Three Came Home

by Agnes Newton Keith

  Nekata shows a definite reaction to this, breaking into arash of embarrassment at my appeal to his chivalry as anofficer and a gentleman: it seems to me that I have broken theimpasse. He speaks to the sergeant major, then turns back tome and says, “You may return to your camp. You axe notto speak of this to anyone, do you understand? That ismy command. To disobey is very bad. Do not speak to any-one.”

  I pull myself together and leave the room with more reliefthan I have ever left any place in my life. Oh God, just letme get back safely again to the boredom, drudgery, and dirtof that which I have hated, I pray, and I won’t complain. Mis-erable though prison life is, I know that I don’t yet want todie.

  The air braces me, but I still feel so iU that if anyone hadbeen around to help or sympathize, I would have collapsed.As it is, I walk home the half-mile to our camp as if nothinghad happened.

  Arrived at camp I had a bath, and put on the remnants ofmy make-up which I had saved for the special occasions ofmeeting my husband. Today was a special occasion of anothersort — and I needed make-up.

  There was litde temptation to tell my story in camp;probably half of the people there had been suppressing thedesire to kick me. And I could not risk going to Dr. Gibsonfor medical aid in my present condition, for that would havemeant being questioned, and I dared not confide. Nekatameant business when he said “Keep quiet.”

  I was particularly anxious that the truth should not reachHarry. Rumors could not be avoided, but we no longer be-lieved rumors. He need not know the truth if I refused to givefactual evidence of it. He could be of no help to me now,and in anger or indignation at my trouble he might endangerhimself.

  I went to Violet, however. I told her that I was being ques-tioned in the office, and that I did not think I would get outof camp alive, and I asked her to take care of George if any-thing happened to me. I told her also where my diaries werehidden, and asked her to try to save them when the endcame. She promised me she would do what I asked. I gaveher no details of my trouble, not wishing to involve her morethan was necessary.

  At last night came, and George and I went to bed, and Ithanked God for the dark. Nothing in this war, I thought,could be so hideous as having to do everything before people— having to eat, sleep, bathe, dress, function physically andemotionally in public; having one’s private sentiments washedin the public bathhouse, and hung up to dry on latrine walls.

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  K I ever get out of this camp, I thought, dear God, just giveme privacy — take everybody away, and let me die alone. Iwept then secredy, painfully, in the dark.

  George was very good to me that night. For his sake Iusually didn’t cry; I was his world, and the world collapsed,if I did. But he knew that tonight was something different;he was only three and a half then, but he had maturity inmatters of suffering. So George said to me, as we lay to-gether on our beds, that he was going to do my camp workfor me tomorrow, if I was ill. I thanked him. He said thenthat he would stroke my head tmtil I went to sleep, for weboth loved being stroked. So he sat by me cross-legged, strok-ing gendy with one soft hand, sucking the other thumb, untilhis eyes were glassy with slumber, and he fell over asleep onmy breast. He lay there then with his fair, hard head on mystomach, his lips just open, snoring and sucking.

  But I could not sleep. The pain in my ribs was acute, myleft shoulder was swollen and aching, I could scarcely movemy arm, and I was bruised and sore. I felt my breastsanxiously, for like most women I feared bruises there, and inaddition to physical discomforts, I was sick with the dread ofwhat might happen tomorrow.

  I saw that I had been incredibly stupid not to foresee thecourse of these events. There was an almost routine procedurein such cases. A prisoner comes accidentally into Japanesenotice, either because he is accused of something, or he asks forsomething, or he is unwilling witness to something. He is takento the office and questioned, and if they cannot force a con-fession, he is freed. Shortly after, he is taken, and reques-tioned, and freed. Shortly after that, he is removed fromKuching, for further questioning. In time his removal is fol-lowed by the report to Kuching that he has died of dysenteryor malaria, these being the equivalent diseases to knowingtoo much.

  I had become a thorn in Nipponese flesh. They knew that

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  I was a writer, they constantly searched my belongings fornotes, they believed that if I got out of camp I was goingto write what had happened there. The threat was not strongenough to alter conditions, but it was strong enough to bean annoyance to them. My presence reminded them that thethings they were doing would not look well in print, andthey did like to be thought nice people! And now I had com-mitted the crime of becoming myself the victim of assault andbrutality.

  I believed that Colonel Suga had left Kuching in order toavoid an unpleasant situation, for to interfere between Nekataand myself, Suga would have had to run the risk of beinglabeled. “Pro-British.” And why should he risk himself tosave me?

  Next morning came. At ten o’clock Wilfred again orderedme to Nekata’s office, alone. I sent George to Violet, and toldmyself that this was the finish. I put on my neatest dress andmake-up, to meet the end.

  At the office there are Nekata, the sergeant major, and aguard. Nekata’s typed “confession” is again offered to me tosign, and I refuse. My ovsm statement is then read through tome, and I affirm that it is the truth.

  Then we proceed as we did the day before: Nekata speaksto the sergeant major and the guard in Japanese, and Nekataleaves the room. Tlie sergeant major speaks to the guard, andthe sergeant major leaves the room. The guard lounges overto the window, and leans against it. I sit and wait: nothingto come can be more terrifying than this sitting and waitingfor something to come. Dressed for slaughter, hair carefuUycombed and braided, lipstick on colorless lips, rouge onmalaria-yellowed cheeks, in neatest white dress, good shark-skin, once very smart — this is how the Well-Dressed Interneewill dress to be beaten up, I tell myself.

  Through the window I see Nekata walking slowly up thehill towards the Japanese officers’ quarters. He disappears.

  Nothing happens. After ten minutes he comes into sight again,descends the hill road, and re-enters the office. He has in hishands a newspaper-wrapped bundle, which he places on thedesk.

  About that bundle my mind jumps instantly to a conclu-sion: it contains some of the articles which I have traded tothe Japanese guards in exchange for contraband food, articleswhich, now that the heat is on, have been identified andbrought in to make more trouble for me. Oh, for a cleanconscience! That white hand-knit wool sweater that some-body made for Harry —they can’t prove that’s mine, canthey? StiU, I wish they didn’t have it. And Harry’s woolsocks, and his gray flannel trousers with Wm. Powell’s HongKong label in them! And my gold thimble with “AgnesNewton on her sixteenth birthday from Mom and Dad.”Oh, what a fool I’ve been!

  Nekata dismisses the guard, and we are alone. He motionstowards the newspaper-wrapped package and says to me,“You do not look well. You are very thin. Here are six eggsfor you. Take these eggs and eat them. This affair is finished.But remember, I order you not to speak of this. Also remem-ber, if your statement is not true, that it is a death offense.You may return to your camp now.”

  With difficulty, I arise, bow and say “Thank you,” pickup the eggs, and leave.

  What an incredible people, I think. An omelet for myhonor! Six eggs for broken ribs! Well, an egg is still an egg!This time I intend to eat some myself. Three for George, andthree for me. I really do need something. . . .

  I walk down the road towards home in a state of semi-hysteria; the eggs have brought the situation down to earth;surely Nekata can’t swing it back to the high tragedy levelafter this!

  Some three days after Nekata had released me, I noticed aguard in camp with a working party of Roman Catholicpriests; I felt him almost before I saw him, because of thehatred behind his stare. He himg around my doorway out-side the barrack all morning, a
nd when I had to go outside tothe latrine he followed me, and entered the latrine after me.

  He shook his fist and spat at me, and shouted in bad Malayand English: “You are a wicked woman! You tell ColonelSuga bad things about me! I come to you as your friend, Igive you cigarettes, I try to make friend of you, but you tellColonel Suga I am bad. You very bad woman. You tell!There is much trouble now, aU our soldiers beaten. The sol-diers hate you. We make trouble for you now. Pah!” And hespat again.

  I looked at him in astonishment at his foolishness in reveal-ing himself as my assailant. But astonishment that lasted onlya moment — then I saw that he was right, and always had been— he was safe whatever happened. He was the man with thegun. That I reported him at aU had been my error in con-ception of conations, not his.

  His venom made me shiver. I walked away from him, whilehe was stiU shouting.

  Two weeks later the pain in my ribs was no better. Myshoulder was improving, and the bruises had disappeared,

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  but my arm was weak and almost useless — and I still hadcamp work to do.

  I went to Dr. Gibson, and asked her to bandage my ribswith elastoplast, saying that I had broken them some yearsbefore, and they were paining me again, perhaps as a resultof heavy work.

  She had only a small amount of elastoplast, and said shecould not use it aU on one patient. I suggested that she askDr. Yamamoto, the Japanese surgeon, for more, but she saidit would be useless to ask him. However, she bandaged mefrom armpit to waist with a bandage made from spliced stripsof old silk underwear. I returned to my work, and after a fewminutes of movement, the silk bandage sHd down to my waist.

  I went and bargained with a fellow prisoner for a roil ofnew muslin bandage. I took this to the doctor, and she band-aged me again, under the armpits, and over the shoulder anddown to the waist. This gave me support, but the inelasticityallowed no leeway for breathing. By midnight the tension wasunbearable, and I removed the bandage.

  I arose the next morning, feeling desperate. Taking Frenchleave of camp, I walked out of the gate and up the road toDr. Yamamoto’s office. I expected to be caught and stoppedby the camp sentry or the road sentry; I did not care. Butluck was with me, and neither was in sight.

  Dr. Yamamoto, the Japanese medical officer responsible forthe welfare, or otherwise, of the Kuching prison camps, com-manded the drug supplies. I disliked going to him, as the Japa-nese accused us of lack of fortitude, inability to bear suffer-ing, and physical cowardice. Pride made me at first dislike toask for anything, and give them further excuse for their con-tempt. However, I got over this as my needs increased.

  We were forbidden, both by our community rules and byJapanese POW rules, to go to Dr. Yamamoto. We had ordersto deal only with our individual camp doctor, who was ap-pointed by the Japanese, and had authority to approach Dr.

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  Yamamoto at specified times to ask for medical supplies, andto present requests concerning the health of the camp.

  The Japanese rule was made in order to save Yamamotofrom annoyance. The camp community rule was based on thetheory that the camp doctor would make requests for thegood of the community as a whole, whereas the individualwould think of herself only, and she alone would benefit. Asthe supply of drugs and Dr. Yamamoto’s patience wereequally limited, the theory was wise. But throughout camplife, the way to get a thing was to disregard all rules, bothBritish and Japanese, and go after it. This was antipathetic tothe law of community living, but sympathetic to the primarylaw of survival of the fittest.

  Dr. Yamamoto was a man of extremes — either delightful,or devilish. He had a violent, uncontrolled temper, which senthim literally insane when he was annoyed, and a sense of hu-mor from whose scope he excepted himself. He was the oneofficer in the Kuching group that we did not dare to ridicule.When he was not hurling swords and kicking people, he wasgentle in his ways and manner, entertainrng and kind,

  A private feud existed between our doctor and Yamamoto.She thought him a twirp, charlatan, medical fake, brute, andstupid. But stupid he was not; he knew that she thought himall this, and the knowledge resulted in constant strife — ourdoctor got the last word, but Yamamoto took the last kick.Before the war was finished, he had struck her on the head,struck her in the face, knocked her down, and kicked hershins until the blood ran.

  This morning, fortunately, I foimd Yamamoto in a goodhumor. He was a good-looking, spotlessly neat man, fairly tallfor a Japanese, with a long straight face, a definite jaw, verybright alive eyes, and well-shaped, well-cared-for hands. Webowed to each other, and he told me to sit down and gave mea cigarette. He commented that I was extremely thin, and did

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  not look well, and asked me if I still had malaria, as I had goneto him once for quinine.

  I said Yes, but it was not about malaria I had come; I be-lieved I had some broken ribs. I described my pains andsymptoms, and asked him to give me a roll of elastoplast touse for bandaging purposes. He listened to my diagnosis sym-pathetically, and agreed with the probabUity of its correct-ness, but did not offer to examine me. I was reminded of thefact that he never examined a female patient, when he cameinto camp, unless our doctor was present. She said that thiswas because Yamamoto did not know enough medically toexamine a patient alone; but we always suspected that it wasbecause he knew too much psychologically to do so.

  He asked how 1 had received the injury, and I told him itwas an old one from some years before. He sucked in hisbreath at that and said, “I am surprised!” Then he said, “Ihear that you have some trouble with a Japanese soldier?”

  I made no reply, and we looked at each other silently. Thenhe said, “We Japanese either loll, or get killed, in war. It isbetter so. I think it is not pleasant to be a prisoner.”

  I said, “Well, it’s not too late to kill us all stiU!”

  “Ha! I think not. Very awkward now.” We both laughed,and I knew I was going to get the elastoplast. He left theoffice and went into the storeroom, and returned in a minutewith a new tin of Red Cross elastic adhesive tape. He handedthis to me, saying, with a laugh, “Don’t tell the doctor!”

  He asked me if I needed anything else. I said that I wouldlike a narcotic, as the pain kept me awake at night, also Iwould like a piece of soap for George’s bath. He gave mesome small white tablets out of a Parke-Davis bottle, one ofthe barbiturates, I think; then reached into his desk drawerand, with his penknife, cut in half a large piece of soap; thenreached into another drawer and produced four ripe bananas,and said, “For George.”

  I said, “Thank you very much. You are kind to us.”

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  He left the room for a moment, and returned with twoeggs, which he handed to me, saying, “For you, not George.”

  I thanked him again, assured him he was kind, and stood upto go, but he told me to sit down. He asked me then my age,and laughed at the answer, assured me that the war was goingto last for at least ten years more, said that the Nipponesewere going to win it in the end, but that it didn’t make anydifference to him as he would either get killed, or kill himself,warned me again not to tell the doctor that he had given meanything, told me to take care of myself, handed me a packetof Saigon cigarettes, and motioned me to depart.

  Just as I was leaving I remembered soda bicarbonate; this Ialways needed for George, who suffered with bladder irrita-tion from the starch diet. I said, “I do not like to ask you foranything more, Dr. Yamamoto, but you are so kind, so verykind, that I do. Could you give me some soda bicarbonate forGeorge?”

  He looked a bit annoyed first, tutt-tutt-ed, then laughed,and said, “Haah, Keif, I am very kind! Haah! O.K. Keif! Igive you soda bicarb.” And he id.

  I bowed good-bye, and walked home, reflecting that thequality of brutality was not isolated in the Japanese, nor wasthe quality of mercy unknown to them.

  Mary helped me to apply the bandage immediately. Theelastic support brought
relief, and with the help of the pain-killer, I had a real night’s sleep. The next day I swallowed mypride and asked Dr. Gibson to take me off the camp workschedule temporarily. She agreed, and put me on sick list fortwo weeks. I said nothing about my visit to Yamamoto.

  The following day a bottle of Red Cross multiple vitamintablets arrived for me from Dr. Yamamoto, with the sole in-struction: “Do not tell the doctor!” These I put away for thegreater emergency, the expectation of which always over-shadowed prison life.

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  Meanwhile we learned that before the sudden departure ofColonel Suga from Kuching, he had ordered that all of theguards should be disciplined, as a punishment for their re-cently discovered slackness in their relations with prisoners,“Discipline” in the Japanese mihtary vocabulary meant beat-ing up. Consequently our sentries were suffering from bruiseswhich they blamed on me. We also learned that Suga hadordered guards not to “touch” us, which explained why theywere now striking us with sticks instead of their hands.

  They would slap our faces, or make us hold out our handsto be caned in schoolboy fashion; it was unpleasant and hu-miliating, but the pain was not severe. The feeling of thehatred of the guards, and the knowledge that they were wait-ing to get us and we were helpless, brought a nervous reactionfar beyond the physical effect of their blows.

  They were particularly unpleasant to me. But before long Irealized that what I was suffering might be stem punishment toa European woman, but was not very serious from the point ofview of an Oriental soldier. I came to see that the guards werelike silly children; only they were big and powerful ones. Thehissing, spitting, smacking, was relieving them, and in timethey would be laughing instead.

  Meanwhile we had to stay as far from the barbed wire aspossible, and inside the barracks, in order to avoid the guards.All this added to the misery of camp life, and especially tomine, because I had involved others in trouble. The ethics ofmy action had been right, but ethics made litde difference topeople in our condition; whatever added to the distress ofdaily living was the greatest evil now.