During the first year, the news that came over the radiowas typed out and sent to a Chinese in Kuching, for theinformation of the Asiatics outside. Soon the Nipponese be-came suspicious, the Chinese was executed, and all concernedtook warning. From then on, the news was kept inside thecamps. Here, for a while, a weekly report of the news wassmuggled to the camp master of the civilian men’s camp, tothe British officers’ camp and several other camps, as wellas to the soldiers’ camp master.
But as the events of war grew more unfavorable to Japan,the Japanese increased their efforts to locate the hidden newsorgan; searches increased, and the mere existence of an opti-
mistic atmosphere or a cheerful expression was enough tofocus suspicion. Lives hung on secrecy, and few can keep asecret even at that price. It was decided to keep the OldLady’s babblings exclusively military, and only the sergeantmajor of the camp itself and the British officers’ camp masterwere informed of the news. It was particularly desired to keepthe news from the civilian men’s camp where the husbandslived, for the reason that this was the only camp which waspresumed to have contact with the women’s camp. Possiblemeetings of husband and wife, and ensuing indiscreet con-fidence from him to her, followed by the indiscreet con-fidences of the wife to everybody, were greatly feared by theOld Lady’s soldier protectors.
What they did not realize was that it was not our husbandswho were indiscreet. Every British soldier who came in con-tact with us, passing on the road, on a working party, oremptying latrines, succumbed to the temptation to try tocheer us up. When we whispered an anxious “Any news?” tothem in our surreptitious passings, they whistled, sang, whis-pered, and shouted the events of the week at us, if there wasanything good to tell. They loved to give us a thrill, and“make the girls happy.” What saved us and them fromdestruction was the fact that we didn’t take them seriously;by the time I reached the armistice stage, the thing that mademe laugh most bitterly was a soldier saying, “It won’t be longnow! ”
The story of the Old Lady was told to me by a numberof young men seated around the false-bottomed table whichwas her last hiding place, with the Old Lady sitting on topin state. When I asked them, “Who is responsible for tlmgreat lady’s birth, breeding, and condition of vigorous health? ”each young man pointed at another, and said “He did it”;then feaUy, “Well, we all did it together.”
But when I said, “I mean who was the expert? Who wasthe doctor who delivered her, and throughout her lifetime
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iron, and copper, these materials being stolen from the Nip-ponese stores, or salvaged from old machines, by men onworking parties.
The Old Lady in the altogether was hidden in a soldier’smess tin, an unrewarding place for the only lady in thesoldiers’ camp to sleep.
While awaiting liberation I was requested by Colonel Kling,the English medical officer who had been in charge of theBritish soldiers’ camp during captivity, to visit their camp. IfI was going to write, he said, I must know the truth. So Harry,two other civilians, and I accompanied Colonel King intocamp the next day.
"V^en I entered the soldiers’ compound I was instantlystruck by its utter barrenness compared to our own. It was aneroded brown wasteland crossed by washed-out gullies withrow after row of withered palm-leaf huts with ragged, limp-ing men coming from them.
I asked why the soldiers had no gardens, and was told thatit was because their working parties had been so large andtheir outside work so heavy that they had no strength orenergy to garden for themselves. A consistent program ofstarvation, overwork, torture, and beating had made anythingbeyond mere existence impossible.
In camp there were seven huts used as sick bays, in additionto the hospital barrack across the road. An eighth hut hadjust been allocated because of the rapidly increasing numbersof ill men. Number Nineteen was known as the Death Hut,devoted to dysentery patients and to the dying.
The huts were built like our own barracks of palm leaves,and had the same solid wooden shutters, which, when theywere closed to keep out the rain, kept out all light and air.Even when I saw the soldiers they were still lying on the barefloor. Only a few had mats or blankets to lie on, and mosquitonets, and these had been sent in by the Japanese after thearmistice.
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Before Colonel King took me through the sick huts heasked me if I had a strong stomach for shocking sights. I saidthat I hoped I had. When I saw the conditions I was not con-cerned about my stomach, which had stood up to everythingfor years, but I was disturbed at the distress which I feared Imight cause the patients. They were almost naked, coveredwith ulcers, and in such a state that I felt they would resentmy intrusion, if they had strength for resentment. If theyhad any active wish now, it must be to crawl away from alleyes and die.
But I found I was wrong. Great as their physical miserywas, their boredom was even greater, and this I could relieve.For they, like the stronger men in camp, were avid for sight,sound, or smell of a woman. Soon we all talked together, andexamined ailments together; soon we could scarcely movethrough the huts for patients describing their symptoms andshowing their wounds. Finding that they liked seeing mehelped me to move naturally amongst sights which ColonelKing had properly described as shocking.
The boies of all the men were shrunken from starvation,with the bones showing like skeletons, the skin dried andshriveled, while the skulls with their deep-set eyes seemed un-naturally large.
All patients had ulcers caused by malnutrition and lack ofcirculation, many covering an entire leg, chest, arm, orthigh. Many had a gangrenous condition of feet, hands,testicles. Some had a condition of the fingers and toes whichcan only be described as dissolving away; the tips of the digitswere open and bloody and they seemed to be bleeding off.
I was told that of 2000 British soldiers who had beenbrought to Kuching from Singapore as prisoners, 750 nowsurvived. Of this number 650 were ill, and not 30 men inthe whole camp remained strong enough to form a workingparty.
Four years before, these soldiers had been fittest of the fit.This was what a war fought in captivity had done for them. I
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was glad I had seen them. I would never forget them. Iwished that anyone who spoke philosophically of “the nextwar” could see them.
When I put George to bed that night I looked at his littleboy’s body, ribbed through with the fine, strong bones thatare the right of youth. And I remembered the fine, strongbones that had once been ia the bodies of the young mendown the road.
After George was in bed I sat down to drink coffee, andNishi, the tall young guard from Formosa, came in. I askedhim to have a cup of coffee with me.
He was the guard who had saved Isabelle from drowningon the bathing party at Kuching, and he had always been goodto the children, and especially so to Edith and Eddie, andGeorge. He had brought them sweets when he came to camp,and brought Edith a pair of shoes from Kuching. He hadalways been kind to the men’s working parties in camp, andnever struck or bullied anyone.
While drinking his coffee he told me that the Australianforces were expected to occupy Kuching tomorrow. I askedhim, “What will happen to you.?”
He looked at me without a word, opened his hand palmupward with a gesture of helplessness, and shook his head.
It was hard to realize that these men who had been all-powerful over us were to be helpless now in our hands.
Then I wrote him a letter on a piece of Red Cross paper,addressed to whoever might come. I said that he had beenkind to his prisoners, that he had saved a child from drowning,and helped us when he could. I asked that he be given mercifultreatment, because he had earned it.
He took the letter and thanked me, finished his coffee, andgot up. He went to George’s mosquito net, where Georgehad popped out his head, and kissed him good-bye. He tookmy hand to shake it, started to speak, and stopped. I looked inhis face to see why. The tears were rolling down his cheeksand h
e couldn’t speak. He held my hand a minute and, withtears falling, bent over it. Then he straightened quickly,bowed, and was gone.
I went to bed. As I lay beside my own son that night Iasked myself: Why must all young men throughout thisworld make the choice, to either kill, or be killed?
And I knew there could be no good answer.
September 11, 1945
No C-47’s came at eleven o’clock that day to drop food forno C-47’s dashed by at arm’s length.
Instead the planes overhead were high, remote, and austere.They were in the air over Kuching vicinity for several hours.This dignified conduct on their part suggested to us thatactivity was at last taking place on the river.
At four o’clock that afternoon we were told by DorieAdams that the Australian occupying forces had come upthe river and landed at Kuching. They were on the way tous now, and would take surrender of the camps as soon asthey arrived. There would be no preliminary warning. If wewished to see them take over we must be ready to leave for thesquare at a minute’s notice.
I warned George then to stay close at hand, but I stillwould not let myself believe that the day had come. Notuntil I had laid eyes on those Australians. Most of us feltthe same way. Long disappointment had taught us.
At five o’clock the caU came. Go to the square. Aus-tralians TAKE over in THREE MBSTUTES.
For one minute then I stood quite still. I knew in my bonesthat this time it was true. With all of my being I gave thanksto God. It was over.
Then the camp became madder than ever. Most of thewomen tore oflE their patched old clothes and hurried into the
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one decent dress which they had been saving for years, forthis day.
I looked all about me for George. No George. All overcamp I ran. StiU no George. All right, George, you Kttleso-and-so, I thought. I’m not waiting for you this time. Youcan just stay behind.
I give one final shout of “George,” and somebody shoutsback that George has already gone up the road with someof the children. How quickly they have learned that theyare free — they are free — to run up that road, I think. I amlate, I run towards the camp entrance and start up the road.
“Mum! ” George’s small voice calls faintly from far behindme in camp.
I stop, George is covering the ground after me as fast aspossible. “Hurry, hurry, or we’ll miss the soldiers.”
“Mum, my belt’s busted and my pants are falling off.”Whereupon his pants fall off. George arrives with tongue outand pants in hand. On go the pants, on goes the belt.
“Now hurry!”
Up the road we race. The road to captivity before; nowthe road to freedom. Here to the left of us is the hospitalward, here is the morgue where the bodies of men have beenpiled like fish in tins, here is the clinic, where men begged for,but didn’t receive, mediciue from Yamamoto, here one bowedlow in passing, Jap doctor in sight or not. Here is the sentrybox. Here one bows to the Nipponese guard — or usedto do. There is no guard here today. Here was the scene ofendless tortures for the men.
Here on the right hand is the British soldiers’ camp, thecamp of skeletons, which move laboriously, slowly, weakly;that they move at all is the wonder.
Here is the Dutch camp, beyond it is the civilian men’scamp, across from it is the priests’ camp. All camps are empty.Everyone who can walk, creep, totter, crawl, is on the roadmoving towards the square. And this is the same road down
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which we women have so many times in the past dragged,carried, and stumbled under the weight of heavy rubber trees,to be used for firewood.
Now we are in the square. This was the place for pubKcmeetings when we as prisoners were harangued by the Jap-anese. Here Colonel Suga has frequendy addressed us.
His words have been: “This is going to be a long war, tenyears more at least. The Nipponese are going to be victori-ous. Your Army and Navy are being defeated. The Nipponesenever give up. I know you are homesick. I sympathize withyou, I am very kind. You are prisoners. You must obey me.”
This square was the place for pubHc punishments. HereGeorge and I have stood in the sun at attention for punish-ment. Over here is the litde green mound with the main sentrybox. The sentry used to stand in the box under the tree inthe shade. The victim stood in the road in the sun. Perhapshe held a heavy weight at arm’s length above his head, per-haps he squatted, perhaps he knelt with his arms at rightangles in front of him. When he fell over he was kicked untilhe got up, and when he could no longer get up he was justkicked.
As we pass the gate of the civilian men’s camp Harry joinsus. All three together, we push forward into the square, whichseems already full with the two thousand prisoners. There isa small platform at the far side, with a Union Jack now flyingabove it.
I look about me for the Austrahans, for we have heard thatfive hundred of them are here. But there are only a few tobe seen, tail, straight-featured, strong young men. There aremore American sailors to be seen than Australians. I have saidin the past, “When I see American sailors in Kuching Square,I will know we are free.”
We learn later that most of the Australian soldiers are bu^moving about the city of Kuching, trying to appear like fivethousand rather than five hundred men. The Nipponese still
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have under arms in Kuching, and unsurrendered, five thou-sand soldiers.
Now Colonel Walsh, the highest ranking officer amongstthe Australian prisoners of war, steps onto the platform andcalls the crowd to attention. He then presents a huge,blue-eyed, red-cheeked Australian, who is Brigadier GeneralEastick, R.A.A., of the 9th Australian Division, in commandof the landing force. He also presents Captain Jennings of theUnited States Navy, who has accompanied Eastick up theriver. Captain Jennings is the perfect picture of what a captainin the Navy should be.
Brigadier General Eastick then speaks in a cheery, boom-ing voice. “I feel deeply honored to be the one to bring reliefto you today. I will read a message to you from Major Gen-eral Wootten, who commands the 9th Austrahan ArmyDivision which sets you free.
“ ‘We are sorry to have been so long in coming to you. Be-cause of your position up the Kuching River and because ofdifficult fighting conditions in Borneo we have been slow ingetting here. We have not had the shipping available to comein to you before, or to take you away. You have been patientfor a long time. But today I greet you as a free people again.
“ ‘We expect to take you out of Kuching as quickly as pos-sible. The sick will be taken care of first. Some of these willbe taken tomorrow to Labuan, the headquarters of the 9thDivision in Borneo. The rest of you will be taken out day byday as shipping space becomes available. In Labuan you willbe given medical and hospital care, rest and every aid towardregaining your health, while you are waiting for transporta-tion to your homes.
“ ‘We have brought with us three Padres, Roman Catholic,Church of England, and Congregational, as we expect thatyou will wish to hold thanksgiving services tomorrow.’ ”
While Brigadier Eastick is speaking we in the crowd comea little nearer to realizing that we are free. We are beyond
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words, our hearts hammer and bang, our pulses throb, ourthroats ache, we weep and we cheer. We strike each other’sbacks and clasp hands. The children are held high in the air.But they are quiet now, for our tears astound and frightenthem. Harry attempts to lift George to his shoulder, but he isstill too weak; a friend lifts George up instead.
Then over this sea of hysteria Captain Jennings speaks.Here are his words:
“Today is my first experience of this sort. It is worth manya battle, and many a long, hard night on the sea. This is whatwe have been fighting for.”
It is the one perfect speech that I have ever heard, it is theonly speech I ever wish to hear, but it finished composure.Captain Jennings himself, they tell me, ended his words intears. Anyway, no one was ashamed of crying that day.
Everyone now having had a good cry, the next best thingwas for the war correspondents and photographers to get busyand carry the drama to the outside world.
Eastick and Jennings were photographed shaking every-body’s hands, we were photographed with and without tears,the rescue forces were photographed, and the children werephotographed eating chocolates, loUipops, chewing gum,which every single soldier and sailor gave them with a grin.
When the 9th Australian Army Division and men of theUnited States Navy came to us in Kuching, we had nothing.We were hungry and they fed us, we were ill and they caredfor us, we were ragged and they clothed us. We were anxiousand they reassured us, we were hysterical and they dealttenderly with us. They came into our camp and cooked forus, chopped fibrewood and carried loads for us, nursed oursick and took care of our children. Every jeep, DUKW,motor truck, boat, became a plaything, every soldier a friendand father.
These men came mto Kuching with blood on their hands,
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from heavy fighting in Borneo and the Celebes. They weresoldiers known for their toughness, taking no prisoners, ob-serving no laws; yet never did we hear from them a word ofimpatience or anger, a rough speech or a curse, or see anunkind or unpleasant action. To us who were weak and werehelpless they were gentle as angels from Heaven. We becameproud then of men, as we had for years been ashamed. Wewept for their kindness, as we had not wept for abuse.
Those young men were for that time a part of all goodnessand virtue, a part of all love. They brought us liberty andfreedom, and something even greater — belief again in thedecency of men.
The most dramatic picture of that day was never photo-graphed.
Harry and I stood at one side of the crowd waiting forGeorge to disentangle himself from a newsreel. The crowdstill faced towards the platform. Skirting uncertainly alongthe edge of this crowd came a small, very small, very short,khaki-clad figure, his sword smacking his brief legs, hisheels clicking, his little fatigue-shirt tails flipping. It wasColonel Suga, alone, ignored. He trotted aU around the out-skirts of the crowd. No one smiled or spoke or saluted.People didn’t fail to see him: he just didn’t exist any morefor them.
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