Whatever Remains

by Penny F. Graham

  On 11 February, as dawn broke over the island, it seemed as if night would never leave. The pale sun fought for supremacy with the inky black smoke that lay over the land. Morning brought forth a hazy landscape filled with fear, smoke and the terrible rumble of not so distant artillery fire. The Island of Singapore was ablaze.

  Most of the white civilian population had been in denial since the Japanese landing at Kota Bahru. With strong defences and the influx of British, Australian and Indian troops, the idea that the island could be overcome had been considered a nonsense. All too many of the general population felt safe until it was too late to leave.

  Life at Whitelawns was now very different from the happy pre-war days of carefree living and easy lifestyle that my parents had been used to.

  Norma, now seven months pregnant with her third child, had turned down the last minute opportunity to be repatriated to England or Australia, believing that the Japanese would be stopped before crossing the Johor Strait to the Island of Singapore. Her duty was to stay by her husband. She regarded leaving as an act of desertion and betrayal. Now, as her world collapsed around her, the danger to her children became all too clear. With two little children and another almost due, common sense, and Denis’s pleading, eventually prevailed. She agreed to leave on the understanding that Denis would follow when, and if, he could.

  Denis, who had been a member of the Malay States Volunteer Regiment, had joined the British Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. By early 1942, he was working as Naval Liaison Officer, Fixed Defences, in Changi. One of his last jobs was to help lay mines in the Singapore Straits outside Keppel Harbour. Knowing the layout of the mine fields was to serve him well in the last few desperate days before the fall of Singapore.

  In those last dreadful months, Denis was stationed at the headquarters of the Singapore Command which, in later years, came to be known as the Battle Box. Dug deep into the hillside of Fort Canning, it was bomb-proof, had its own recycled air supply, and was guarded day and night. It was here that General Percival and his officers had their headquarters. Within the Battle Box, the communications area was its heart. It was here that all information relating to the movement of aircraft and shipping entering and leaving Singaporean and Malayan territorial waters was collated, assessed and processed. And it was now, when the Japanese were almost on the doorstep, that orders were given to destroy all sensitive information before it fell into enemy hands.

  Early on 11 February 1942, after requesting compassionate leave for a few hours, Denis packed Norma, my two brothers, their amahs and a few suitcases into the car and headed for the city. The plan was to make it to the docks in time to board one of the ships scheduled to sail later that day. They had some miles to travel before reaching the comparative safety of the outskirts of Singapore. Though the city had been under heavy artillery fire for the better part of a week, the greater danger lay in the hills behind Changi village where small pockets of Japanese troops had already infiltrated and lay siege to passing traffic.

  The road to the city was dotted with coconut palms and lined with frangipani trees. Now, the frangipanis’ torn and shredded blossoms mixed with the dust and dirt on the roadside and the tattered crowns of coconut palms hung limp in the smoke-filled damp air. The skies were black with smoke and acrid fumes from the burning oil tanks drifted across the island. There were constant sounds of explosions as the Allied troops tried to destroy any equipment they considered could be useful to the enemy. The wail of air raid sirens pierced the air and sporadic firing could be heard from the advancing troops. The Island of Singapore was in the grip of a terrifying nightmare.

  They never made it past Changi. Not far from their driveway, a sniper’s bullet ricocheted off the car’s bonnet. Denis considered that to go on would be suicidal. With a carload of terrified women and children and no armed support, he made the difficult decision to return to the comparative safety of Whitelawns.

  Later that morning, Denis somehow managed to get back to headquarters to resume his duties. On his return, his commanding officer, Captain George Mulock, gave him orders to destroy all codes, communications and equipment that might be valuable to the Japanese.

  Later still that morning, John Leonard Wilson, the Bishop of Singapore, who lived not far from our home, made it to Whitelawns to check that Norma and the children had been successfully evacuated. To his dismay, he found them all still at the house. He was determined that they should have a chance to be part of the last major evacuation. To do this, he knew he had to get them to the harbour and onto one of the ships due to leave in convoy that evening.

  This time they travelled light. With only a small suitcase of essentials for the children and the coming baby, Bishop Wilson bundled them — minus the two amahs — into his car and headed for the city. The car, with its load of would-be evacuees managed to get through Changi village, into the city and onto the docks at Keppel Harbour. Desperate measures are needed for desperate times and luck was with them on that journey. The car, with its load of frightened passengers, somehow managed to get through the smoke and burning streets of the city and to the harbour unscathed. A message was sent to Denis telling him his family was at the dock waiting to leave.

  The name of Bishop Wilson has an honourable place in our family’s past. As history tells us, he did not try to save himself, but stayed in Singapore till the bitter end. After the British surrender, he was fortunate enough to persuade the Japanese to allow him to continue to minister to the people of Singapore. However, after a year, his freedom on the island was perceived as a threat by the Japanese and he was interned in the by then notorious Changi prison. He survived torture and starvation to witness the Japanese surrender in August 1945. After the war, with great humility and joy, he converted to Christianity some of his Japanese captors from the prison camp.

  When Norma and the boys reached the docks, confusion reigned. There had been intermittent strafing from enemy aircraft all morning and some of the ships had been hit. All that long day the harbour was under spasmodic attack from the air. Despite this the ships were slowly loaded with civilian evacuees, mainly European, along with army and navy personnel. Immediately the skies were quiet, groups were hurried aboard before the shrieking hail of bullets started again.

  Waiting their turn to board, Norma and her two little boys crouched in any secure place they could find amongst the debris of what had been the warehouses on the docks. By now, the wharf had been reduced almost to rubble. There was little protection left from aircraft fire, so many of the women huddled together clutching their children under slabs of concrete that had once been the walls of the demolished warehouses. By mid-afternoon, many of the civilian women and children, including Norma, were directed to board one of the ships, the Empire Star. Norma and the boys were lucky enough to be given a cabin with another mother and her children. How glad they were to be at least temporarily out of harm’s way.

  The Empire Star, captained by Selwyn Capon, had arrived in Singapore some days before carrying supplies for the war effort. She was a Blue Star Line cargo ship, one of many co-opted into service for the evacuation of Singapore. Not a large ship, but sturdy. Used in peace time as a refrigerated cargo liner, she would now be pressed into service as an evacuation vessel, and many people would owe their lives to her.

  The morning before, the Empire Star had finished discharging her supplies. The ship’s crew worked all day and through the night unloading guns and lorries. Too late — all the equipment that she disgorged onto the wharf was destroyed under orders from Allied command lest it fall into the hands of the Japanese. Much of it was pushed into the sea from the wharf.

  All through that dreadful afternoon and early evening of 11 February, many Australian, British and Indian nurses, army and navy personnel and some of the luckier civilians who had made it to the wharf, were hurried aboard the Empire Star. They were packed in like sardines, but happy and grateful to be on board.

  The ship was grossly overcrowded. Many, including a continge
nt of Australian nurses, were directed to one of the two holds where they were billeted for the journey to Batavia. Number 1 Hold was being slowly filled with wounded troops.

  Hearing that his wife had arrived at the wharf, Denis was once again given leave from his post to say his goodbyes and to make sure that his small family was safely on the ship.

  They knew this may well be the last time they would see each other for a very long time, if not for ever. It was obvious that Singapore would be overrun in a matter of days and an unknown fate awaited those who were left behind. After a heart-wrenching farewell, Denis headed back to Fort Canning to continue the job of destroying sensitive material.

  The Empire Star had expected to sail that evening, but with continual air raids and the constant trickle of civilians making it through to the wharf, Capon delayed departure. At four that afternoon, there had been a particularly severe air raid. Despite the raid, Capon continued to take on more passengers, filling the ship to bursting point. By now he had decided that it would be dangerous to leave Singapore Harbour after dark. He knew there was a minefield surrounding the outer harbour and the light buoy was missing from the harbour entrance, making a night departure dangerous. So, as evening approached, the Empire Star waited under the smoke-grey skies of Singapore and fate was now to play a major role in the lives of my family.

  Back at Fort Canning, Denis was still on duty. He was told that one of the officers aboard the Empire Star had been seriously wounded by aircraft fire during the last air raid and the ship was now an officer short. There would have been many men who could have taken that officer’s place — but fate, and Captain George Mulock, intervened. He would have known that surrender was imminent, that those left behind would, at very best, be imprisoned for the duration of the war. He would have also been aware that one of Denis’s duties earlier that year had been the laying of the minefields around the harbour, useful information for the Empire Star’s captain whose navigation officer had been severely wounded. As the evening closed in, Captain Mulock made a generous and honourable decision.

  He handed Denis a slip of paper, a written command, relieving him of his duties and ordering him to join the Empire Star as an Additional Officer. Bidding him ‘Good luck’, he sent Denis on his way back through the now burning streets of Singapore, the four smoke-filled miles to the harbour.

  The city was in chaos, sirens were blaring and shells exploding overhead. Most shops and businesses were boarded up and the usually ever-present street sellers were nowhere to be seen. Burned out and abandoned cars littered the streets. Terrified Malay, Chinese and Indian residents, clutching large bundles of possessions or pushing handcarts, huddled against the more substantial buildings seeking shelter from the Japanese bombardment. The smell of fear, defeat and abandonment was everywhere.

  It was Mulock who had been given the responsibility for the evacuation of the civilian population over the last few weeks. He knew at this stage that he would inevitably be taken prisoner — that there was no hope of escape for many of the officers and men of the armed forces and no hope of rescue for the many civilians still on the island.

  Indeed, Captain Mulock and many of his men were interned in the old prison camp at Changi. Many would later die building the infamous Burma–Thailand railway and endure appalling treatment in the prisoner of war camps. Mulock was the most senior naval officer to be captured at Singapore, and he was also one of the oldest. But he was to be one of the lucky ones. He was to survive his internment in Changi only to be transported to Formosa (Taiwan) and held at the Karenko and Shirakawa POW Camps. In 1945, after Japan’s surrender, he was finally released at the age of 63.

  As evening arrived, the skies over Singapore at last went quiet. It was then that Captain Capon gave orders for the Empire Star to pull away from the wharf to sit out the night in the comparative safety of the inner harbour. From the bridge, Capon saw a man, dressed in naval uniform and waving a slip of paper above his head, running towards the slowly moving ship. The figure, silhouetted against the burning city, kept running and waving as the ship eased away from the wharf. The man ran on, running to his future, his young family’s future, his yet unborn daughter’s future, running for his life.

  The Captain, thinking that the runner was carrying important Special Orders, directed that the gangplank be let down as the ship pulled out. The man made a mighty leap for the gangplank, his arm was caught and he was pulled to safety. He was the last man to board — my father had joined the Empire Star.

  What joy, what relief Norma must have felt when she knew her husband had joined the ship. To know that no matter what was to come they would meet it together as a family. Denis, the strong one, her protector, their provider, was once again in control — what harm could possibly befall them now?

  Next morning, before dawn broke, the Empire Star, the Gorgon and many smaller vessels of various types and sizes, under the escort of HM ships Durban and Kedah, sailed from Singapore for the comparative safety of Batavia in Sumatra on their way to the port of Fremantle in Western Australia.

  With its military and civilian evacuees, the Empire Star also carried a considerable amount of RAF equipment and stores. It was a very overcrowded and overladen ship. According to Capon, she carried more than 2,160 people, though as no accurate muster could be made, this was probably an underestimate. Apart from the 35 children, room had been found for more than 160 women evacuees, 59 nurses, an unknown number of wounded and seriously ill soldiers and some disoriented, terrified men from the ranks of the defending forces.

  The war-ravaged and weary Empire Star, in convoy with the other ships, crept out of Singapore’s inner harbour and threaded her way slowly through the protective minefields. The ship’s course was marked by temporary lights flashed from boats manned by a few of the Royal Navy personnel still left on the island. It was 12 February 1942, just three days before General Percival was to surrender to the Japanese. The last ‘big ship’ convoy was on its way.

  By daybreak, they were well clear of Singapore and making top speed in an attempt to clear the Durian Strait before full light. All those aboard waited for the inevitable air attacks. There was an eerie quietness from the low, smoke-laden morning sky. From now on, and until they reached the safety of Sumatra, it would be a waiting game.

  Above and below deck, every bit of space was taken up with makeshift beds. Military and civilians mingled on the deck. Some sat huddled in groups speaking softly, others stood waiting, watching the skies, listening for the sound they most feared. Both of the ship’s holds were filled to capacity. The lucky ones had just enough room to spread what bedding they had — some had nothing but what they stood in.

  The ship ploughed through the still grey sea, full speed ahead now that they were clear of the minefields. The minutes ticked slowly by. The strain of waiting, the ever-increasing tension was palpable. Finally, at 8.50 that morning, the sound that everyone had been dreading was heard — the distant drone of enemy aircraft. The little convoy of overburdened ships had been spotted by the ever-vigilant Japanese.

  First, dive-bombers screamed in to attack, followed by waves of high-level bombers. Over a period of four hours, the Empire Star sustained three bomb strikes. One exploded just behind a 3-inch gun and, luckily, missed the ammunition locker. Another exploded in Number 2 Hold, which was crammed with wounded soldiers.

  Those four hours must have seemed a lifetime to those on board as Captain Capon skilfully managed to dodge most of the bombs. The ship used her own weaponry and the guns brought aboard by some of the RAF men to good effect. A Hotchkiss gun manned by the RAF shot down one Japanese dive-bomber for certain, and Captain Capon recorded another ‘probable’. Waves of bombers continued to come over until after midday, but the defensive fire from the ship kept them high and they scored no more hits.

  When at last the skies grew quiet, there was grisly work to be done on board. Many men had been killed outright or wounded by gunfire or the exploding bomb in Number 2 Hold. Dead and dying l
ay in tangled heaps. Severed limbs, appalling wounds, some men choking in their own blood. The Australian nurses went into action.

  During the air attack, many of the nurses had stayed on deck to tend the wounded, some protecting them from further harm with their own bodies. After the attack, they were to go down into the hell hole that Number 2 Hold had become, to soothe and patch up the wounded and remove the dead.

  Many years later, Denis was to write letters of praise and support for the then proposed memorial to all Australian nurses who served in World War II, telling of the heroism that he saw that morning. Today, the memorial stands proudly on Anzac Parade in Canberra, a testament to the bravery of Australian nurses in all theatres of war.

  The ship was so crowded, some of the bodies so damaged and confusion so absolute, that proper sea burials were impossible. Many of the bodies were slipped overboard with only a few words said over them by a minister who was on board. Some bodies were committed to the sea and all the minister could say was ‘Name unknown, no identification’.

  According to the entry in the ship’s official logbook, 15 men were killed during the attacks.

  The damaged and ailing Empire Star limped into Tanjong Priok, the port for what is now known as Jakarta, on the evening of 13 February. Here, some urgent repairs were made to the ship and many British and some Australian troops disembarked.

  Even now, after their ignominious defeat in Singapore, Britain still considered Java ‘safe’ from the Japanese. Apart from armed forces personnel, a few civilians also chose to disembark and try their luck in Batavia. Their confidence in the might of the Allied forces was unfortunately not justified.

  Here, once again, fate took a hand in my future. Norma, ailing from a difficult and advanced pregnancy, was strongly advised to leave the ship and seek rest and medical attention in Batavia. Denis adamantly refused to allow her to be removed from the ship. He subsequently told me that if he had not been there, she would have been persuaded to leave the Empire Star for the safety of the local hospital, taking my brothers with her. It was just as well that Denis had made that successful leap for the Empire Star’s gangplank, as within weeks of the ship’s departure, first Java, and then Sumatra were in the possession of the Japanese.