Chapter 9 Hands, coal ship; Laughing cadavers; Taken for a ride.

"HANDS, COAL SHIP!"

NOWADAYS ships bum oil fuel and there are senior officers and three-badge ratings in the Navy who have never coaled ship.

True, a few odd small naval auxiliary vessels still burn coal, but in them coaling is but a poor, pallid imitation of what it was. In World War I most of the larger ships of the Grand Fleet were coal burners, and coaling ship hung over the crews like a cloud. Like a cloud of coal dust, for example.

Those who have seen a large merchant ship lying alongside a wharf while a rake of railway trucks passed by, being tipped, a truck at a time, through a large port in the ship's side, will wonder why coaling should call for comment. The reason is that while merchant ships could be built for convenience in coaling, men-of-war had armoured sides which allowed no openings. Furthermore, coal bunkers were placed to augment the protection given by the armour, making them awkward to fill because of their position in the ship. As a result coal had to be dumped on deck and then poured down narrow chutes, a bag at a time.

Coaling has gone forever. It will not happen again, and the idle ant and the dawdling bee, having failed to take notice of it, must wait for another example of real activity. But let us take one last look through the port-hole of memory at a battleship coaling.

The morning is cold and grey as a dirty looking collier approaches through the mists. The hands are in coaling rig, consisting of overalls or the oldest of uniforms, with stoppers in the style of bowyangs at wrists and ankles to keep out the dust. Then comes the Bosun's pipe: "Clear lower deck! Hands coal ship! "

The ship's normal business is suspended. The Navigating Officer is Officer of the Watch, the Chief Yeoman and a few signal ratings are on the bridge, the cooks are in the galley and the medical staff stands by to treat minor injuries which are usually plentiful and there are a few others that you might call "Idlers" but, apart from these, every officer and man takes part.

The collier has four holds and a "part of the ship" mans each under its officer of division. Specialist ratings make up the bulk of the deck parties. Barrows, bags and shovels are already placed in position and special leads rigged. Down below stokers go into the bunkers to trim the coal from the heaps under the chutes to the walls.

As the collier comes alongside men swarm on board her and down to the holds. Bags are passed to them and shovels lowered, while drivers try out their winches before the collier is properly made fast. There is no need to give orders or urge the men; it is a dirty job which must be done and there will be no rest for anyone until it is finished, so they do their best to get it over quickly.

In the holds the men spread themselves in gangs, each under a petty officer or leading hand. They dig and fill the bags which are large and strong with iron beckets on them. When the gang completes its tally, a double wire strop is passed through the beckets and the ends brought back to the iron ring in the centre. The winchman lowers the hook to a man standing on the pyramid of coal in the centre of the hold, he unhooks the empty strop from it, runs down to the bags and hooks them on, blows his whistle, and the winchman heaves in. The pyramid of coal in ' the centre steadies the bags so that the hoist goes straight up, then the inboard winch clatters and hauls the hoist over the ship where it is lowered and unhooked. The winch pulls the strop clear and the hook returns to the hold for another hoist. The men in the hold take no notice of it but continue shovelling.

On board the battleship the bags are placed on barrows and run to the chutes, down which they are emptied and the empty bags returned to the hold. The coal dust rises in a thick black cloud and settles on every surface in a fine, dirty scum. We breathe it, drink it with the water, it penetrates into our clothes and settles on our skins, and it makes runnels in the sweat on blackened faces. But the work goes on at full speed, everything at the double. Muscles ache, but the hook, that taskmaster, must not be kept waiting. The tally in each hold is written in chalk on the hatchway coaming; we can see how we are faring and, after a few hours, make rough calculations of our progress

The dinner hour comes and the men troop on board. There is coal dust over everything, the tables, the decks, the food, so it hardly seems worth while washing. We eat, then the bugle sounds and we return to work. Perhaps, from one hold will be heard the song to the tune of a well-known hymn:

"Coaling! Coaling! Coaling! Always - - well coaling! "

Another hold takes it up, it swells above the sounds of the winches, then dies away as men find they have not breath to spare.

At last the "Cease fire" sounds and the men climb wearily from the holds by the iron ladders which are now much higher than they were. On deck the last bags are tipped down the chutes and the stokers who have done the last of the trimming on hands and knees are hauled up, the bunker doors having long since been covered. The collier casts off and steams away, but work is not finished yet. The ship has to be cleaned.

Hoses are rigged and tired men push brooms over the deck, sluicing coal dust into the scuppers, while others wash down the inner spaces of the ship. After that men doff their coaling rig and put it away, then clean themselves. The dust comes off easily, except from the edges of the eyelids, to which it adheres stubbornly. A smear of butter will remove it, but this makes the eyes smart.

We settle down for a rest at last. But what is that signal? Prepare to weigh? So we go to sea again, to bum up another six or seven hundred tons, which will have to be replaced when we return.

That was coaling ship, a dirty, strenuous, monotonous job. But worst of all was the sight of oil-burning ships in the same squadron, who screwed on a pipe from an oiler and went to sleep while we dug and dug and dug.

ERIC FELDT, R.A.N.

LAUGHING CADAVERS

THEY rested for a moment and gazed quietly at the roofless huts leaning brokenly on the side of the hill.

This was Sonkurai - the mecca to which they had dragged themselves for two hundred aching miles; these gaping structures were the modem barracks which had been promised them.

It was a bitter blow and all the pain of the forced marches and the continuous disappointments rose up and threatened to engulf them. Then one lad chuckled and the tension broke with a ripple of laughter. It was such a joke; they had been tricked again.

Their thin bodies were crying for rest, some were bootless, some on sticks, strong men helped their mates and others carried outsize loads of the communal cooking gear and medical panniers. And yet, though they were shadows of their former selves, they were laughing as they shuffled up the hill.

It was the middle of May '43.

There were two huts, long, rotting and roofless, but they could be patched up. Through the centre of each hut ran a strip of earth bounded on both sides by bamboo platforms, twelve feet wide. Of roofing atap there was none, but promises had been made by the Japanese that it would be procured and that ample time would be given to make the camp habitable before the men went to work.

There were no cooking facilities so fireplaces were dug in the ground and kualis or big cast-iron coppers for the cooking of rice were placed above them. Water for cooking was carried in buckets by a team of men, from the creek about fifty yards away.

It was evident from the beginning that only very strong men would be able to work as water-carriers as the water was thirty feet below the top of the creek bank and a mighty effort was needed to climb the slippery footholds whilst carrying two buckets of water.

The first cholera victim to die in the camp vomited his life away within twelve hours of the arrival of the prisoners and a chill of fear struck at every man. Ninety per cent of the men had arrived at the camp weak and trembling with dysentery but this disease had not begun to kill as yet; it was the cold, sudden, frightening speed of the cholera in its method of destruction which shocked the camp.

A desperate united front against the disease was born under the guidance of a few capable leaders; every man who could stand worked frantically to make a healthy camp.

Drains were dug, refuse cleared away, hut walls and sleeping platforms were repaired with bamboo cut from the jungle. Special squads of men erected the framework of a kitchen over the fire-places. Using the roofing, material available they converted the end of one hut into a hospital.

The strongest men, working in teams, dug deeply into the clay to make new latrines on the bottom slope of the hill. Above the huts men working without respite commenced to fill in some of the horrible latrines from which the cholera germ was spreading. With little knowledge of hygiene the Japanese had had the latrines dug on the upper slope of the hill and the foul seething pits overflowing down the hill towards the huts only thirty yards away provided the perfect opportunity for the flies to carry the germs to every food dixie in the camp.

The desperate labours of the two squads of men, one team digging new latrines whilst the other filled in the old, were made in silence. Every man knew that the cholera germ could only be taken through the mouth and as the flies were thickly clustered on every piece of vegetation, most men would not even open their mouths but breathed heavily through their nostrils until they reeled away from the task, exhausted, to hand their shovels to teammates waiting willingly to help.

Japanese officers visited the camp on the third day. Worried by the chance of losing their labour potential, they ordered that all men be inoculated with cholera serum, increased the rice ration and authorized a few loads of roofing atap to be brought into the camp.

Within four days of the arrival of the prisoners the appearance of the camp had greatly changed. All vegetation had been cleared away, mess tables were standing at the feeding points, walls and sleeping platforms were in better repair and deep drains were ready to carry away some of the expected deluge of the wet season. The new latrines, which had been opened by this time, were covered with long bamboo strips plugged with clay to make them fly-proof; the apertures when not in use were sealed with heavy wooden blocks carved from nearby timber with small tomahawks. They were a triumph of ingenuity and a credit to the panting, scrawny creatures who had toiled so strenuously to complete them.

The driving force behind the feverish activity was a big-framed, bull-necked Australian medical officer who stalked through the camp roaring his dissatisfaction at the slowness of the workers and goading them on to even greater efforts. He was ruthless in his condemnation of all makeshift jobs and such was his dominating personality that the weary prisoners, pinning their faith to him, rushed to carry out his every wish.

The bottom fell out of the whole world within a week of arrival. The rainy season which, until now, had been heralded by a few spasmodic showers, closed down with a steady hissing torrent of ice-cold water. It struck mercilessly at the half-naked prisoners and turned every open patch of ground into a slippery clay-pan which could only be crossed by the aid of sticks or with the help of a friend.

The second disaster came when the Japanese ordered that all men must commence work on the railway at once. The bull-necked medical officer, almost foaming at the mouth, rushed to present himself to Lieutenant Fukuda, black-bearded and smiling, and Private Toyama, small of stature and expressionless of face, to protest against the injustice of attempting to work men who were already in an advanced stage of malnutrition and debility.

He pointed out to the Japanese that a well-fed, healthy camp would ensure a continuous supply of strong labour for whatever purpose they desired, whereas the lack of medical drugs, roofless huts, and inadequate food supplies that had been issued until that time, would quickly reduce all men to the state where forced labour would be impossible.

The smiling Fukuda replied, "All men should be honoured to perform for the Emperor such an important task as the building of the railway." Toyama said nothing but slapped the Major's face until his teeth almost rattled.

The next morning the prisoners assembled in the half-light of the dawn. Bootless and clad in a motley of rags, with the cold rain beating upon them, they had the audacity to joke about their captors and vied with one another in their efforts to describe them in insulting terms.

Except for a few men engaged on essential duties, every man in the camp who could walk unaided shambled out of camp to commence his part in the building of the Burma-Thailand railway.

The camp itself covered an area of half an acre and faced a small unused paddy field across which an embankment was planned. Thick jungle encircled the paddy field; the great trees, heavy and green, were laced together with tough vines and towered above the thorny green bamboo which trailed spiked trunks through every foot of the undergrowth.

This was the country which the railway was to traverse. The well-fed, waterproofed overseers directed teams of prisoners to the various tasks and sticks and boots were used to hasten them in their toil. Hundreds of men carrying little woven baskets trudged across the paddy field, knee-deep in water, to dump a half-bucket of earth or a few stones on the path of the embankment. Other men axed their way into jungle and the great trees falling to earth were sawn and chopped into small pieces by parties of fifty and sixty men.

At midday carriers were despatched to the camp to bring back the lunch rations. They returned with baskets of steamed rice and the men were allowed half an hour in which to eat the pint of rice issued to each of them. During the long afternoon the overseers redoubled their efforts to force the prisoners to work harder and their grunting cries were punctuated more and more frequently with blows from the sticks they carried, or by vicious kicks from their heavy boots.

The workers staggered into the camp at io o'clock that night and were issued with a pint and a half of plain nice cooked without even the flavouring of common salt. The men ate their meal in silence, champing their jaws slowly over the unpalatable mess and dreaming of the food of bygone days, whilst the rain poured through the roofless huts with a fierce coldness. Finishing their meal they stretched out on the knobby bamboo platforms, wrapped themselves in whatever covering they possessed and fell asleep from utter exhaustion.

Men shared their inadequate bed-coverings and slept huddled together like children, obtaining a little warmth and a great deal of companionship from each other. Several died during the night from exhaustion and the effects of exposure to the dreadful continuous rain.

The next morning the still wet and shivering prisoners lurched out to work again and the pattern of the previous day's toil was followed as it was for months, until none was left to stagger from the camp. Medical supplies were practically unavailable and treatment of disease was primitive and pathetic. Malaria sufferers were allowed perhaps three days in camp before resuming work on the railway, whilst all but the worst dysentery patients were given a measure of ground charcoal to eat and forced to continue working.

Almost every man in the camp was suffering from acute dysentery so that it came to be regarded as a normal state of health to visit the latrines perhaps thirty times in twenty-four hours. The plight of the more severe cases, sent to work all day in the rain, was particularly bad. Weak and trembling from loss of blood, they shuffled along, fifteen and twenty men to a team, carrying great logs from the jungle whilst their bare feet were scratched and torn by the bamboo thorns.

The completion of the roofing of the huts within a few weeks of arrival gave the prisoners the comfort of a respite from the rain each night, but the constant exposure had sent many men to the hospital suffering from pneumonia. The "hospital", as it was called, began, as stated previously, as a small portion of one of the huts. The sick men were carried there and the workers moved up to take over the spaces they had vacated. From this small beginning the size of the hospital in. creased until, with no fit men remaining, it had engulfed all the hut. In response to appeals for warm bed coverings for the pneumonia patients, the Japanese issued cotton blankets at the rate. of three blankets per hundred men.

Within two weeks of arrival fifty men had died from cholera and, in an effort to stem the disease, all cholera cases were housed in ragged tents, provided, by the Japanese, on a hill at the northern end of the camp. This area was known as "Cholera Hill" and in nearly all cases it meant death to be carried there. The expressions upon the faces of the poor wretches who were ordered to be taken to Cholera Hill were enough to melt the heart of the devil himself and yet the only medical supplies provided for these cases were a little sugar and salt.

The medical officers and volunteer orderlies who worked in this area were saintly in their zeal to help the sufferers and, although completely exposed to the danger of the cholera germ, worked from dawn until long into the night to give what comfort they could to the stricken. The one hope that a cholera victim had of living, was to drink salt and water continuously in an effort to counteract the loss of moisture brought about by the constant vomiting which was one of the main effects of the disease. So great was the loss of moisture that bamboo identification discs were tied to the wrists of all patients, in order that they could still be recognized after a few hours. In this blighted atmosphere medical orderlies sat for hours on end holding water-bottles to parched lips to give each sufferer his chance to live. Some of the patients, sipping constantly, drank gallons of water and occasionally lived to vanquish the disease.

Because of the forced labour system, whereby all men were required to work, Cholera Hill had no visitors and, even if men had been free to visit this area, the risk of infection was so great that few would have done so. As the medical staff did not return to the ordinary camp area there was little liaison between Cholera Hill and the camp, and workers, stumbling into camp late at night, could only glean rumours as to the fate of friends lately stricken with the disease.

There was one man, however, who visited Cholera Hill every day and who was constantly at the side of all the very sick patients. He was a small and unassuming padre from Rockhampton. Tireless in his efforts to render to the dying the comfort of his gentle personality, he was at the beck and call of all the prisoners -and the sight of his unobtrusive figure gave many a man the encouragement which was often necessary to keep the flame of hope from dying. He was a small man but with a great heart.

The rations supplied by the Japanese deteriorated almost from the day of arrival. Rice was plentiful for several days when the Japanese thought that they would have a labour force of 2,000 men but, as the numbers of sick men increased, so the rations decreased until the middle of June when the rice ration was fixed at i i ounces per day for workers, and 9 ounces per day for sick men.

There was a nominal 11 ounces of meat and 1 ounce of onions added to this ration daily but the meat was, in the main, preserved meat brought from Burma and was so nauseatingly putrid that the stench arising from the boxes as they were opened was enough to indicate that their contents were uneatable. The onions, once small and fresh, were clammy and pulpy and usually, like the meat, had to be thrown away.

Within three weeks the force of 2,000 men had been reduced to eighty-two fit men. The Japanese, enraged at this impertinence, decided a few days later that hospital patients would not eat at all and this order was carried out for a period of twenty-four hours until the senior medical officer persuaded the Japanese to relax the ban, which they did reluctantly, and allowed all hospital patients to be issued with 3 ounces of rice daily. The emaciated hospital patients for a few days then collected three and four spoonfuls of rice daily and the "back-up" system, by which all spare food was distributed in a certain defined order, alphabetically or numerically, was of paramount importance to the sufferers who were issued, if lucky enough to be next in line, with a backup of one spoonful of rice.

The effect of this discrimination against hospital patients was that malaria sufferers returned to work after two or three days in the hospital and in their weakened state fell victims very often to pneumonia.

By the end of June most of the camp was suffering from beri beri and this disease gave the medical officers a further problem. Because of the lack of foods to counterbalance the almost wholly rice diet the prisoners became bloated to enormous proportions, particularly in the legs and feet. The obvious cure for the beri beri was to reduce the rice intake and substitute other foods but, as this was impossible, men ate bamboo shoots, lily roots and any young tender leaves which appeared to be digestible.

Through the atmosphere of the camp, however, there ran at all times the vein of humour which helped to keep the men's spirits high. In the darkest days there was always the talk of what would happen when the war was over and victory was a reality instead of a dream. They delighted in talking of the tremendous meals they would eat, the dry clothes they would wear and the hot soapy baths they would enjoy. The starvation rations and the lack of certain essentials in the diet did queer things to the prisoners' minds and their thoughts became unconsciously coloured with the attractiveness of simple home-cooked foods.

Work-mates would spend the entire day discussing, whilst they plodded through the work, the delicate recipes they would prepare. They would listen attentively to those who interrupted with advice as to the quantities of fats and salt which should be added, regretfully rejecting this or that procedure or eagerly agreeing as to the contents of an old favourite dish. One and all they mentally licked their lips as they enjoyed the thought of these future meals.

The Japanese overseers were, as far as possible, always ignored and even when stood to attention or beaten with sticks the prisoners serenely regarded their temporary masters as one would glance at an insignificant insect.

Sometimes, however, the Japanese authorities could not be denied, as in one instance when the prisoners were awakened at 1 a.m. and informed that one pick had been lost and that until it was found rations would be refused to all sick men and those whose duties kept them confined to the camp. This incident might have had serious consequences had not the missing tool been found at 3 p.m. the following day whereupon all men were again allowed to eat.

The capacity to laugh at oneself was something which was denied the overseers. Always sensitive to being jeered at, they would descend with swinging sticks upon any groups of laughing prisoners.

The only solemn moments in the day's work would occur when the work parties shuffled past the great funeral pyre which was kept burning continuously by gangs of men and upon which the bodies of their comrades were consigned to the flames.

Within two months the Japanese knew that they could not build that portion of the railway with Australian labour and they decided to transfer the remaining prisoners to other camps and to replace them with coolies brought from Burma.

The news gave stronger hopes to the workers and the drawn faces cracked in delight at the thought of the defeat of at least one small part of the Nipponese ambitions.

Until the last the prisoners continued to work and to sing in their audacious fashion. Late at night they shuffled along towards the camp with their grotesque swollen feet bleeding and sore, but with their faces lifted to the rain as they sang, with their great hearts bursting, the songs their fathers had sung in Flanders years before.

In the bamboo huts, during lulls in the rain, the dying men heard the roaring voices floating up the road and, too weak to talk, they smiled at each other. They had won the battle, their spirits remained unbroken and, smiling still, they died.

S. F. ARNEIL, SECOND A.I.F.