Camp control was left in the hands of Australian officers; the Japanese administrator allowed the Allies to enforce their own discipline. Officers were not segregated from other ranks and for a time the 8th Division and the rest of the POWs at Changi operated as normal military units, with little or no interference from their captors. Indeed life as a POW was half decent in those early days, but it would not continue that way. Soon the varied diet would be replaced by a tasteless rice ball and a tiny lump of fetid fish. More rigid prison controls were also imposed, with each division ordered to erect wire fences around their particular area. Until then the men were at liberty to roam around Changi at will.
The Japanese were also beginning to recognise the value of their prisoners as an enormous pool of labour and within a week work parties were being assembled to send out to repair roads or rebuild damaged property. Some were employed on the wharves unloading ships while others collected scrap iron and furniture for transport to Japan. These labour gangs provided not unwelcome relief for those POWs bored with life behind barbed wire. They also offered ample opportunity to pilfer food from Japanese stores or buy supplies from Chinese traders. Although hard labour, the work duties outside camp became increasingly popular, with several thousand men a day leaving Changi to perform manual jobs.
But there was no denying that living conditions generally were starting to worsen, especially in the overcrowded barrack blocks, where hygiene had deteriorated and dysentery and other diseases were taking their toll. Despite attempts to keep the men active with sports tournaments and other activities such as arts and crafts, morale began to plummet.
Penrith-born Alan Gaudry, who had been with the 22nd Infantry Brigade’s HQ, said food – or rather the lack of it – soon dominated his life.
‘It became our major pre-occupation,’ he said, recalling how food sparked a lot of trouble in the camp.
‘Initially there were fights with the strong and the greedy who tried to get more than their fair share at meal times by lining up first in the queues, then backing up to be the first again when it came to serve out the leftovers. We soon sorted that out by establishing a system of allocating back-up numbers, which was worked in strict rotation and guaranteed fair shares for everyone.’
Hunger dominated the POWs’ every waking hour.
‘It is like trying to describe a toothache to a person who has never had one … We talked, thought and dreamed about food and the less we received the more we thought about it, the more we talked, thought and dreamed about it.
‘The aim of the Japanese was to weaken us to the point of apathetic acceptance of our lot, [and] reduce our numbers by overwork, semi-starvation, illness and disease.’12
Alan Gaudry’s best mate was Jack Boardman, who shared those grim days with him in Changi and whose musical skills would often provide a little light relief. Jack’s reputation as a pianist had been firmly established from the time of his arrival in Malaya a year earlier, when he’d formed a concert party in Kuala Lumpur. Now the problem was obtaining a piano.
Somehow an old upright was found in the nearby British naval base and at considerable personal risk an attempt was made to liberate the piano and carry it to Selarang, a distance of just over a mile (2 km). Fellow concert party member Keith Stevens and a few mates found a way of sneaking it through a gap in the barbed-wire fencing one night.
‘Fortunately they were not seen by any Japanese who might assume they were escaping – this was a very serious offence usually punishable by death,’ Jack recounted in his diary.13
The Changi piano, as it became known, would be used for concerts and occasional church services until early 1945. Such was its fame that the instrument was eventually shipped back to Australia and ultimately donated to the Australian War Memorial.
While the Changi concert parties helped to lift the spirits of the men, their physical and emotional state did not bode well for the far harsher conditions ahead. Soon many of them would be despatched as slave labour to Thailand, Borneo and Japan, where the inadequate food, intense workload and the brutality of the guards would consign thousands to an early grave.
The men’s resolve had already been severely weakened by months of suffering. Now they faced an even more uncertain future at the hands of the Japanese. How would they cope? More to the point, how long would their imprisonment last? Would they ever be free?
Not knowing was the most unsettling aspect of all. As prisoners of war they had few rights and little hope. And where was their commander? Word was going round that Bennett had disappeared but his fate was unknown. Had he been captured and imprisoned elsewhere? Or had he joined those other men who’d made a run for it? Surely not the latter? How could Gordon Bennett turn his back on them in their hour of need? These were questions which had no immediate answer but did little to boost the troops’ confidence in their military masters in the months and years ahead.
While many would remain loyal to Bennett and respect his decision to escape, there were those who would never forgive him.
‘It was wrong,’ says Bart Richardson. ‘Bennett issued an order that no one was to try to escape and then went himself, which was wrong. In doing so he deserted his troops and that is very much a “no, no” in the army. One of the first things that is impressed upon a newly commissioned officer is that the troops always come first. You feed your men before you feed yourself – and you have what’s left over.’14
Noel Harrison took the opposite view. ‘He was able to get back to Australia and reveal the Japs’ tactics. Good luck to him.’15
Arthur Kennedy, in his heart still a loyal member of the 8th Division, would never criticise his commander.
‘I have no opinion,’ he insisted. ‘Bennett was an officer and he did what he thought he had to do,’ was as far as he would go.16
Such a range of opinions, even 75 years after the event, is typical of much of the public sentiment expressed at the time.
Whether the differing views bothered the man himself is another matter. Bennett clearly had no qualms about deserting his men, although he would have plenty of time to think about it as he made his way to freedom.
Chapter 15
ALL AT SEA
Gordon Bennett and his crewmates aboard their tongkan were all at sea, both literally and metaphorically. In order to avoid the cluster of minefields around Singapore, they decided to head south, although even this direction did not guarantee a safe passage. The Japanese Navy was already attacking Palembang in the south of Sumatra and controlled much of the waterway in between.
Apart from the prismatic compass, the group’s only other navigational aid was a schoolboys’ atlas with a scale of 450 miles to the inch (720 km to 2.5 cm). Bennett decided to set their course across the Malacca Straits for the Indragiri River, roughly halfway down Sumatra’s easterly coast. Though still about four days’ sailing away, it was the closest point to the Dutch East Indies and might offer a degree of sanctuary for the intrepid would-be sailors. On entering the Indragiri they could sail upriver to Rengat, which was known to have a Dutch civilian presence.
The voyage would not be without its risks. The Japanese Air Force made regular sorties overhead in the search for Westerners trying to escape from Singapore, but every time they spotted a plane Bennett and his shipmates would hide below the awning and order the Chinese crew on deck. It seemed to do the trick and they sailed on without incident.
With 22 people on the tongkan it was crucial to ration supplies of food and water. One of the party was elected quartermaster, in charge of distributing a small beaker of water to each man twice a day and a morsel of bully beef and biscuit once a day.1
At night when the wind got up they made good progress, nudging six knots despite the boat’s heavy load. It was not easy keeping a straight course, given the vagaries of the Riau Archipelago and its countless islands. And then there were the pagars, the native fish-traps made out of bamboo stakes, which poked out of the water and provided an ever-present hazard. In the dark i
t was hopeless trying to avoid the occasional collision with a pagar or, worse still, running the risk of becoming shipwrecked or left high and dry on one of the many reefs or tiny islands. In the end they decided to reduce speed until dawn and set full sail in daylight. After all, they’d got this far so why push their luck?
It was thirst that plagued them now. Desperate for water, when they happened upon an island in the dead of night they decided to make landfall even though the Japanese might also be there. There were few precautionary measures on offer but they devised a series of torchlight signals to alert other members of the landing party if they came across the enemy. Then a group of them set off. Dame Fortune was still with them. Plentiful supplies of fresh water were found for drinking and to fill storage containers for the onward journey.
But danger was never far away. By daylight Japanese planes reappeared, forcing Bennett and his men to once more seek cover under the awning. It had worked so far but for how much longer?
As Charles Moses had already pointed out, they were sitting ducks if the Japanese Air Force decided to bomb or shoot them up. With umpteen crates of ammunition below deck, the tongkan would go up like a rocket, so they decided to dump about 50 containers overboard. Not that it made much difference to the load.2
Three days had passed since they had left Singapore and slowly the vague outline of Sumatra appeared on the horizon. They would try to hug the coast while searching for the mouth of the Indragiri.
Others, it seemed, had much the same idea. The Strait of Malacca was swarming with refugees intent on finding a safe haven and an onward passage to Australia or the Indian subcontinent. They passed small yachts with brightly painted sails and a launch that was floating aimlessly because of engine problems. All were packed to the gunwales. Another tongkan, much like their own but better equipped, hoved into view with more than 40 men aboard, including several wounded. Bennett had a snatched conversation with an Australian officer on board before sailing on.
At a speed of barely two knots they were making slow progress and everyone was tired and hungry. Food and water had to be further rationed if they were to survive the voyage. They spent the night at anchor until the morning breeze.
It was 19 February and once again Bennett’s guardian angel was about to smile sweetly on him. In the distance he spotted a large motor launch, which he hailed down like a passing taxi. Bennett was never backward in coming forward and, given his high military office, was used to issuing orders. Moreover he expected to be obeyed. Within minutes he was aboard the faster vessel, along with Moses and Walker.
Their new mode of transport was the Tern, which had previously been the property of the Singapore Harbour Board. It was diesel driven and capable of up to 12 knots. Bennett counted 17 others on the craft, including a British sailor who had survived the sinking of the Prince of Wales. More significantly the Tern carried a good supply of water and a small quantity of food. Even more encouraging was the fuel tank, which contained enough diesel to get them another 150 miles (240 km). Not enough to reach Palembang – which was fortunate as it turned out, given that the Japanese had just captured it – but more than sufficient to reach Rengat further up the Indragiri.3
This was an isolated corner of Sumatra where the native population rarely saw a white man. They were timid and reserved but also warm and generous. About 15 miles (25 km) upstream, the Tern approached a timber mill. Gordon Walker, who knew a little Malay, volunteered to go ashore to try to buy some food. He was met by two cheerful native boys who offered him and the others a meal of biscuits and fresh coffee for no charge.
What could go wrong? Well, accurate navigation for a start. Apparently the Tern had taken a wrong turn and entered a different river, depleting its fuel stocks by several gallons. They had no choice but to go-about and head out to sea again. This was crazy. Bennett and his fellow travellers were going nowhere fast and time was running out if they were to make it to Sumatra’s interior before the Japanese got there.
Soon they spotted an island with a village built on stakes over the sea. It was Singkep, which sat off the southern end of the Sumatran coast. At first they ran aground but managed to swing the boat free and enter a deepwater approach to the village under the direction of a group of helpful natives.
Once again the locals were happy to provide them with some pungent-smelling sun-dried fish and a large number of duck eggs. The food was not very appetising but it was enough to keep them going for the next few days.
It was fortunate the locals were hospitable as the Tern was forced to spend the night there when the tide went out and the boat became grounded. As dawn broke on 20 February the launch refloated but there were still problems. The engine wouldn’t start. Mud had fouled the exhaust and the crew were forced to spend the next hour cleaning it out.
Eventually they got underway and, by fixing their position on a map, sailed out into the Berhala Strait which separated the island from the mainland. For most of the voyage they stayed out of sight of land but after several hours sailing south their curiosity got the better of them and they made for the distant coastline.
It was stinking hot and many of those on board were becoming badly blistered by the sun. They needed shelter and fresh water, but they were in the middle of nowhere and home comforts were few and far between. Suddenly they came across a ‘decent looking house’ but the sea was too shallow to approach it and they continued their voyage south.4
As those on board the good ship Tern kept a lookout for any further sign of human habitation, they slid past the entrance to a large river. The mouth was at least 1000 metres wide and the water deep. A native man who rowed out to meet them revealed it was the Djambi River. They were a few hundred miles south of their intended destination, Rengat, but there was another town some way upriver which offered the quickest route to civilisation.
There was much handshaking as the locals, many of them dressed in colourful sarongs, greeted the new arrivals, who were given a tin of biscuits and some coconuts. They asked for more and tried to negotiate the purchase of a few chickens. Communication was difficult at first as neither party spoke each other’s language, but Moses and Walker eventually got their message across by crowing and flapping their arms. A price was agreed and a bundle of Straits dollars was handed over.
‘As usual with all Malays, they were very friendly and hospitable and their faces were wreathed in smiles,’ Bennett told Frank Legg. ‘We returned to our boat after learning that Djambi was far up the river – many days’ journey. They measured distances by the time it took to travel, their means of travel being by small sampan or on foot.’5
The crew of the Tern didn’t want to risk any more delays by striking the snags that dotted the river, so decided to drop anchor and spend the night there. The following day, Bennett’s fifth since leaving Singapore, dawned with constant rainfall but they were determined to reach their goal as soon as possible and carried on up the river. Along the way they passed many villages but there was no sign of Djambi. How much further? they asked the natives who came out of their huts to wave.
‘A long way,’ they invariably replied.
As lunchtime approached they came across a few young men in two sampans in the middle of the river. They were also going to Djambi and wanted a tow. The boys were taking their fish to market, beautiful specimens which they carried alive in water-filled tins to keep them fresh.
The crew of the Tern transferred the load and made the sampans secure before continuing the long voyage. It was becoming a seemingly endless journey but at least the young men on the sampans knew where they were going. Finally, at 6 pm on 21 February, they reached the town of Djambi. They had sailed more than 200 miles (320 km) up the winding river and tied up with just one gallon (4.5 litres) of fuel left in the tank.
Their arrival took the Dutch by surprise. They were already on high alert as a result of random Japanese bombing. Several buildings, including factories, had been destroyed and a couple of ships were also badly damaged. Wor
d was that the enemy was close by after capturing Palembang and they were heading for Djambi. As a result the authorities had set fire to petrol dumps and other important facilities so they would not fall into Japanese hands.
In town the senior Dutch official invited Bennett and his aide-de-camp back to his home to wash and brush up. Here they enjoyed their first bath in nearly a fortnight. Oh, the joys of civilisation, they agreed.
Major Moses and the rest of the party were ferried to the local rest house for the night. What bliss to eat a hot meal and sleep between clean sheets, they thought.
Meanwhile, Bennett was anxious to keep on the move and the next morning made plans to drive to Padang, a journey of nearly 90 miles (150 km). He still hadn’t made contact with Wavell or any other Allied brass, because the telephone, he discovered, was one luxury that Djambi did not boast. He was also aware the Japanese were too close for comfort and he did not want to give them the pleasure of arresting the commander of the 8th Division.
However, there was one other matter he had to deal with before leaving. The Dutch administrator wanted to know if any of the Tern’s party could manage a diesel-driven boat. A ship had been wrecked by Jap bombers off Singkep Island and some of the survivors who had reached shore were badly injured. Djambi had a doctor and a boat that was ready to go but no one to sail it. Could they provide the crew?
Bennett had a word with the British officer who had allowed them on board the Tern, Lieutenant L.A. Carty of the Royal Army Service Corps, to see if he was interested. Carty turned to the rest of his crew and after a short discussion they all volunteered to sail back. The kindness of these men, who had endured so much hardship over the previous few weeks, clearly impressed Gordon Bennett, and he praised their generosity of spirit in his memoir.
‘These men had struggled for many days in their attempt to escape from the Japanese and had just reached safety. Yet they volunteered without hesitation to go back into the jaws of death to help these injured women and children. This incident gives the lie to those who even suggest that the men of Great Britain lack courage or that they are not willing to make any sacrifice to help humanity,’ he wrote.6
Hero or Deserter? Page 20