Judy: The Unforgettable Story of the Dog Who Went to War and Became a True Hero

by Damien Lewis

  Night fell almost instantly. The sun sank into the west—the direction of their travel—but the sunset went unseen by those struggling through the ranks of towering trees. With the sun gone, little if any starlight filtered through the jungle canopy. The moon remained a fleeting sliver of brightness, glimpsed only occasionally among the skein of branches stretched high overhead. What before had been shadowed now was invisible. A thick darkness black as ink blanketed all.

  The party set camp. At times they’d found themselves trudging through thick and stinking riverside mud. It had proved home to a legion of leeches. The leeches latched on to passersby, crawled up the legs, and made for the groin area. It was damp, warm, and moist in there and replete with blood. After an hour’s sucking a wriggly black wormlike sack barely the width of a pencil would be swollen to more than an inch across.

  The leeches weren’t overly eager to abandon their human hosts. Pulling them off might leave the head embedded in the flesh, which would result in infections and horrible tropical ulcers. The only way to be rid of them safely was to burn then off with a lighted cigarette. It was also a great excuse to smoke, not that many felt they needed an excuse after the trials and tribulations of the day. And watching the horrible black balloons of blood writhe in pain under the heat of a glowing butt end proved peculiarly heartening.

  The morning of the second day Judy came up against her first major obstacle on the march. It was large and obstinate, and it came equipped with an armored skin, scales, and snapping jaws. But if anything Judy was even more stubborn and unwilling to back down than the beast she faced. They came head to head at the riverside—the massive Sumatran crocodile completely blocking the way. It lay in a narrow clearing and was most likely sunning itself. Had Judy allowed it time to back away gracefully, no doubt it might have done so.

  Instead, she went for it as if it were a snake on Shipwreck Island. But this was no shy and retiring serpent. Barking furiously, Judy tried the same tactics she’d used on those critters—darting from side to side, ducking low, then dancing ahead as if to strike. The croc sat there unmoving, seemingly asleep . . . but very much watching from behind slitted eyes. As Judy pranced ever closer, her confidence got the better of her, and in an instant the reptile struck.

  The croc moved with lightning speed for its size. Its body jackknifed, propelling it forward, jaws opening and slashing shut, rows of knifelike teeth slicing down across one another. At the last moment Judy had sprung backward, whipping her head away. The flashing maw missed her by inches, but not the claw that the sly croc whipped around to slash her on the flank.

  Judy let out a yelp of pain and staggered backward in surprise. Snake, spider, leopard, human—never before had any adversary managed to get the better of her. But already a row of deep slash marks was showing red and bloody high on her shoulder where the croc had mauled her.

  Still she wouldn’t back off. But this was crocodile territory, and no way was Mr. Smile about to run away from a fight that he’d already started to win. It was most probably the rush of human reinforcements that saved Judy. Hearing her yowl of agony, Jock Devani and Les Searle were on the scene in seconds, yelling abuse at the crocodile and with guns and bowie knives at the ready.

  Sensing perhaps that discretion had become the better part of valor, the croc thrashed its tail a few times and wriggled back into the river. With a final angry and muddy plop it was gone. But the damage was done. Judy was hurt. Their pathfinder and guardian was able to put her weight on the injured shoulder only with some difficulty. More important, they’d have to properly clean and sterilize the wound, for in the intense, suffocating heat and humidity it would quickly fester.

  A few miles farther on they came across an abandoned rubber factory—natural rubber is made from the sap of trees that grow in the tropics—where they could rest up and clean the wound. Oddly enough, it was the rough and ready Jock Devani who took charge, demonstrating an uncharacteristically gentle touch when tending to Judy’s injuries. As for Judy she seemed to have little idea how close she’d come to losing her head in the jaws of Mr. Smile.

  Once her injuries were patched up she had a good drink and a rest, after which she seemed full of energy and raring to go once more. Jock took her for a wander around the factory just to check if she really was fit and able to continue. There was another reason for having a quick nose around. Jock hoped there might be something here that they could scavenge to sustain them on their travels.

  It was in a back room that he stumbled upon a most unexpected find. The first signs of the discovery were a wild Glaswegian whoop of joy and a naval officer’s cap being thrown high into the air. They say you either love it or hate it, and Jock was clearly of the former opinion. Bizarrely, what he’d found in the shadowy recesses of an abandoned Sumatran rubber factory was a large stock of the British nation’s favorite spread—Marmite.

  They were a little short of white sliced toast to spread it over, complete with lots of butter. But while they were being careful not to rouse Mr. Smile, water was fetched from the river and boiled over an open fire. Laced with the wondrous black stuff, it made for a nourishing and refreshing hot drink.

  The rest of the unopened jars were packed away carefully, fuel for the epic journey ahead.

  Chapter Eleven

  It took five mud-, sweat-, and blood-soaked weeks to reach their journey’s end. On average, they made less than six kilometers a day. No doubt the able-bodied and their dog could have made it in a fraction of the time, but not the children and the wounded. They were everywhere hampered by the stretcher cases as they marched over streams and bogs, through savage thorn thickets, and across highlands swept by freezing tropical rainstorms seemingly without end.

  Had the able-bodied forged ahead, they might well have saved themselves much of the coming years of torment, but it wasn’t in the nature of the ship’s company—the family—to so much as entertain such a thought. And so they reached their final destination, the railhead at Sawahluento, with clothes in rags, faces heavily bearded, sweat-soaked and mud-stained from head to toe but still very much two gunboats’ ships’ companies, plus some others.

  As for Judy, she seemed to have learned her lesson well from Mr. Smile. Whenever she’d stumbled across any more of the all-powerful denizens of the jungle, she had afforded them due seniority. In the days since her close encounter, her shoulder wound had healed remarkably well. Only those who had seen her take on the croc would ever believe that at the start of their trek she had been so badly mauled.

  The welcome from the Dutch running the Sawahluento railway station was heartfelt. A hot meal was served, and space was made in the rail buildings so the party could bed down for the night. A train was scheduled to leave for Padang the following morning; all was looking well. That train would be packed with those fleeing the advance of the Japanese: in addition to Judy’s party, there were soldiers, sailors, and airmen hailing from across an Allied war machine then in desperate retreat, plus the civilians who accompanied them.

  When that locomotive puffed into the port city of Padang the next morning, it should have felt like a triumphant entry, especially for those who had made such a seemingly impossible journey largely on foot. But oddly it did not. As this ragtag army of the dispossessed tumbled off the train, one of the first things that the Dutch officials did was to order any remaining weapons to be handed over forthwith. It was a strange way to receive what were supposedly allies retreating before a common enemy.

  Those in Judy’s party who still had their rifles or pistols were likewise ordered to hand them in. Exhausted from their nerve-wracking journey, weak from exertion and lack of proper food or shelter, but also elated at having made it, few saw any need to resist the order or any sense in doing so. They would come to bitterly regret that decision.

  Weapons handed in, the assembled party—human and animal—had to march through the city streets under the pounding heat of the midday sun. They were making for a deserted Dutch school where they were
to be billeted. It seemed odd to be making for a billet when all they wanted was to head for the docks, board a ship, and sail away to safety, but once again there seemed little sense in questioning things. After all, freedom was just one small step away.

  What should have been a proud procession through the streets of Padang for those who had made it against all odds became something very different. There was an odd, frenetic, almost angry and distrustful air about the city. The battered army soon fell silent as they made their ragged way. Gradually it became clear that many of the Dutch in Sumatra blamed them, for Singapore’s downfall had opened the way for the Japanese to march into Sumatra and beyond. By the time the escapees had reached their schoolhouse billet many were feeling bitter and let down. Les Searle and Jock Devani, with Judy at their side, felt as if they’d just undergone some kind of degrading funeral procession or death march, their penance for ignoble defeat at Singapore.

  But there was worse—much worse—to come.

  It was only when they reached the schoolhouse—dispossessed of their arms as they were—that the Dutch officials revealed the bitter truth to those who had spent the best part of two months fighting and then fleeing from the marauding Japanese.

  They had reached Padang twenty-four hours too late.

  The last ships taking escapees away from the city had sailed the day before. And though there was just the vaguest chance that another might dock at the city’s port, no one really expected the British to risk sending in further vessels under the very noses of the Japanese. For that was how close the enemy was now. They were expected in Padang at any moment, at which point the Dutch administrators intended to hand the city over uncontested.

  There was to be no attempt made to fight or to defend Padang, the Dutch official explained. And while the escapees weren’t exactly prisoners as such, no one was allowed to leave his billet. But the very worst was this: anyone caught trying to get anywhere near the few remaining boats that were tied up at the city dock was to be shot on sight. The Dutch colonial administrators had made it forbidden on pain of death for anyone to make any further escape attempts.

  After all that they had been through Les Searle and Jock Devani were in a murderous mood. They decided the Dutch administrator with his “pro-Jap” prescriptions could go to hell. Bugger staying locked up in the schoolhouse, waiting for the enemy to ride into town.

  They made their way directly to the docks with Judy at their side, cursing with every footstep that they’d handed over their weapons so willingly. If the British seamen had still had their arms, they could have taken a boat by force if needed, and to hell with the Dutch authorities. And sure enough, the Dutch had placed armed guards all around the port area to prevent any such attempt. The Brits felt as if they had been let down, deceived, and betrayed.

  In truth the Dutch alone were not to blame for the appalling state of affairs in Padang. The British authorities had to shoulder their share of responsibility. Earlier that day the British consul in Padang had heard a radio broadcast announcing the surrender of Sumatra to the Japanese and that the forces of occupation were already moving into the city. Believing it to be true, he had rushed to carry out his orders—burning all of his secret papers, including his radio code books.

  The broadcast was in fact false. But by the time he had realized this, his precious code books had been reduced to a pile of ashes. Even if there were British or Allied warships steaming off the coast of Sumatra, he now had no way to make contact with them and let them know that the city was still unoccupied and that there were many hundreds who were desperately awaiting evacuation.

  The full extent of his blunder was brought home when a British naval reconnaissance aircraft circled the city that afternoon. It hailed from a British warship steaming off the coast, but without the code books no communications could be made or instructions received. If contact could have been made, a rendezvous with the vessel might have been possible north of the city, away from Dutch control and the advancing Japanese. As it was, that was rendered impossible.

  That evening, the enemy reached Padang. It was Judy who first alerted her fellows to their arrival. She was lying in the center of the small classroom where they were billeted. Her head was resting on her forepaws, her eyes fixed unerringly on the door. Les Searle had his gaze on Judy, but his mind was lost in angry, bitter thoughts of an escape that had been so needlessly and senselessly thwarted.

  It was then that Judy rose to her feet. For a few seconds she stood there—tense, taut like a coiled spring, her senses totally focused on something outside. Just as the distant throaty roar of a motorcycle became audible to the human ear, her lips curled into a silent snarl. The tone of the engine noise changed as the rider slowed, and there was the noise of other vehicles following. They came to a halt outside the schoolhouse building.

  After Judy’s warning, not a man doubted what had happened: the Japanese were there.

  The schoolhouse was filled with the sounds of shouted commands. Harsh orders echoed along the corridors. They were given in a high-pitched, unintelligible tongue—one that had to be Japanese. It sent a shiver down the spines of all those waiting inside.

  Les Searle reached for Judy. Rarely if ever was she put on a leash. She had had the freedom of the ship’s company ever since she’d first set paw among them some five years earlier. But now he reached for her and threaded a length of cloth through her collar. Keeping a firm grip on that, he held her protectively by his side.

  A figure strode in, closely followed by three of his acolytes. Had the situation not been so utterly dark, it would have been a moment of great hilarity. The Japanese officer—a colonel as it transpired—was short and squat, and he stared at the thwarted escapees through thick-rimmed glasses like jam jars. Even more bizarrely, he carried an enormous sword at his side over polished jackboots, which seemed equally oversized. The sword was so obviously too big for him that each time he took a step, it half tripped him.

  Face to face at last. This, then, was the victorious enemy.

  The colonel ran his eyes along the line of ragged, defeated men. His pudgy face broke into a gleaming, gold-toothed smile. He barked some orders at his fellows, and they let out a chorus of brays. Haw-haw-haw. Dutiful laughter for their esteemed officer.

  All of a sudden the colonel’s flashing smile evaporated. His arm shot out, finger stabbing toward the mascot of the late lamented HMS Grasshopper—at Judy. A series of short, sharp sentences erupted from his lips, each ending in a peculiarly squeaky high note. His number two stood stiffly at attention, head lowered in silence and shoulders beating time to his commanding officer’s utterances. The colonel’s torrent rose in a final crescendo before he turned on his overlarge heel and stormed out of the room, sword clanking after him.

  Judy, it seemed, had not been a hit with the Japanese colonel. His deputies followed in his wake, but not before each had thrown a disparaging look at one very distrustful ship’s dog. The Japanese were gone for now, at least from the immediate environs, but no one missed the armed sentries posted at the school gates.

  That night the subject of escape was on many a man’s lips. It would be easy enough to scale the school wall and slip into the night, avoiding the sentries. But then what? Any escapee would be marooned on a jungle-clad island with no way off but via a journey of a thousand leagues or more at sea. The Japanese would have secured the docks by now, and the chances of grabbing a boat to make a getaway had been reduced to near zero.

  Yet if escape was out of the question, then what was the alternative? All had heard the rumors. The Japanese raped and tortured the womenfolk of their vanquished enemies, and they couldn’t be bothered much with keeping prisoners of war. Few slept that night. Les Searle and Jock Devani had added worries keeping them awake. Their ever-faithful dog—she who had saved the lives of the ship’s crew so many times before—was clearly no favorite of the Japanese colonel, the man whom they had to presume had the power of life or death over the lot of them now.

&
nbsp; The following morning it became clear that they weren’t about to be executed, or at least not immediately. Instead, the men were separated from the women and children—which in itself was worry enough—and each party was sent to a different prisoner camp in town. The crewmen of the vanquished Dragonfly and Grasshopper were being sent to a Dutch Army barracks, and Judy—despite her being of the fairer sex—was going with them.

  This march across Padang from the Dutch school to the Dutch barracks would be etched forever in the minds of those who survived the war years. It started ignominiously enough—a ragtag hodgepodge of sailors, soldiers, and airmen of various units and nationalities trudging through the early morning streets. The ground underfoot was dusty, and the locals seemed to have gathered to stare at their passing. Under escort from heavily armed Japanese soldiers, every man was aware of how dirty and unkempt he must look beside their smart, disciplined, polished conquerors.

  But gradually the spirit of that procession began to change. Allied servicemen marching on foot, they began to find a collective rhythm. Their defeat and humiliation goaded many—the gunboat crews first and foremost—to lift their heads, expand their chests, and carry themselves like fighting men. Arms swinging in time to their stomping feet, the march became an opportunity to show the enemy—and the goggle-eyed locals—that their spirit was far from broken. Struggling against their pain, even the walking wounded fought to maintain their poise and their place in the line of march.

  Stepping out at their side, Judy sensed the change in mood—for emotions run up leash and down again, and Les Searle still had her fastened to her makeshift leash. The English pointer—lithe, beautiful, and in tip-top condition despite her long sojourn in the jungle and her close encounter with Mr. Smile—lifted her head and scented the air. The Japanese were everywhere in this town. Judy knew them to be the enemy not only of herself but of her entire family. She could smell the aggression and enmity emanating from them, and she could read fear and defeat in the body language of her fellows.