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

by Damien Lewis

  But as the marchers swung in step through the streets of this defeated city, she also sensed something new. None of those with whom she had shared so many wild and bloody adventures had been cowed, bowed, or beaten—not yet, anyway.

  The Dutch Army barracks turned out to be a benign kind of a place of incarceration, at least compared with the hellish camps that were to come. It consisted of four large one-story blocks forming a quadrangle, with a fair-sized soccer field in the center. Upon arrival the men were broken down into four groups, each of which was assigned a barracks: British, Australian, Dutch, and all officers (regardless of nationality). There were separate smaller buildings for the Japanese guards, plus a storeroom.

  To the east of the camp lay a range of rugged mountains—the same that the escapees had slogged their way through for weeks on end on the journey from the Indragiri River to Padang. It served as a stark and bitter reminder of all they had suffered in the name of escape and for naught. Those thrown into this camp dreamed of an avenging army—most likely the Americans—storming across those peaks or across the Indian Ocean to liberate the many thousands taken captive.

  Among the prisoners it was always the Americans who were talked about as the liberators. In those first few days it was always the hope of the avenging Yanks that crossed people’s lips. Subconsciously perhaps, the British in particular had lost faith in their own countrymen. They were bruised by the shock of spectacular defeat—in particular the mass capitulation of 80,000 troops at Singapore—and it was the hope of another nation and its fighting men that buoyed their spirits.

  There were many who really did believe that the Yanks were coming any day now and that the ascendancy of the Japanese would be rapidly cut short. When one officer wisely suggested that they should ask the Japanese guards for vegetable seeds and start digging a garden in order to supplement their meager rations, he was laughed at. “What’s the use of digging a garden?” many asked scornfully. “We’ll be out of this place before the seedlings have time to break the surface. Why, the Yanks will be coming any day now.”

  Such hopeful—but ultimately misguided—sentiments were soon overtaken by one overriding priority: the daily struggle to get enough nourishment to keep body and soul alive. Each prison block had its own “honcho”—a leader appointed by the Japanese to ensure their rules were adhered to. By far the greatest challenge for the honcho was to secure enough to eat for those in his domain. But for no prisoner was the food situation anything like as bad as it was for Judy.

  Les Searle had done everything in his power to try to convince the Japanese camp commandant that the Grasshopper’s ship’s dog was as much a member of the Royal Navy as any serving sailor. But his arguments had fallen upon deaf ears. Except for the odd savage kick from the guards—which Judy somehow always managed to evade at the last moment—for now at least she was largely being ignored.

  But only an official prisoner with a POW number warranted a food ration, and Judy’s state of nonexistence meant she got nothing. Les Searle, Jock Devani, and the others in her immediate circle did their best for her. They each set aside a few grains of boiled rice for their beloved dog. But it was now of necessity that Judy’s survival instincts would come to the fore. She stalked and killed anything that moved and was even vaguely edible: lizards, rats, snakes, and small birds; even flies caught on the wing were snapped down hungrily.

  Following Jock Devani’s lead, she also became a first-class scrounger from the more affluent prisoners: the Dutch, who tended to have far more material possessions than the others. Many of the Dutch hailed from Padang itself, and they had come to the camp complete with everything but the kitchen sink. Laden down with mattresses, blankets, and suitcases full of possessions salvaged from their homes—including cash—they had much with which to barter or buy extra food from the locals.

  But in spite of her endeavors, Judy began to experience for the first time in her life what all the Brits and Aussies were starting to feel: a dull ache in the pit of the stomach that comes from not having had enough to eat, the perpetual pang of hunger. It drove men to steal from the camp food store such that the Japanese had to station a round-the-clock guard at the door. It was hunger that drove the British prisoners to scavenge in the trash cans that lay outside the Dutchmen’s hut, seeking any edible scraps of discarded food.

  It was hunger that led many to start to resent the Dutch prisoners—those who had resources and hence food for the simple reason that they had not lost everything in shipwreck and struggle or in bloody battle against the enemy. Many of the Brits and Aussies had only the clothes they stood up in. The Dutchmen were able sit on the veranda of their hut smoking cigars and supping coffee. By contrast, the British and Australian prisoners were forced to roll a smoke from the Dutchmen’s butt ends in an effort to puff away the pangs of hunger.

  Between supposed allies an enmity began to fester. It was born from the betrayal, as many saw it, of the would-be escapees upon their arrival in Padang, and it was nurtured by the gulf between their welfare and circumstances once they had been taken as prisoners of war. The daily ration consisted of nothing more substantial than two tiny bread buns, two bananas, and one cup of steamed rice. It was far from enough for Englishman, Australian—or Dutchman, for that matter—to subsist on, and in the former’s gradual starvation an enmity of the latter was nurtured.

  Those with few material possessions or little money—among whom were the shipwrecked crew of the gunboats—were forced to fall back on their wits to survive. Along with one or two other coconspirators, Les Searle, Jock Devani, and Judy formed a group of the most desperate yet resourceful. With nothing whatsoever to barter, they resorted to the time-honored tradition of expropriating whatever they could from those who were able to spare it.

  Operation Snatch was their chief brainchild. On one day each week the Japanese allowed local traders to set up stalls in the camp, selling the bare necessities: chiefly food, soap, and a few scraps of bedding and clothing. Market day soon became Operation Snatch day for the team from the gunboats. Success meant relatively full bellies, but failure meant a savage beating or worse. Still, no one—Jock Devani first and foremost—balked at the risks.

  Op Snatch would commence with Les Searle acting as if he had something with which to barter. With the stallholder’s attention distracted, Jock Devani would nudge a few things from the stall. In an instant Judy would be there, whipping them up in her jaws and making a mad dash for safety. A fourth conspirator would be waiting in the wings somewhere unobserved so that Judy could make her way to him and deliver whatever swag she had helped pilfer, at which moment it would be swiftly hidden away.

  Few stallholders were able to follow the rat runs that Judy used, or trace their wares, or catch the culprits. But by far the greatest Operation Snatch success was scored against the Japanese themselves. There were two goats kept in the camp for the purpose of supplying milk to the commandant. With banana skins used as bait, one of those goats was coaxed to the window of the British hut. As it nibbled at the fragrant skins, a noose fashioned from electrical wire was slipped around its neck, and with a savage tug the animal was hoisted off its feet and hauled through the window.

  There was little sleep had in the British hut that night either by the human prisoners or by one very contented dog. Come morning, worried Japanese guards searched high and low for any sign of the missing goat. It had disappeared off the face of the earth: not a scrap of skin or hoof or horn or bone could be found. And as much as they might cast accusing glances at the bulging bellies of the British prisoners—and their accursed dog—there was zero evidence to prove what might have happened.

  Of course, the forbidden fruits of the goat feast put the gnawing pangs of hunger at bay for only a few days. It was hunger that first drove Judy to leave her family’s side and venture out alone in search of sustenance. During the long, dragging hours of daylight, Les Searle and the others kept her always by their side. They knew what the guards would do if they got so much
as half a chance—they would shoot Judy and they would eat her. Any number had made that clear by the gestures they made whenever they laid eyes on the dog.

  But at night when all were asleep Judy started to venture forth secretly in search of food. Her dark forays were discovered only when she jumped in through the half-open window of the hut and landed on the chest of a sleeping prisoner—one Petty Officer “Punch” Puncheon. He jumped out of his skin only to find a familiar figure before him—Judy, looking equally startled and with a half-eaten chicken clamped in her jaws.

  Unknown to all, she had been sneaking under the wire mesh fence of the camp—rather as she had done as a little puppy in Shanghai—and heading out to scour the town for food. From then on Judy had to be tied up at night. She clearly didn’t like it, but Punch Puncheon did his best to explain to her why it was so necessary.

  “It’s not as a punishment,” he told her. “It’s because we don’t want you to get eaten!”

  The days slipped by, each largely the same as the one that had gone before. There was little news of the outside world or of the fortunes of the wider war. It was almost as if they were in a world lost from time. Then rumor built upon rumor, and it became clear that the men were about to be moved from the camp. Spirits soared. Surely, anything had to be better than the perpetual dull boredom of their existence, not to mention the hunger.

  In fact, Padang was a virtual paradise compared with where they were heading. Men—and dog—were hungry, certainly, but none had started to die. Yet hope springs eternal in the heart of man: many of those who heard the news of their impending departure allowed themselves to dream of a better future.

  In truth, these men—and their much-loved dog—had begun a journey into a place very close to hell.

  Chapter Twelve

  At long last the warning to move was given. “By order of the Imperial Japanese commander,” the head guard announced, speaking through an interpreter, “five hundred men will leave tomorrow for Belawan, a port on the northeast Sumatran coast. From there they will embark for an unknown destination.”

  Five hundred men constituted half the number currently in the camp. Les Searle, Jock Devani, Punch Puncheon, and a score of other gunboat regulars were among those listed to leave. Of course, though her name wasn’t on any roster, Judy of Sussex was going with them. The prisoners boarded a convoy of waiting transport trucks. When no one was looking, Punch Puncheon lifted Judy up to the group of waiting figures, and after a few reassuring pats she was hidden from view beneath some rice sacks.

  This journey was to be the first of many in which Judy’s ability to understand absolutely what was required of her and why would serve to save her life. Somehow she knew that she had to lie quietly in the back of that truck for the long journey ahead so that she could materialize at their new destination seemingly miraculously and almost as if she had always been there.

  As the long line of vehicles moved out of the Padang camp, there were cheerful shouts and waves from many aboard. The prisoners were ragged, somewhat emaciated, and unshaven, but at least something was happening at last. Change was afoot, and with it hopes were raised.

  “We’ll see you in Blighty for Christmas!” some even shouted.

  It was the autumn of 1942, and none of those aboard those trucks were destined to see a Christmas at home for another three terrible years.

  After a crunching of gears the convoy of twenty-odd vehicles got up speed, and the streets of Padang were left behind in a cloud of dust. From the open rear of their truck Les Searle and his fellows could see just what kind of terrain lay to the north of the city. If anything it was even more remote and rugged than that which they had passed through on foot some six months earlier. The road to Belawan ran 500 kilometers or more northward, threading its way along the spine of the dramatic Barisan mountain range.

  The road had been carved out of dense jungle, plunging crevasses, and towering rock faces, forming a series of crazy hairpin bends around which the convoy flew at speed. But despite the questionable driving skills of the Japanese soldiers at the wheel, the men’s spirits rose. They had the wind in their faces, and they were speeding through breathtaking scenery. When you weren’t tasked to march through them on foot, the Sumatran highlands were stunningly beautiful.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day the convoy reached the high plateau around Lake Toba, a place of unique loveliness that had long been a hill station and a holiday destination for the Dutch residents of Sumatra. The Japanese guards decided this was a good place to stop the vehicles. An early lunch—the same scanty rice ration as always—was served by the roadside, from where all could admire the view over the shimmering expanse of water and into the majestic pine-clad hills beyond.

  Lake Toba was magical and uplifting. No one could fail to be stirred. Even the Japanese guards seemed moved to soften their attitude. With apparently reassuring smiles and gestures they handed around bunches of bananas, but in retrospect, this would only serve to exaggerate the contrast between the beauty of this place and the darkness and drudgery that were to follow.

  The final destination of the convoy was the village of Gloegoer, a clutch of native houses clustered around a street lined with Chinese shops. Along a side road lay a former Dutch Army barracks, with beyond that a lunatic asylum. These were to become known as Gloegoer One and Gloegoer Two, respectively, and they were to be forced-labor camps for Imperial Japan’s prisoners of war.

  The men were herded off the trucks and into Gloegoer One, the former barracks. Hopes that had been buoyed by the long and invigorating journey were ebbing fast. Gloegoer One was far smaller and more dismal than their former camp had been. One thousand men were herded together in an area not much larger than a football field. It consisted of a serried rank of long barrack blocks separated by thin stretches of grass.

  Once again the men were divided by nationality, with one hut reserved for the officers. Accommodation was basic. Wooden boards had been laid across steel girders to form shelves running along either wall of the huts—the prisoners’ sleeping platforms. Between them ran a central gangway about eight feet wide—a bare concrete floor. Above, the tiled roof was infested with ferocious banana-eating rats.

  There were unglazed windows lining the walls, complete with steel bars and wooden shutters. Each prisoner was allocated a slot on a sleeping platform around two and a half feet wide and six long. This tiny space constituted his home. There he would eat, sleep, and pass the dragging hours, and it would be his sick bay when he fell ill with malaria or the numerous other debilitating diseases that would plague Gloegoer One. Here there was to be no privacy for any man but in his own thoughts.

  That Gloegoer One would prove a sorry sequel to Padang was confirmed when the first food rations were handed out. The camp’s central kitchen served two meals a day. It would rarely if ever vary: a cup of watery rice known as “pap”; a thin, tasteless soup with a few leaves floating around in it; and an unidentifiable gooey mess that was actually flour boiled into a stodgy porridge. If at Padang they had been on hunger rations, Gloegoer One’s looked set to starve them.

  At first the men were kept locked in the barracks all day long. There was no relief from the stultifying boredom and inactivity, not to mention the airless heat. Many wished they were back in the relative liberty and luxury of Padang. Some drifted into hopelessness and apathy. But after three weeks of enforced captivity, Colonel Banno, the Japanese camp commandant, announced that the prisoners had now completed their “punishment for fighting the Imperial Japanese Forces” and from now on would be treated “properly” as prisoners of war.

  Colonel Banno was an enigmatic figure: a tall, somewhat distinguished-looking former farmer, on first impression he gave the appearance of being a relatively reasonable, fair-minded Japanese officer. But beneath his apparently benevolent air there lurked a darker heart—one that viewed enforced imprisonment for weeks on end as being perfectly reasonable retribution against those who had dared stand against Imperial J
apan.

  None of the prisoners had had the slightest idea that they were being punished by being locked up, but just to be allowed out of the huts during daylight felt like blessed release. Further changes were afoot, Colonel Banno announced. Work parties were to be sent out of the camp so that the prisoners could labor on various projects that the Japanese had initiated in the area. Local traders were also going to be allowed to set up stalls twice weekly, selling such “luxuries” as fruit, eggs, tobacco, soap, and even pencils and paper.

  With news of such improvements morale lifted a little at Gloegoer, but only for so long. It was via the presence of the local traders around the camp that the prisoners were first to witness the unspeakable savagery that the Japanese were wont to unleash on anyone who dared cross them.

  Gloegoer One was staffed by both Japanese guards and their Korean underlings. The Koreans wore Japanese Army uniforms but were seen as being inferior by the Japanese. There was a rigid pecking order. The Japanese officers looked down upon and regularly abused and beat their own troops. The regular soldiers looked down upon and abused and beat the Korean guards. The Korean guards in turn would take it out on anyone under them—chiefly the locals and, in time, the POWs.

  The first sign of the savagery this system engendered came when a local trader was caught trying to smuggle some money into camp. One of the POWs must have offered something to sell—a watch maybe, or perhaps a precious gold ring. But such barter was forbidden under the camp rules—POWs could only exchange money for goods with the locals.