by Gillian Chan
Even as I said those last words I was expecting Oldham’s full wrath to come boiling down on me. He surprised me.
“Ah, boyo,” he said, “what’s the regimental motto?”
I knew that it was Volens et Valens, Willing and Capable.
“Perhaps the top brass are taking that too seriously,” Oldham said.
“But —” I wanted to say that it just wasn’t right, that there were others who could go in first, but Sergeant Oldham cut me off.
“Do you know the old poem?”
I must have looked puzzled because he said, “Let me put it this way. ‘Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.’” He grinned then, a tired but genuine grin. “I always thought poetry was bloody stupid, myself!”
I’d started something, as others had questions or began protesting. Yank Wardlow was one of the more vocal. “Why us, Sergeant? We’ve been in the front line since the beginning. When I went to Stanley Fort to collect our rations this morning, there were troops back there, Brits, and do you know what they were doing? Playing soccer!”
It really wasn’t funny, but Yank’s outrage was comical. He kept shaking his head, repeating, “Playing soccer!” It had us all laughing, even though it felt odd to be doing so.
Sergeant Oldham took the opportunity to escape more questions and told us to rest, find some shade, make sure our weapons were in order, get water if we needed it and wait until we got our orders to move out.
Waiting like that puts some people on edge. Ike was one of them. He couldn’t sit still and fidgeted endlessly, checking and rechecking all his equipment. Usually I’d talk, but I was so tired that as soon as my eyes closed I was asleep and didn’t wake until Ike was shaking me.
“C’mon, it’s time to go, Jack.”
A huge emptiness grew inside me as I thought about fighting our way up that hill again. I wondered whether my luck would run out this time, whether I would make it to the top, or if we didn’t get there, make it back down.
I summoned up all the resolve I had and tried to crack a joke. Not a very good one, but at least I tried. “If I don’t make it this time, Ike, promise me that you’ll make sure they put Stanley Mound on my gravestone. I’ve fought so many times there, I think I have part ownership of the damn place.”
Ike laughed far longer than I thought my joke deserved. “Stanley Mound! We’re not going to Stanley Mound, you idiot. We’re being stood down for rest. We’re going back to Stanley Fort!”
I almost cried with relief. We were still under bombardment from Japanese artillery, but there was shelter at Stanley Fort, and food, and a place to lie down that wasn’t just earth and a groundsheet.
As we picked our way down, Ike filled me in on what he’d managed to pick up while I was asleep. I never knew how he did it, but Ike always managed to ferret out any gossip there was to be had.
Brigadier Wallis was definitely planning to send the Rifles in again, but Lieutenant Colonel Home and Major Price had gone to see him. No one knows what was said, but it was a long meeting. We didn’t get word until halfway through the afternoon that our orders had changed. The Canadians were to withdraw to the fort and the HKVDC, with support from some platoons from the Middlesex regiment, were to take our place in the front line. I don’t care how the officers did it — all I can say is God bless them.
It was probably about 1500 hours when Sergeant Oldham led our weary band into the fort. I had never been in it before, having only seen the outer walls, all white stucco and covered balconies. Major Parker told us to go through to the officers’ mess and there would be food there for us. I have to say that the officers who were usually there did all right for themselves. It was all very plush — big, fat leather armchairs and sofas, polished wood tables and sideboards. I could just imagine what it had been like before the war with white-coated Chinese “boys” serving officers their gin and tonics on silver trays. It was looking more than a little worse for wear now, being dusty and dirty from where shells had sent plaster dust down from the ceiling. We were standing there just staring. It seemed like another world, one completely alien to us, after the way we had spent the last eighteen days.
Sergeant Oldham stepped forward. “Right, drop your kit, boys. Find somewhere to sit down. The major said they’ll bring food to us.”
I didn’t need a second invitation. I found the biggest and softest looking armchair I could and sank down into it, relishing the hiss the leather made. All around the room, other guys were doing the same. It felt like heaven.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The voice that barked this out issued from an armchair over at the far side of the room. The room was lit with only candles and oil lamps, as the electricity had been lost days ago, so it was difficult at first to make out who was speaking. A figure stood up and strode across to where Sergeant Oldham was still standing in the middle of the room. As he passed by me, I saw that it was a British major, dressed in immaculate tropical battle dress. I hadn’t seen a man that clean and pressed for days. I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been doing while the rest of us fought for our lives.
“Sergeant, why are you here and are these enlisted men with you?” The major had a moustache that almost matched Oldham’s in size and shape. It was lifted in a sneer.
Sergeant Oldham’s reply was quiet but firm. “Sir, we’ve come from the front line, where we’ve been fighting for the last few days without much rest. We have been told to come here for food and sleep.”
The old Britisher didn’t like this one bit. “This is an officers’ mess.” He emphasized the last two words. “And there is no possible reason for common soldiers to be here unless they are in the capacity of servants.” There was no doubt that this was a man who was used to people immediately obeying him, definitely the voice of command. I wondered what power such a voice might still have on a guy like Oldham, who had once served in the British Army.
I watched Sergeant Oldham, fascinated to see what he would do. My bet was that he would go and find Major Parker and let him deal with the old fool. Sergeant Oldham drew himself up to his full height, squared his shoulders, gave his neck a funny little twist and then spoke. He was in absolute control of his voice. It was steady and each word came out clipped and precise. “Sir, with all due respect, my men have been in the field since the seventh of December. It is now Christmas Eve. They have slept rough, been under constant attack, have themselves counterattacked more times than I can count. They have not had any hot food in the last week. Food is being brought to them here and when they have eaten, I am going to give them permission to sleep on one of these soft armchairs you have been enjoying, or even on the carpet, which will be better than anything they have had recently. I regret that their presence offends you, but I have my orders!” With that he gave a perfect salute and turned smartly on his heel and walked away.
A ragged cheer broke out from the men in the room. The British major flushed an angry red and stalked out, muttering under his breath about colonial rabble. As more troops came in, the room filled up. Food was indeed brought and it was better than any we had had for quite a while. We were even given beer, although that was probably because the water lines had been cut.
As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear the bombing continuing, sounding nearer all the time. I didn’t care, all I wanted to do was sleep. I had no idea then what Christmas Day would bring.
Sham Shui Po Camp, Kowloon, December 25, 1942
Our first Christmas as prisoners of war is odd.
People tried to mark the day. There was special food saved from the Red Cross parcels that we cooked up in our own little groups. Our main meals were served by the officers and NCOs, just like the tradition back home. Sergeant Oldham served us, winking and tapping the side of his nose with his finger. “Still here, boyos!” he said.
People exchanged gifts if they could. I’d made Ike some new sandals, since his boots were just about done for. For Paddy I had scrounged up some rags and sewn them together to make
pads for the tops of his crutches.
They’d got me two pencils — not new ones, but better than the stub I’ve been using. They must have bartered something to get them; I just hope it wasn’t too much.
It was the mood that made it strange. Everyone was thinking about home, wondering what parents, wives, girlfriends might be doing. I wondered if Alice still thought about me, whether she had indeed found another boy.
Then there were those of us who’d been at the last stand on Stanley, whose thoughts turned back to the battle we fought and the men who died that day one year ago. I’ve been putting off writing about it, but it needs to be told.
Hong Kong Island, December 25, 1941
Our rest did not last. In the early hours of the morning we were being rallied and prepared to make a last stand. The fighting had continued through the night and the enemy had taken Stanley Village. We were cut off now — sea to both left and right and behind our position, and the enemy in front of us, holding the only way off the peninsula.
I turned to Ike as we watched the dawn break on a beautiful, clear morning and held out a piece of paper. “Ike, if I don’t make it through this and you do, I want you to contact my girl, Alice. Tell her how I died. Tell her that I never stopped thinking about her.” I felt strangely calm.
Things were different now. Ike didn’t stop me this time, didn’t try and tell me that I’d make it. He took the piece of paper, folded it carefully and put it in the pocket of his shirt, buttoning the flap down to secure it.
“I haven’t written it down,” he said, “but if you survive and I don’t, just go to Spadina Avenue and look for Caplans’ Deli. Tell my dad what happened, okay?”
I nodded. I noticed that Ike’s shirt pocket was fuller than my note would warrant. “What else have you got in there?” I asked. “Have you been collecting addresses from everyone else?”
Ike didn’t smile but just fingered his pocket. “I’m keeping a bullet back, Jacko. You should do the same.”
“Why?” Ammo was running low and I thought he would want every last scrap of it for the coming fight.
“I’m not going to be captured,” Ike said, his face solemn. “You’ve heard the same stories that I have, Jacko, of men being taken prisoner, having their hands bound with barbed wire and then being used for bayonet practice. I’ll kill myself rather than face that.”
I didn’t know what to say, but I placed a bullet in my own pocket.
At about 0800 hours Sergeant Oldham and all the other platoon leaders were called to an officers’ conference. He wasn’t the only sergeant in charge of a platoon now — other officers had been killed too.
We knew it was going to be rough when we saw them return grim-faced and silent.
“Gather round, boys,” Sergeant Oldham said. Only thirteen men from our original platoon remained now, although a few more had been added that morning as the officers reorganized prior to the battle. He paused, then sighed. “There’s no easy way to say this, but we’ve been ordered to retake Stanley Village, clearing out the Japanese from some bungalows up on the ridge on the way. They’ve promised we will have artillery support.” He grimaced at that, and I knew he was thinking of the times we had been promised it before and it had never appeared.
No one said anything. I’m sure that each of us was thinking the same thing. We knew the terrain. We would be going uphill against the enemy entrenched above us.
Oldham stood watching us. It was hard to work out what he was thinking.
“There has to be some reorganization, so, along with Lance Corporal Durand, Finnigan, I want you to be one of the section leaders. Wardlow, you too.”
I was stunned. I thought that after me, Oldham hated Wardlow the most.
“You’ve surprised me, boys,” Oldham said. “Back in Ontario when I first met you, I thought you were a load of lazy good for nothings, or soldiers so green that you should have stayed home with your mothers. But in these last nineteen days, you have never let me down, you’ve fought harder than I thought possible, and you look out for each other.”
He sighed. “I am not going to insult you by telling you the difficulty of what we are facing. Even a fool can see that a lot of us won’t make it back. I just want to tell you that I am proud to have served with every man jack of you.”
Wardlow couldn’t resist a crack. “Even our own Jack, Sarge?”
Oldham chuckled. “Yes, Yank, even Finnigan.”
There was laughter at that, but it was short-lived as we waited for the order into battle. We had a meal of hard tack, bully beef and water. I wondered whether it would be the last thing I would ever eat.
I don’t know what thoughts passed through the heads of the other guys, but for me it was family. Even though she was always squawking at me and nagging, I knew that my mother loved me. Even Tom, officious and pompous as he was, did everything for what he thought of as the good of the family. And my sweet sisters. I might never know what happened to them, whether Bernadette would become a nun just like she dreamed. Then it was Alice. I’ll admit, at first I liked her because she was just about the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood, but as I spent time with her I’d learned that she was just so nice, bringing out the best in me. With Alice by my side I could do anything.
I was calm when the order came to move out. I nodded at Ike and gave him the thumbs-up.
We set out through the gates of the fort. Sergeant MacDonell’s men went out crouched low in a ditch by the side of the road. We were less lucky, having to cross open space. The enemy opened up immediately, and soon we were dodging machine-gun bullets, mortar fire and shrapnel.
We came through unscathed for the most part, although one guy in another platoon took a piece of shrapnel in his backside. He sat down suddenly and the funny thing was that he was more concerned about the fact that he sat down directly where someone had taken a crap, than that his wound was pouring blood.
I kept checking that Ike was next to me as we doggedly ran from rock to rock, seeking any cover we could find. He had his head down and didn’t look up or acknowledge me. We paused when we reached the walls of Stanley Prison, more to get our breath back and regroup than anything else. Sergeant Oldham did a quick head count. The Japanese were trying to find their range and get some shots in near to us. Ike was sheltering behind some wooden boxes. I was a little way away so couldn’t see what the lettering on the boxes was, but I could see Ike, tracing it with his finger. He suddenly leaped free of cover and yelled at the top of his voice, “It’s TNT! Get away from here!”
We moved fast and found ourselves in front of a small cemetery that lay just west of the bungalows we had to clear. We were in a slight dip, so had some protection from enemy fire. I could see that the run up to the bungalows held by the Japanese would be hard, but at least we could dodge from gravestone to gravestone.
It wasn’t to be. The platoon leaders had a hurried discussion and the order came to fix bayonets and form a skirmish line.
The line was some 40 yards across once we were all in place. The order was given to charge and we did, with every one of us screaming or shouting as loud as we could. One guy was chanting, “Canada! Canada!”
Ike was yelling in what sounded like a foreign language. Shema Yisrael were the only words I caught. I guessed it was a Jewish prayer.
Me, I was a screamer. The sound was harsh and high, as if it was being ripped from somewhere deep in me. I remember thinking that as long as I continued to make that noise, nothing could hurt me — no bullet, no shrapnel, nothing. It was hard because I had to grab breaths quickly and all the while I was running, hurdling gravestones at times, throwing myself down behind them at others. Our Bren gunners were running too, firing from the hip, not aiming, just laying down a curtain of fire ahead of us. Men went down but we didn’t stop for them, just kept moving forward.
It was glorious. It was terrifying. It got us where we needed to be — outside the bungalows, our main obstacle in getting to Stanley Village.
Some Jap
anese soldiers came running out of the bungalows and it was hand-to-hand once again with our bayonets. I’ll give the Japanese this, they fought hard. My size did help me here as I could use brute force, knocking them down and away if they charged at me. We fought like men possessed and soon overpowered them. Those still on their feet scrambled back to the shelter of the bungalows.
It was then that I saw one of the oddest sights in any of the fights we had been in. Yank had filled his pack with grenades and he stood there now, winding up just like a pitcher in a baseball game, pulling the pin, then hurling the grenades at the fleeing enemy and even at the bungalows themselves. He acted like he didn’t have a care in the world, as if no one was shooting at him. How he avoided being hit is one of the great mysteries.
We took our first casualty then since coming out of the graveyard. Leo Nellis, a guy from 17 Platoon, chased after the Japanese into one of the bungalows. When we followed after Yank’s little show, we found Leo’s body lying on the verandah. He had been bayoneted.
Maybe the Japanese thought we were madmen and were terrified of us, because it didn’t take long to roust them out of the bungalows. We charged onward, chasing them. Ike was still with me at this point. We couldn’t talk but he managed a quick thumbs-up.
As we rounded a corner we ran smack into a platoon of Japanese soldiers who were jog-trotting down, perhaps to relieve the men we had just sent packing. They didn’t even get a chance to lift their weapons before the sergeants gave the order to open fire. At such close quarters the Japanese had no chance and all of them went down. Some were only wounded and Yank stepped forward, straddling one who lay trembling at his feet. Yank raised his bayonet. His face pulled into a grimace of hate as he prepared to finish the man off.
“What the hell are you thinking, Yank?” Sergeant Oldham bellowed. He leaped forward, grabbing Yank’s arm and pulling it out of its downward arc towards the soldier.
