by Ellie Dean
Jim’s shirt was already sticking unpleasantly to him as he parked the car and slowly headed into Raffles. If he’d learned one thing from being in the tropics so long, it was never to hurry anywhere, and to remain patient when everything seemed to take an age. The pace of life out here was necessarily slow, for they were only one degree north of the equator, and the heat could be a killer.
He tapped on the office door, steeling himself for a ribbing, then went in.
‘Well, well,’ said Elsa with a wry smile. ‘We didn’t expect to see you so early.’
‘How’s the head?’ asked Jane, shooting him a grin.
‘Still on my shoulders, but only just,’ he replied sheepishly. ‘Look, Elsa, I must apologise about last night.’
Elsa laughed. ‘There’s no need, Jim. I was actually rather flattered if the truth be known. I haven’t been kissed like that in more years than I care to remember.’
Jim reddened and didn’t know where to look as Jane giggled. ‘I’ve come for the personnel files of the men I’m to interview today,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes,’ replied Jane, getting to her feet and reaching for one of the box files on a nearby shelf. She placed it on the desk. ‘These men were flown in a week ago from camps thirty-two and fifty-nine. They’re all on rest and recuperation until passed fit enough to be sent back to England. I’ve removed the files of those who went straight to the hospital, and the files of those from Australasia, Holland and America have gone to their administrators.’
‘Thanks, Jane. That all seems most efficient.’
‘She’s a marvel, isn’t she?’ said Elsa. ‘I don’t know how I coped before.’
Jim didn’t like to point out that she hadn’t coped at all, so stayed silent as he took the files out of the box and placed them in his briefcase. ‘I’ll see you this evening,’ he said to the two heads already bowed over their work. He left them to it and returned to the car.
Driving through the crowded streets, he headed for the vast tented camps that had been set up outside the city for the returning prisoners who didn’t need to be hospitalised, and were waiting to be repatriated.
A Union Jack hung limply from a tall pole beside the gate to signify this was the British camp, and Jim saluted the guards as he drove through. He parked outside the marquee which housed a walk-in clinic and an advice and counselling centre, and an area serviced by the Red Cross where the men could freely borrow books and magazines and take away writing materials, sketchpads, shaving equipment, soap and shampoo.
Jim knew the value to the men of having such things to hand after being so long without them, and also knew what sterling work the nurses and counsellors were doing in preparing the men for their return home.
The British government had also done their bit in helping these bewildered, almost shell-shocked survivors to recover from their ordeal by printing numerous leaflets on what to expect when they returned to a war-ravaged England, and the wives and children they hadn’t seen for many years. Other leaflets were designed to help with looking for work or retraining, should their old jobs no longer be available. There were also generous grants on offer to help with retraining or further education.
Jim wondered if he should take a few leaflets for himself. He hadn’t seen Peggy or his children for years, and the cinema where he’d worked had been bombed long before he’d even received his call-up papers. By the tone of her last letters, it seemed Peggy was getting on far too well without him, and he wasn’t at all sure about her plans to renovate Beach View. He didn’t like change, and could only hope it would still be recognisable when he was finally allowed to go home, for the memory, and the affection for it, was etched in his heart.
He greeted the middle-aged nursing sister with a broad smile. ‘And how are you on this very fine day, Margaret?’
‘Much better for seeing you,’ she replied with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘How’s the head, Jim?’
He groaned inwardly at the realisation that his exploits were now common knowledge but managed to keep on smiling. ‘It’s fine, thank you. I’m here to see Major Patrick O’Keefe and Corporals Toby Mayhew, Matthew Gresham and William Frost.’
She turned to look at the vast map pinned to a board standing on an easel. ‘The corporals are all in row five, tents 435 to 437. Major O’Keefe is in row one, tent 335.’
She regarded Jim thoughtfully as he finished noting down the tent numbers. ‘Be careful with O’Keefe,’ she said softly. ‘He’s still struggling to come to terms with what happened to him and his men on that awful railway, and is finding it very hard to communicate with anyone. He’s taken to writing long letters to his wife and standing for hours outside the gates looking up at the Union Jack.’
‘Why’s he doing that?’
‘I think he needs to be reassured that he’s a free man, and walking through those gates and seeing that flag up there gives him that assurance.’
Jim nodded and went outside. He would leave O’Keefe to last, he decided, for officers were far more difficult to persuade to talk – especially the ones who’d been slave labour on that evil railway.
He headed towards the corporals’ tents, and on his way saw a young airman standing by an American Jeep, his gaze fixed on it in wonder as if he’d never seen such a thing before.
This strange behaviour was fairly commonplace amongst the prisoners – much like the need to just walk back and forth through the gates – and Jim understood that not all of the cruelties meted out to the prisoners were physical, and the unseen mental scars would take a very long time to heal.
He found the corporals playing a desultory game of cards outside their tents, and as he approached, they leapt to their feet to salute.
‘Stand easy,’ he said, noting how young and thin they all were. ‘I’ve just come for a wee chat, nothing too official.’ He pulled up a spare chair and with a nod they all sat down.
‘Are you here to tell us we’re on our way home at last?’ asked Frost, the youngest of the three.
‘I’m sorry, but no, that’s not up to me.’
‘But we’ve been here for weeks,’ snapped Gresham, throwing the cards onto the table. ‘I need to get home to my girlfriend before she gets fed up with waiting.’
‘We all need to go home, Gresham,’ said Jim patiently. ‘And you will, once there’s a ship free to take you there. But with so many of you coming in, the admin is a nightmare.’
‘Admin, my arse,’ muttered Mayhew. ‘What do those pen-pushers know about anything? Can’t they see we just need to get out of this bloody place and back to our families?’
‘Of course they do, and I understand your frustration.’ He paused. ‘One of the things the admin bods are asking for is statements from all the POWs before they leave Singapore.’
Gresham folded his arms. ‘With all due respect, sir,’ he said with a distinct lack of such respect, ‘I’ve been answering questions ever since I was picked up by the Nips, and I’ve had enough of it.’
There was a general murmur of agreement, and Jim realised they were fed up, bored and frustrated to be kept in yet another camp. ‘I don’t blame you,’ he replied mildly. ‘But there are still men missing out there in hundreds of isolated, hidden camps we’ve yet to hear about. All I’m asking for is help in finding what happened to them and where they might be.’
‘Dead, probably,’ said Mayhew flatly, concentrating on rolling a smoke. ‘I helped to bury more than enough of them.’
This seemed to spark something in the other men, and soon they were remembering comrades they’d worked alongside, men they’d helped to bury, others with whom they’d shared their food and tended until they simply gave up the struggle and passed away. They talked about being force-marched from camp to camp; the guards; the senseless beatings of men too frail to stand, and the back-breaking work they’d been forced to do in a remote coal mine, despite being weak from hunger and suffering all manner of fevers.
Jim could picture it all too well, but he tamped down on the acid
burn in his throat, kept his expression unreadable and wrote it all down – adding the names of the dead and the approximate position of their burial.
When the men finally fell silent, he knew they’d had enough. He thanked them, wished them a safe journey home and went to the canteen. He needed something to wash away the sourness in his throat that always came after such interviews. They were young boys – not much older than his son Bob – but they’d been turned into old, bitter men by their experiences. Would they ever be able to put those memories to the back of their minds – or would those years in the jungle taint their lives for ever?
He sat in the canteen feeling suddenly awkward, overfed and over-privileged amongst so many who’d had a much harsher war than he, for the POWs had clustered together and were ignoring him as they sat a careful distance away and talked in murmurs.
Jim knew that the ordeal they’d gone through had brought them closer than brothers – probably closer than any wife could now be – and it seemed it was only to these comrades that they felt able to talk and share their fears for the future. His presence here and the reason for it would be common knowledge, and their reluctance to talk to him was something he just had to accept with grace and understanding.
Jim finished his second mug of tea and lit a cigarette. Checking the time, he found it was already mid-afternoon, and he still had the major to talk to before he could return to the office. Gathering up his briefcase, he strolled away from the canteen and headed for row one, tent 335.
Major O’Keefe was lying on his camp bed deeply engrossed in a book and, before alerting him to his presence, Jim took this brief moment to gauge his man. He could see that although he was in his mid-thirties, he looked much older. He had big, gnarled hands and feet, brutally short black hair streaked with silver, and a six o’clock shadow on his chin.
Jim knew from his records that O’Keefe was a career soldier in the Irish Guards and had been captured shortly after arriving in Singapore. By the looks of him, he’d lost two-thirds of his body weight, and the khaki shirt and shorts hung off him.
O’Keefe looked up as Jim’s shadow fell over him, and he struggled to his feet to return Jim’s salute.
‘I’m sorry to disturb your reading, Major,’ said Jim. ‘You were clearly deeply into it.’
O’Keefe shrugged and carefully placed the book on the bed. ‘’Tis no matter, Lieutenant. I’ll easily get back into it.’ He pulled out a camp chair. ‘Will ye be after sitting? I find I can’t stand for too long now.’
‘Thank you.’ Jim settled in the chair and smiled as the other man sat opposite him. ‘You sound just like my father,’ he said. ‘What part of Ireland do you come from?’
‘Cork,’ he replied without returning Jim’s smile. ‘Though I’ve not been back there in a long while.’ He cocked his head. ‘And yourself, Lieutenant?’
‘From a seaside town on the south coast of England. My father went there with his parents and sister from County Clare.’
‘And what is it you’ll be wanting from me, Lieutenant Reilly?’ he asked quietly, glancing at the briefcase before steadily meeting Jim’s gaze.
Jim explained, and then surreptitiously drew out his notebook to sit quietly and give the man time to think and decide how to answer, for he guessed he was not one to be hurried, and if he did decide to give a statement, it would be concise and insightful.
‘Well now, if it will help you find those men, I will tell you what I know.’ O’Keefe held Jim’s gaze. ‘’Tis not a pretty tale, and it’s painful to recall it, but I will do my best. Where would you like me to begin?’
‘Where were you first taken prisoner?’
‘Here, on the island,’ he replied. ‘I was captured after a skirmish with the invading Japs and thrown into Changi with most of my men.’
He looked off into the distance as he remembered that time and worried the thin, jagged scar on his temple with his fingers. ‘There were thousands of us crammed in there alongside Australians, Canadians, New Zealanders and Americans. There were a lot of men from the local volunteer force – part-time soldiers made up from planters, bank clerks and retired military men.’
Jim’s pulse quickened. ‘Did you happen to hear the names of any of those volunteers?’
O’Keefe frowned, clearly annoyed at having his line of thought broken. ‘Aye, one or two, but they were mostly kept apart from us – in the beginning.’
‘Do the names Jock Fuller and Philip Tarrant ring any bells?’
‘Oh, aye, I remember them. Fuller was a big bluff rubber planter who was most indignant at being captured. When Tarrant was brought in wounded he calmed down and took him under his wing. They stuck close together for the month or two they were in Changi, then the Japs took them off somewhere and I didn’t see either of them for about two years.’
He looked at Jim questioningly. ‘Are these men important to you, Lieutenant – or shall I be continuing my tale?’
‘They’re important to friends of mine,’ said Jim hastily. ‘But please carry on with what you were saying.’
O’Keefe took a deep breath before lighting a cigarette and once again massaging the jagged scar on his temple. ‘I lost good men during the two years we were incarcerated in what we thought was a hellhole.’ His eyes held no warmth or humour. ‘But we were soon to learn there were far worse hells than Changi.’
Jim remained silent, watching the fleeting expressions on the other man’s face as he recalled those dreadful days.
‘We were all half-starved and sick with fevers, dysentery and a hundred other things. There was no medical help, no decent food, and morale was at its lowest. As my rank demands, it was up to me to keep order, to try and do what I could for the sick and boost morale, but it was hopeless. We were dying like flies in that place.’
He mashed out the half-smoked cigarette and lit another, his hand not quite steady. ‘And then in early 1943, the Japanese told us that those who were deemed fit enough were to be sent out of Singapore to a place where the food was plentiful, and we would be given time and space for recreation in return for a little light work.’
His lip curled and a tic began to flicker beneath his left eye. ‘They promised us there would be no long marches, and only the fittest would be chosen.’
O’Keefe grunted. ‘That was the fantasy. The reality was far different.’ He paused to agitatedly rub his scar. ‘They made no distinction between the half-dead, the injured or the fit – and none of us were fit by then. They took us all, and there were thousands of us rounded up over the next few days to do the short march to the station. None of us knew what lay ahead, and it was a good thing, because if we had, we’d have given in, right there and then.’
Jim wanted to ask about Philip and Jock but remained silent, not wanting to break the thread of O’Keefe’s thoughts again.
‘We endured four days of being jammed into metal rice trucks without food or fresh air, and very little water, as the train took us up the Malay Peninsula. It was too much for many of the men and they never made it to the journey’s end.’
He grimaced and tried to still the tic beneath his eye. ‘They were the lucky ones, really, for what faced us then was a two-hundred-mile march through thick jungle. More men died along the way, and we buried them as best we could, but the Japanese were relentless and kept us moving at a terrible pace until we reached a place called Sonkrai – pronounced Song Cry – which came to mean the place of death to all of us.’
He rubbed his scar again as if to erase it along with the memories of that terrible place Jim had already heard about too often. ‘I can tell you the names of the men I lost on that journey – and the names of every single man I had to bury in the years that followed. They’re etched in my heart and in my mind, and I will never forget them – as I’ll never forget the bastard guards and their commanders.’
Jim quickly wrote down the long list of names of those who’d died on that torturous journey, marvelling that the man had such clear recall, and thankful tha
t neither Philip nor Jock were amongst them. The names of many of the guards and commanders were familiar from past interviews, but he noted them down anyway.
O’Keefe waited until Jim had finished writing before speaking again. ‘We discovered we were there to build a monstrous railway for the Japanese which would stretch almost two hundred and sixty miles between Bangkok and Moulmein in Burma. It would traverse mountains and gorges, and almost impenetrable jungle, and the only tools we had were picks and spades.’
He took a quavering breath. ‘It has been estimated since that for every sleeper laid, a man died, and I can believe that.’ He hung his head and fell silent for a moment with his eyes closed. ‘To be sure, the greatest writer in the world couldn’t find the words to describe what we went through.’
Jim saw that the tic was throbbing harder beneath the man’s eye, and his fingers were once more seeking that scar. O’Keefe was clearly suffering from having to tell his tale, and Jim wished with all his heart that it wasn’t necessary.
O’Keefe rallied, took a deep drag of his cigarette and then crushed it into the ashtray. His tone of voice changed and now held profound but tightly controlled anger.
‘Shortly after we were put to work, cholera broke out, killing hundreds of us as well as the Asian labourers who’d been forced to work beside us. So not only were we dying of starvation, dysentery, malaria, beriberi and jungle ulcers, we were being killed off by fecking cholera, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.’
He looked up at Jim. ‘I took it very personally, Lieutenant, for my position as senior officer meant I had to exercise leadership and example to my men, and steer a straight, monotonous course, never showing my emotions, never letting up or giving in for a single moment regardless of what was going on around me – or to me. I was forced to cope with the horrors on my own and keep my dignity, for the morale of my men would have been broken if I’d shown one iota of what I was feeling.’
O’Keefe dipped his chin, his voice on the point of breaking. ‘It was the loneliest position to be in – horribly lonely – and it was only the thought of my wife, Molly, waiting for me at home that kept me going.’