Chapter 3 Foreboding; Colours in the Navy; Torokina Handover; War Dead;

FOREBODING

JORDAN Valley, 19 April 1918. Tis strange at times how morbid thoughts obsess one.

'tis stranger still how futile it seems to try to drive away those fleeting fancies of an ominous issue ahead.

As we ride onward towards the foothills where hide the Turks and cross the sluggish waters of the Jordan, nerves within are jumpy. The torrid heat of the Valley, the countless tormenting flies, the fetid choking clouds of alkali-like dust rising from the sun-crumbled earth, as hundreds of horses labour along almost knee-deep, all tend only to aggravate the strange feelings.

In the illusion before me I can see tragedy. The phantom form of an invisible Death is riding on ahead. Cobwebs of some direful happening seem to blur senses that cannot find relief in speech. Try as I may, I cannot drive away those tormenting thoughts.

Our objective is not one of molesting the enemy, but rather are we to draw near with the view of creating a moral effect. To preen ourselves, as it were, and impress the enemy with our might. A reconnaissance in force. The whole of the Anzac Mounted Division is in the saddle today, hundreds, thousands of grim-faced men.

As we draw nearer to the hills, standing as black battlements, their beetling crags glistening chrome-like beneath the dazzling rays of blistering sun, the dusty ground gives way to ripening crops of barley. Horses snap eagerly at the clusters of yellowish grain.

Still we ride on. Still that hellish feeling claims me for its own. The order comes to extend and, as we do, the boom, boom, boom of guns breaks the uncanny stillness. The Austrian gunners have found a target in the Enzeds on our left. Soon the Valley awakens. It becomes an inferno as guns thunder and
shells crash and burst around.

Today the enemy gunners are playing a lone hand. No batteries accompany us. Extended, we advance ever nearer to the boding hills. We are seen but cannot see those hidden behind them. As the Austrian gunners pay us attention we dismount and scatter about in pairs. We can hide our own forms from observation, but horses heads and backs stand above the waving barley.

Dick and I creep in and he on our bellies beneath the sparse shade of a stunted little tree. A narrow little drain becomes our bed. The sweet-smelling barley crop reminds us of new-mown hay. We lie still and hold the bridle reins of our horses, now trembling with fear as the shells crash near.

"S-s-s-h bang!" I can hear the whining whirr of the coming shell, hours, it seems, before the burst above. Ahead, not very high, less than ten yards short in range. Just a sighter, perhaps, that single shell.

Seconds do creep, whilst, tingling with fear, you wait for what seems the inevitable. Another whirr, another crash! we decide it's getting too hot. We'll move back after the next shell. Too late!

The weird whining song of the shell is heard and instinctively we duck our heads almost into the soft earth. A hellish crash! A hall of whistling death-groans, a sob! Startled screams of pain as horses pull back and gallop away. Almost stunned, I fall across Dick and try to, lift a head that will not show life. Almost hysterically I call to him to speak, but fluttering eyes, a last long breath, a little trickle of blood from lips now ashen-grey, tell me what I fear to realize. My old mate of three long years has gone to meet the One Who made him.

During those dreadful seconds I scarcely seemed to notice, or even to hear, the shells bursting above. Stunned with shock, I looked towards the hills. Fearful, blasphemous curses on the enemy poured from my lips. . . . I called to Brian, Dick's brother. As he reached my side, I walked away in silence. I stumbled on, thinking of that ominous feeling of the morning. I didn't look back. I had left the two brothers alone - the one alive and sorrowful, the other, still in death....

ARTHUR A. BATEMAN, First A.I.F.

COLOURS IN THE NAVY
	THE cruiser swings lightly from her buoy at the whim of a changing breeze. She lies in an Australian port, senior ship of all those other units of the R.A.N. that share the calm, sheltered waters of the harbour. The whiteness of her quarter deck, the gleam of newly washed paintwork and the brilliance of polished brass reflect the smile of the morning sun. It is just after a quarter to eight and there is activity on her upper deck. On the starboard side for'ard of the brass strip that marks the beginning of the quarter deck, the bandsmen in their immaculate blue serge uniforms, white peaked caps and belts, stand by with their shining instruments preparatory to falling in. For'ard of them again stands the guard, round-rigged sailors with belts, side-arms, gaiters and rifles. The band corporal snaps an order and they fall in, brass instruments rattling slightly against burnished buttons. As they take up their positions, the Gunner's Mate, a petty officer of splendid proportions, steps briskly before the group of waiting men who are the guard. His "Guard, fall in!" moves the sailors to quick action and, at the double, they form two correctly-sized lines. While the guard is being inspected by the Officer of the Watch, the band has marched on to the quarter deck and is slow marching and counter-marching to the strains of an old-time waltz. Meanwhile there is other activity in various parts of the ship. On the flag deck the morning watch signalmen are taking the turns from an outer tops'l halliard and preparing to bend on a flag from the uncovered locker. The Leading Signalman of the forenoon watch has gone aft across the quarter deck to the stem, and is lacing a brand-new white ensign to the staff, while on the fo'c'sle, his Second Hand laces a Commonwealth blue ensign to the jack-staff. It is now almost five to eight and the Yeoman of the Watch walks quickly on to the quarter deck and stands to attention in a position where he can see the halliards of the foremast tops'l.

The guard has been inspected and the band has slow-marched back almost to the brass strip. As the Gunner's Mate orders right turn, the band breaks into the quick-march and a gay military air, leading the guard on to the quarter deck. There are no awnings spread, so rifles with bayonets fixed are carried at the slope. Suddenly from the outer tops'l there flutters a blue and white flag which signifies that colours will be hoisted in five minutes. The Yeoman of the Watch reports "Five minutes to eight o'clock" to the Officer of the Watch, the band wheels right and takes up its position under the twin guns of "Y" turret while the guard marches past. With bayonets sparkling silver, arms swinging from the shoulder and eyes proud and looking straight ahead, they execute a perfect right wheel between the guard and the ensign staff. Halting, they turn aft and order arms. Meanwhile, from the foremasts of all other ships in company flutter the red and white answering pennants. They, too, are standing by and waiting for the hauling down of the preparatory signal by the senior ship. The tops'l halliard shakes, and the Yeoman who has been waiting for that unofficial sign reports "One minute to eight o'clock." Taking his cue, the Gunner's Mate orders "Guard, slope arms!" and the band corporal, not to be outdone, raps out "Band, ready!" The Quartermaster stands close to the polished ship's bell, the Bugler with his instrument suspended from his neck by a tasselled cord, lifts the bugle to his lips and blows noiselessly through it. From the corner of his eve, the Officer of the Watch can see the Yeoman, whose gaze has never once left that fluttering bunting at the foremast. Then down comes the blue and white striped flag with a rush, as does every answering pennant flying from each naval ship in harbour. What follows happens quickly yet smoothly; made so by a tradition that has been has been carried out daily by His Majesty's ships in all corners of the world for hundreds of years. The Yeoman cries "Eight o'clock sir" and immediately the Officer of the Watch says "Sound off, Bugler." The Bugler draws a mighty breath, then from his shining horn come the ringing notes of the "Still". As the last note dies away, the Gunner's Mate speaks. "Guard, present arms!" and the three movements of the present crack out across the quarter deck. The Quartermaster strikes eight bells-ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding As the first strains of the National Anthem are heard, all officers, all leading hands and above anywhere on the upper deck, face aft and salute. Slowly and reverently the white ensign is hoisted, its folds fluttering out as the wind catches them. Higher and higher it climbs until, as the last note of the Anthem is played, it gently touches the truck of the staff and floats bravely over the stern. From the jack-staff the Commonwealth blue ensign with its white stars and quarter of red, white and blue flies over the fo'c'sle. There is a slight pause that follows the completion of the National Anthem; it seems that it would be sacrilege to break it. But the Officer of the Watch orders "Carry on, Bugler!" and the strident notes of the bugle echo across the harbour. The signalmen tie up their halliards and, with the Yeoman, return to the flag deck to relieve the morning watchmen. The band strikes up a triumphal march and the guard leaves the quarter deck. Ratings on the upper deck resume more comfortable, if temporary, positions until hands fall in and the cruiser prepares for another day's routine. From the ships of the Navy in port fly the white ensigns, hoisted in unison with the senior ship. "Colours" for the day are over. G. WARWICK WAYE, R.A.N.

TOROKINA HANDOVER

FROM the bridge of the sloop the peak of Mount Bagana stood out clearly to the eastward, a spire of smoke above it in the still morning air, its base hidden in the mist which covered the coast. In the starboard comer of the bridge, the Asdic chattered confidently. Soon an amorphous blob on the grey sea resolved itself into a buoy, and a little later a light blinked from the grey shroud of haze on the shoreline. With confidence course was set for entering harbour. A little over a year before Torokina had been taken by a swift amphibious assault; a defensive perimeter established against which three thousand Japs had immolated themselves vainly. Airstrips had been cleared and the air over Rabaul had been dominated, allowing the war to pass on to the front doorstep of Japan. Fifteen thousand Japanese troops still held the jungles of Bougainville, disputing possession with the Second Australian Army Corps, which had taken over the land fighting. Now the U.S. Navy was to move on and we, a party of thirty officers and ratings, were to take over the Northern Solomons. ne command would be wound up, leaving the R.A.N. to carry on the naval functions of the area. Preliminary arrangements had been made by the Navy in New Guinea, under whose orders we would serve. Busy days followed. Signalmen, W/T staff, coders and L.C.V.P. crews were placed with their American opposite numbers to learn the local hazards, liaison officers from Emirau, Green Island, Treasury Island and Munda were despatched to their ports, while equipment, involving much paper work, was taken over under Lend-Lease. Americans, in general, affect a disinclination for ceremonial, but I suspected the Commander of having a secret inner regard for it. Acting on my belief, I suggested to him that we should make a small ceremony of the replacement of one flag by the other. He was enthusiastic, as it was the first case of its kind as far as we knew. On the day we cleared lower deck and the Commander, his officers and a number of enlisted men roughly equivalent to our own attended. The denim-clad Americans formed two ranks; the khaki uniforms of our ship's company extended the lines. Officers fell in before their men. As eleven o'clock drew near, I called our ship's company to attention, saluted the Commander and reported to him as the senior officer, a little courtesy which his expression showed he appreciated. The Commander "shunned" his own command and gave the order to sound off. His bugler sounded "Taps", then "Colours", as Old Glory came slowly down and the White Ensign went up, pausing halfway, while the photographers recorded it. Then the Commander made a short speech, no flight of oratory, but friendly words from a good heart. After we dismissed I asked the Commander to my tent for a drink. There must have been nostalgia in him as he sat in his own familiar chair under the parachutes while I opened the bottle. It popped satisfactorily and I explained that the occasion merited the wine of honour. The transfer of command was complete. It had been a very minor affair in a world war. No fate of nations hung on its success or failure, no great movements were involved, no great principles were at stake. But the ships were kept moving without interruption so that in our small comer the war went on. And the fact that we, of different nations, could work together without ill-feeling or recrimination, in harmony and with a high regard for each other's Service, was a happy symptom in a tired world. ERIC FELDT, R.A.N.

MEASURES OF SEVERITY

CHANGI barracks sprawl out over undulating country on the northeastern tip of Singapore island. Peeping out from the palms are the officers' villas discreetly separated from the multiple-storied blocks of concrete which housed the peacetime troops. Before the war Changi was the base of a brightly polished garrison force; a battalion of infantry, a handful of gunners and engineers with their wives and servants. Altogether, it must have been a pleasant place in which to do a spot of duty.

Then came the year 1942, or 2602 according to Japanese computation which, in conformity with all other Japanese inventions, is claimed by them to be a few steps ahead of the rest of mankind. Singapore fell and about 45,000 men awoke to the realization that they were prisoners of war.

Conjectures as to where they would be sent were soon resolved. The Japanese with prophetic insight on the post-war housing situation, decided that the prisoners should have a little experience of cramped conditions. So they ordered them to Changi and the victims, being prisoners of war, went.

Few will forget the anguish of those first days in Changi: the march out, the dust, the bloody heads of Chinese stuck on gateposts, the Malays waving their Japanese flags and exulting in the Co-prosperity Sphere; the puzzled conquerors gazing like bewildered fishermen at the strange and mighty haul within their nets.

From the chaos of the arrival in Changi there gradually emerged order. It was decided to split the camp into four main groups: Malaya Command (still retaining its imposing title even behind the wire); Southern Area; Roberts Hospital and the A.I.F. area. The latter was known as Selarang and was formerly dedicated entirely to an infantry battalion. In to it trudged the 15,000 men of the A.I.F. who had survived the campaign.

Changi thus became a new city divided into four suburbs each surrounded by its own barbed wire in addition to the main wire encompassing the whole camp. Between each suburb was a no-man's-land which could be crossed only by catching the ferry. Why it was called "the ferry" no one seemed to know. Its nomenclature was never questioned - yet a less maritime ferry never put to sea.

To catch the ferry you joined a small knot of men sitting near the gate. Presently an officer would arrive carrying a flag on which were scrawled esoteric Japanese symbols.

"Fall in the ferry party," he would say listlessly. The passengers would thereupon scramble themselves into a column. Placing himself at its head, the officer would order "Quick march" and, on passing the Sikh sentry, "Eyes left."

The Sikh would usually stare at the column with shifty, disloyal eyes and probably nod his head in a sloppy imitation of the Japanese business-like bow. Sometimes the ferry struck heavy seas. The Sikh would, perhaps, not think the marching up to standard. So the ferry would have to go astern up the steep hill and come down again in a manner more pleasing to this son of India turned Japanese. Or the Sikh would decide that the English dogs should proceed on hands and knees assisted with prods in the behind from a none too clean bayonet. Or sometimes the Sikh would decree that the ferry would not leave at all and men would find themselves shut off in the wrong area. It was all very vexing. But if you are a prisoner vexatious are normality.

Almost from the outset the population of Changi began to decline as more and more men were drawn off by Japanese to supply working parties. For those who remained in camp each exodus meant better living conditions. So it was that towards the middle of 2602 life in Changi became quite tolerable. Theatres were opened, night clubs, schools and libraries all flourished. There were yeast centres (for Vitamin B), grass soup factories (for thiamine), rubber factories and artificial limb factories.

Attractive churches were built complete with altar cloths and locally made stained glass windows. Supper parties were held. So closely did they resemble those at home that men talked unceasingly about nothing at all. And there were even the notorious camp gossips ready with the latest blush for the appalling state of Major Bloggs's trousers and a titter for the scandal of Lieutenant Moggs's fowls. With such pleasantries the days slipped by.

Then, out of the blue, the bombshell.

In the month of August the Japanese appointed a new commander - a man whose very name had the rattle of the saber in it. He was Major-General Shimpei Fukuye. The prisoners first made the General's acquaintance at a huge muster parade held in his honour. He arrived four hours late, attended by an imposing retinue and numerous high-priced American cars.

He stood on the dais with legs apart, one grey-gloved hand resting on his sword. Most men in the audience had never beheld such a steel-faced militarist. Through his interpreter he barked out his policy speech.

"I am Fukuye," he said. "I think I will be kind and generous to you if you obey the commands of the Imperial Japanese Army." That was all. The men returned to their areas with an uneasy feeling that they had not heard the last of Major-General Shimpei Fukuye.

On 3o August Lieutenant-Colonel E. B. Holmes, the British Camp Commander, was summoned to the Conference House at Changi Gaol. He went, taking his area commanders with him. Here he met the Japanese who had assembled to pass on to the prisoners for instant obedience a new order of the General's. The order was that all prisoners should sign forthwith the following declaration:

"I, the undersigned, hereby solemnly swear on my honour that I will not under any circumstances attempt escape."

When you are completely cut off from the world and in the absolute power of an Asiatic conqueror, to fling defiance in his face requires courage of a very special sort.

The Colonel and those with him refused point-blank to sign the declaration. They went further by assuring, the Japanese that no man in the camp would sign such a document. It requires no particular gift of imagination to picture the tension of the historic interview. The blazing eyes of the Japanese as they comprehended the significance of this refusal; the quiet resolution of the officers standing before them. Japanese pride was hurt. The Japanese Army, which owed allegiance to an Emperor directly descended from no less a body than the Sun itself, had been insulted. This was the first hint of mass disobedience. It was a crisis.

The party returned to Changi. All units were assembled and their respective commanders explained the position to them. No one was prepared to sign. Next day the party returned to the Conference House. The prisoners refused to sign? Very well. They would be subjected to Measures of Severity!

In the early hours of the morning of 1 September, the Japanese orders were received. All men persisting in their refusal to sign the declaration would move to the Selarang barrack square. The move was to be completed by 3 p.m. that day. In addition, four men, then in hospital, were to be shot. The orders were read to the troops at dawn.

All troops to move to the barrack square! The news was so stunning that the prisoners stood dumbfounded. They were told to remain calm in the crisis, to uphold the honour of the British Empire and to obey orders.

Rapid calculations were made. The barrack square in the centre of the A.I.F. area was familiar to everyone. It consisted of an open asphalt space 250 yards long by 150 yards wide, flanked on three sides by high concrete buildings.

Excluding the patients in Roberts Hospital, who had a last minute reprieve, there still remained 15,000 men. All these, with their complete range of equipment, were now to be squeezed into this ridiculously small area.

The density of population would be one million to the mile. London has fifty persons to the acre. As a postscript it was pointed out that any man attempting to leave the square would be shot.

Before the sun was up the amazing pilgrimage had begun. The ferry was abandoned and all roads were choked with a dense press of traffic. Those in Malaya Command had the most arduous journey, a trip of about three miles. Up the hills the sweating, panting trailer teams hauled their mountainous loads, more and more joining the flood as each bungalow was emptied of its contents. Everything had to be taken to the barrack square; everything into the black hole of Changi. Stoves for cooking, wood, buckets, tools, musical instruments, camp records, canteen supplies, a complete library, crates of poultry and a herd of goats -all into the square for an indefinite duration.

The square was a sheet of blazing asphalt. There were no latrines, there was no water. In a few hours it was transformed into a seething mass of bewildered men. Long trenches were plotted out and deep slits were dug for latrines. Beside them and all around them were the cookhouses. As the trenches bit through the asphalt and cut into the clay, a great hill of spoil still further reduced the space. In the allotted time the last man had been squeezed in.

And all the time the sun beat down. The heat is still the most vivid memory. Heat from the sun baking the fetid exhalations from 15,ooo bodies blending with the smoke from the cookhouse fires. There were avenues of tents and humpies clogging the precious space in this unbelievable concentration.

To cross the square took half an hour, progress resembling that made by the conductor of a city tram at peak hours. To visit the latrines one stood in a queue for so long that afterwards one felt inclined to rejoin the queue in anticipation. The only water came from one well. After a four hours' wait, a man would be rewarded with a cupful. If someone fainted he was dragged out of the merciless sun to the shade of the humpies. Men tried to rig their rubber ground sheets, but these soon melted into a coagulated mass.

The Japanese cut off the food, the water, the fuel, the medical supplies. The dead were to be buried in the square. On the day of the incarceration the four executions had been carried out with horrible brutality. There were warnings of more to follow. But worst of all was the horror of disease. The camp had experienced dysentery before. They knew its lightning progress, its swift and fatal descent. How long could they last? That was what every man said to himself as he watched the swarms of blue-black flies buzzing out of the nauseating latrines.

Yet, despite it all, this was Changi's finest hour. For the magnificent response of the men to their inspired leadership no praise is too great, no commendation too high. At a stroke all ranks were welded into a single body with one resolve - to stick it out to the end. They watched with contempt the platoons of Japanese soldiers goose-stepping round them. They turned amused eyes on the machine-gun nests only a few feet away. By day the men toiled until they dropped and by night they sang. "God Save the King" has had many impressive settings, but none more so than in the barrack square on those sweltering, dangerous nights.

Almost hourly Colonel Holmes walked to the open end of the square to confer with the arrogant Japanese. Every attempt was made to modify the declaration.

But the Japanese were adamant. Major-General Shimpei Fukuye was not fond of compromise.

As the days wore on it was clear that a decision had to be made. The Colonel had to choose between the death of his force or the signing of a document. He conferred with the medical staff. Their opinion was anything but reassuring. Every day, every hour in the square brought its occupants one inevitable step closer to dysentery, to an epidemic which promised to be one of the most terrible in history.

On 4 September the decision was made. It was communicated to the troops by

Selarang Special Order No.3
- "During the period of occupation of Selarang barrack square, the conditions in which we have been placed have been under my consideration. These, briefly, may be described as such that existence therein will result, in a very few days, in an epidemic and the death of many. Taking into account the low state of health in which many of us now are, and the need to preserve our forces intact as long as possible, and the full conviction that my actions, were the circumstances in which we are now living known to them, would meet with the approval of His Majesty's Government, I have felt it my duty to order all personnel to sign the certificate under duress imposed by the Imperial Japanese Army.
- "I am fully convinced that His Majesty's Government only expects prisoners of war not to give their parole when such parole is given voluntarily. This factor can in no circumstances be applicable to our present condition. Responsibility for this decision rests with me, and me alone, and I fully accept it in ordering you to sign.
- "I wish to record, in this order, my deep appreciation of the excellent spirit and good discipline which all ranks have shown during this trying period. I look to all ranks to
  continue in good heart, discipline and morale.
  - "Thanking you for your loyalty and cooperation,
    
    (Signed) E. B. Holmes, Lt.-Col., Commanding British and Australian Troops.
    
    Changi. 4th Sept., 1942"

The Japanese produced the forms and at rickety tables every man signed his name. The black hole of Changi was over.

"A hell of a fuss over a bit of paper" a few men said. Perhaps. But British people are careful in signing away their honour. The Japanese got their bits of paper, but the prisoners had the victory. And in their hearts the Japanese knew it.

Major-General Shimpei Fukuye was tried last year in Singapore. The court, doubtless with the policy of the Mikado in mind, passed an appropriate sentence. He was taken to the beach on which the four men had been executed. There, His Excellency was shot dead.

DAVID GRIFFIN, Second A.I.F.