As if that wasn’t enough Robinson turned his gun on the two other machine-gun nests and cleaned them out too.
12 Platoon suffered heavy casualties that day but it would have been far worse had it not been for A Company’s covering fire.
Dr Lloyd Cahill did his best to patch up the injured as stretcher bearers placed them onto trucks. To their sorrow it was too late to do anything for Lieutenant Quinlan and Charlie Dutton, who died shortly afterwards. It was a truly miserable scene, made worse by Chick’s close bond with Dutton, who’d been a good mate.
‘I was a bit cut up about Charlie, as he was a close friend,’ was all he’d say. But at least Chick was alive and he could still wield his one good arm.
Those who were able to do so walked through the night until dawn, when they stopped on the outskirts of Parit Sulong village. There was no time for sleep.
All that day Japanese aircraft, artillery, mortars and tanks continued to pound the 2/19th and other 8th Division units, but it was not entirely one way. A large number of Japanese troops were also killed or injured as the Aussies went on the attack, targeting houses where the enemy was known to be hiding.
Yet amid the mayhem it was still possible to laugh, especially at someone else’s expense. Sergeant ‘Sonny’ Lay got a ribbing when several of his teeth were knocked out – by what is unclear. When he was told it was his own fault for being such a ‘loud-mouthed sergeant’, he didn’t take it kindly. It was hard to have a sense of humour in such circumstances but it got a smile from the ranks.9
Events were drawing to a climax now. But how would they escape? A message came through for every man to make his way to the flank and move out in a wide swing around the Japanese. This was their best chance of getting out.
They slept in the jungle that night. It was wet and cold so Chick and Geoff O’Connor curled up and tried to keep each other warm. The next day, with some help from a group of Chinese, they crossed over the Yong Peng bridge and were taken by trucks to the 2/29th Battalion area. For the first time in days they were given a hot meal and a bath. It was a welcome respite for the 2/19th. But not far away the scene was set for one of the bloodiest encounters of the Malaya campaign.
It became known as the Parit Sulong massacre and involved the 8th Division as well as the 45th Indian Infantry Brigade. Making the most of the cover of darkness, the 2/29th’s Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Anderson was leading a column through open countryside when he sent one of his men to reconnoitre the bridge at Parit Sulong. It did not go well. The scout was attacked and fled back to his patrol, whereupon Anderson investigated further. Soon his men were being charged by some 120 Japanese, whom they managed to contain by means of a flank attack. There was rapid gunfire from the enemy, who brought their heavy tanks up to the rear of the column. Strafed from the air and bombed at close quarters, the Australians were in serious trouble. To add to their problems they lost wireless contact with base, but eventually managed to get a message through pleading for assistance. Assured that a relief force was on its way, the column fought on, but the casualty toll was rising and Anderson gave up any hope of his attack succeeding.10
The outlook was so grim that defeat seemed inevitable. During a lull in the fighting the distant rumble of approaching tanks was heard, prompting two men to throw themselves into a ditch and hurl grenades at the leading tank. Subsequent shots from an anti-tank gun finished it off, with the target bursting into flames.
For South African-born Anderson and his men the situation became bleaker by the hour. Ammunition, energy and food supplies were all running low. They’d had little sleep and were quite clearly at the point of total exhaustion.
It was time to negotiate with the enemy. Two of the officers, Captain Cahill and Captain Brand, suggested it might be worth asking the Japs if they’d be prepared to allow through the worst of the Allied injured. A volunteer driver got behind the wheel of an army ambulance and approached the Japanese line.
If the enemy had an ounce of compassion surely this was the moment to show it but the Japanese were in no mood to negotiate. Surrender and only then will we take care of the wounded, was their response.
It was a difficult decision for Anderson to make. The badly injured were already at death’s door and had little hope of surviving, even if they received treatment. In the end the commanding officer declined the offer, hoping that the earlier promise of air support by morning would save the day.
The more immediate challenge was to last the night. The Australians were falling like ninepins. Captain Maher was hit by shrapnel but survived, only to be killed by a shell that blew up the car in which he had been placed.
Lieutenant Austin, who had been gravely wounded in the neck, still managed to drive back one of the ambulances that had been left on the bridge.
There was no let-up in the barrage as enemy tanks, artillery and machine guns continued their relentless attack. By first light an uneasy calm suddenly replaced the constant clatter of enemy gunfire and the battering by Japanese aircraft. In the eerie and unexpected silence a distant drone could be heard. And it wasn’t the enemy.
‘Two cumbersome planes came over, dropped the food and morphia for which Anderson had asked and went off after releasing bombs upon the Japanese at the far end of the bridge.’11
While Bennett had kept his promise of air support it was too little too late. The bombing made hardly any impact on the enemy, who were still active and were about to make a flank attack. The number of Australian dead and injured was now so high that Anderson’s column faced complete decimation. He knew the fight was almost over but like a gambler who always believes the next card will produce an ace, he was determined to give it one more go.
‘Test the bridge,’ he ordered one of his companies.
Slowly the troop moved forward to gauge the Japanese response. This was a dangerous game to play, with huge stakes, but Anderson was keen to establish whether it was worth giving the bridge a final assault.
The enemy’s response was an emphatic no. As artillery, mortars and gunfire rained down on them, Anderson’s column was in danger of being obliterated. It was no time to hang around.
It was precisely 9 o’clock on the morning of 22 January that those 8th Division soldiers who had fought so valiantly for so long received the order to destroy all weapons and withdraw through the surrounding swamps and jungles. If Anderson had any doubts about the move, he would have been heartened by Gordon Bennett’s message, which arrived soon afterwards.
‘Sorry unable to help after your heroic effort – Good luck.’
Slowly the survivors and walking wounded of the Battle of Muar began to make their way eastward through the mud and dense undergrowth which, though difficult to negotiate, at least provided useful cover. Some of the officers, including Anderson, Major Vincent, Captain Hughes and Padre Greenwood of the 2/19th, stayed in position to help the others get away but it wasn’t long before the exchange of gunfire slowed.
Ben Hackney, a lieutenant in the 2/29th Infantry Battalion who was among the wounded, recalled the gradual withdrawal.
‘Our fellows, although so far fewer than the enemy in numbers, had seemed for ages to be sending back nearly as much fire as came into our area, but now there was a noticeable, a definite slackening off of the fire from our position.
‘An odd burst from a machine gun and some rifle fire kept going out from our troops, but as time went on there were less and less of our men about,’ the 26-year-old Sydneysider wrote. ‘In small parties and sometimes singly, we could see our fellows going up the northern bank of the river east of the bridge.’12
The 65th Battery had fired more than 6500 rounds during the action from Muar to Parit Sulong. But while it would be seen as a gallant and heroic effort it had come at a heavy price. The loss was the equivalent of a brigade and two Australian battalions, but in terms of sheer Japanese bastardry worse was to follow.
About 150 Australians and a number of Indians were so badly wounded that there was no alternative
but to leave them behind. Anderson had privately hoped that the Japanese would make good on their earlier promise of medical care for the injured in the event of a surrender. In the early days of the conflict the full savagery of the Japanese advance and the way they treated their prisoners was yet to emerge. It is only thanks to Lieutenant Ben Hackney’s good fortune that what followed the 2/29th’s withdrawal became known.
Unable to retreat, Hackney found himself a truck to hide under and blazed away with a Bren gun to help others make good their getaway. Lieutenant Arthur Tibbitts, who had gone in search of more ammunition, kept his fellow officer company on his return and while they awaited the arrival of the Japanese, the two men talked warmly of the little luxuries of life back home. Caked in mud and blood, they fantasised about the joy of washing and the simple pleasure of rest. Of being out of their dirty, torn and bloodstained uniforms and sleeping in a comfortable bed. How they missed things they ‘had not known before were so good’.13
Tibbitts, born in Melbourne only a couple of months after Hackney, had been a clerk back home in East Kew.
The enemy arrived and took their time inspecting their captives, then suddenly the scene turned to one of frenzy, with Japanese swarming in from all directions, ‘chattering creatures … often screaming something to somebody not faraway’.14
Sprawled on the ground, the wounded Aussies and Indians now found themselves being kicked and cursed, hit by rifle butts and jabbed by bayonets. They were ordered to stand no matter what their physical state; those who were unable to walk were supported by those who could. Tibbitts helped Hackney to hobble across the bridge, and both were subjected to vicious blows along the way.
Of the huddled mass of men who had survived the battle, there seemed to be about 110 Australians and 40 Indians. Now they were made to strip and sit in a circle, while the victors took delight in further acts of cruelty, beating the prisoners and kicking open wounds.
‘So great was their satisfaction at any visible sign of pain, that often the dose was repeated.’15
During this scene of horror the Australians noticed an English-speaking man of Caucasian appearance and wearing the uniform of a British soldier. He searched the discarded clothes before returning them in a heap. Just who he was has never been revealed, but rumours of fifth columnists and spies in the area had been rife for weeks. Was this the infamous traitor who allegedly fed information to the enemy? Or a Japanese who might pass as a Brit? It was a mystery that would have no resolution.
Eventually most of the men were herded into a shed that was so overcrowded that many were forced to lie on top of each other, only adding to their pain. They were thirsty but appeals for water and medical aid were rejected. For some the suffering became intolerable. They simply expired, their death a blessed release.
Passing Japanese soldiers viewed the morbid spectacle with glee. The sight of an Australian body propped up against a truck seemed to add to the entertainment. An Indian lying in front of the building, close to death, provided the chance for further amusement when he began to regain consciousness. The Japanese in charge gave him a series of kicks and bashed him several times with his rifle butt. Not satisfied with the result, his comrade repeatedly thrust his bayonet into the man before pushing the corpse into the river.
This turned out to be a warm-up to the final act of savagery. To torment their captives further, helmets and mugs full of water materialised. Packets of cigarettes were also offered. But if the men thought the cruelty was at an end, they were mistaken. The drinks and tobacco were left just out of reach of the thirst-crazed prisoners.
As the sun began to set on that fateful day, death edged nearer for these men of the 2/29th. Whether the Japanese saw it as an act of mercy or military justice, the decision was taken to help the captives on their way. One by one the prisoners were either roped or wired together and led off until only a few were left behind. Ben Hackney, feigning death, was among them. He heard the clank of fuel cans and petrol being poured from the battalion’s stranded vehicles. Then came the ratter-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. Struggling to maintain his death-like pose, he briefly opened his eyes to see the distant flicker of flame. Was he about to meet a similar fate?
Night had fallen and in the darkness Hackney, whose legs were broken, endeavoured to slide away. Inch by inch he pulled himself across the open ground to a nearby hut, where he proceeded to sever the rope which bound his wrists. For hours he rubbed against the corner of a foundation block until he freed himself.
Crawling further away, he found water and, much to his amazement, two more Australian survivors who had also feigned death. One of them, Sergeant Ron Croft, helped Hackney and the other man to a spot in the jungle near the river, where the second man tragically died. But thanks to Croft’s efforts he and Hackney got away. This was no mean feat given that the Sydney soldier weighed 14 stone (89 kg) and Richmond-born Croft was much weaker and smaller. Somehow he hoisted Hackney over his shoulder and staggered across the river.
‘Sheer strength alone did not enable him to carry his burden. It was something more than that – his wish and willingness to help: courage, guts and manliness.’16
Croft was to die some three months later, but Hackney’s story of survival lives on. Briefly housed by sympathetic Malays, he continued his journey on his hands and knees until he was found by Chinese who gave him shelter.
But five weeks after he escaped from Parit Sulong his luck ran out. He was caught by a party of Malays who handed him over to the Japanese. Ben Hackney was sent back to Parit Sulong, where he was brutally punished for his escape before being imprisoned in Kuala Lumpur, then Changi, and finally was sent to work on the Burma-Thai Railway.
It is largely thanks to his extraordinary survival that the full extent of the Parit Sulong massacre can be told today. Hackney’s evidence before Allied war crimes investigators helped to bring to justice those responsible for this act of infamy. It also reinforced the reputation of the 2/29th, whose duty and commitment in the heat of battle became part of 8th Division folklore.
As General Percival was to comment after the war: ‘The Battle of Muar was one of the epics of the Malayan campaign. Our little force, dogged by resistance, had held up a division of the Japanese Imperial Guards attacking with all the advantages of air and tank support for nearly a week, and in doing so had saved the Segamat force from encirclement and probable annihilation. The award of the Victoria Cross to Lieut-Colonel Anderson of the AIF was a fitting tribute both to his own courage and to the valour of his men.’17
The ultimate military honour awarded Anderson, who was still only 44, was not only in recognition of his bravery but in many respects bore testimony to the men who supported him during such harrowing times. It is also a measure of the man that he acknowledged what he called the 8th Division’s ‘complete moral ascendancy of the enemy’.
‘They outmatched the Japs in bushcraft and fire control, where the enemy’s faults of bunching together and noisy shouting disclosed their dispositions and enabled the Australians to inflict heavy casualties at small cost to themselves. When the enemy was trapped they fought most gamely. In hand-hand fighting [the Japanese] made a very poor showing against the superior training and spirit of the AIF.’
The 8th Division’s first real taste of battle in the Malayan campaign may not have ended in triumph but it certainly set them apart as a fighting force. Under Gordon Bennett, many of those battalions and smaller units who were among the first Australians to meet the enemy demonstrated a level of skill, strength and sheer guts that surprised and very nearly stymied the Japanese Army.
But would it continue that way? Did these warriors have the resolve to fight to the finish or would they be let down by forces beyond their control?
The next few weeks would provide the answer, and the truth would be unsettling.
Chapter 7
‘IF ANYONE TELLS YOU THEY WEREN’T FRIGHTENED THEY’RE A BLOODY LIAR’
‘Stay for lunch – would you like a beer?�
�� asked Noel Harrison, who at the age of 98 still had a healthy appetite. We tucked into chicken curry at his aged care home at Hornsby in Sydney’s northern suburbs. Television sets in nearby rooms were tuned to the ‘great debate,’ a live broadcast of Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton battling it out in the first of the presidential head-to-head contests.
In room 108 the battle under discussion happened three-quarters of a century earlier but the events remained as clear to Noel when we met as when they took place. He needed a wheelchair to get around but despite the odd memory lapse could talk for hours about his part in the Malaya campaign and what followed. I feel so privileged to have met Noel for, within a few weeks of our chat, he passed away. It was the last time he would be able to provide his unique insight into the war and the 8th Division’s role in it.
Bega-born Noel Harrison was a corporal in the 2/20th’s signallers when he arrived in Singapore aboard the Queen Mary in February 1941. He’d been working in Tamworth for the Rural Bank of New South Wales before the war but the exotic Orient beckoned. For a young man on his first overseas jaunt it was like going on holiday. Malaya was at peace and if the locals were concerned about the Japanese threat they didn’t show it.
Noel was sent up north by truck to Seremban, where he got his first real sense of the tropics. The heat of the jungle and the chatter of the native population provided an intoxicating mix. Later he was moved by road to Port Dickson on the coast, where the swimming was ‘delightful’ and the sunsets were ‘magnificent’.
‘But the highlight of living in Malaya was going on leave to Malacca, Kuala Lumpur and the best of the lot was off to Singapore.’1
If the first few pages of Noel’s memoir read more like a travel brochure than a war diary it is because it was so difficult to come to terms with the grim reality of what would follow.
There was the training, of course – jungle exercises and route marches to keep fit – as well as the discipline and daily rituals associated with military life. Come Anzac Day 1941 the 2/20th had the honour of parading in the streets of Kuala Lumpur, which required ‘a great deal of preparation,’ he recalled.2
Hero or Deserter? Page 9