bully beef
1 lb. can of jam pudding
1 lb. can of rice with beets
½ lb. of biscuits
1 lb. can condensed milk
¼ lb. of sugar
4 oz. of cheese
¼ lb. tin of fish paste
The cheering was so loud that I thought my ears would burst. We all went a bit mad at first. Paddy, Ike and I all went for the same thing — the chocolate. We rammed it in, hardly chewing, just wallowing in its forgotten sweetness. As I was eating it, I was already planning what I’d eat next, a spoonful of the thick condensed milk mixed with some strawberry jam.
Ike stopped eating. “I feel sick,” he said and promptly scampered out of the hut, heading as fast as he could for the latrines. As soon as he spoke I realized that my gut was churning too. I ran and just made it. Some weren’t so lucky. There were guys all over
camp throwing up, not used to the rich food.
We learned our lesson quickly and rationed ourselves. We decided to share our parcels (no one had exactly the same items), forming an unofficial mess with Paddy as our quartermaster in charge of rations and cooking. We made those parcels last so long, deciding to save our bully beef for Christmas, when Paddy promised to make hash, which I thought would be better than any turkey.
The only thing I didn’t share was the soap. I had two reasons for that. First, its smell reminded me of Alice and sometimes I would just sit holding it and smelling it, remembering how clean she always was and how she smelled so fresh. The other reason was because I finally could see the colour of my skin — a deep tan rather than the grey-black of dirt. We teased Paddy that it was a mistake for him to wash, as the layer of dirt provided protection against the sun. Now that he was clean, he was all pink and peeling, ready to get sunburned once more.
Hong Kong Island, December 24, 1941
I had been praying that we weren’t going to be sent up Stanley Mound again and at first it didn’t look as if my prayers were going to be answered.
Sergeant Oldham had what was left of the platoon, about fifteen of us, up and ready for action in the early hours.
He was sombre. “We lost some good men, boys. The lieutenant did us proud, always looking out for us, fighting alongside us.”
I was surprised that Oldham was so generous. Sometimes I got the impression that he thought Lieutenant Mason was a bit inexperienced.
“There will be no replacement. Major Parker has put me in charge.”
I groaned inside and rolled my eyes at Ike, who ignored me, but I could see him biting his lip trying not to laugh.
Oldham continued. “We’re awaiting orders, but I’m going to warn you that we’re in all likelihood going back to retake Stanley Mound and drive the enemy back.”
My mouth was in operation before my brain caught up with it. “Sergeant Oldham, sir, what’s the point? We’ve been doing that for so long. The lieutenant died there, and so have many more of us!”
