by Damien Lewis
“Ino wa arimasen deshita!” Captain Nissi affirmed, a triumphant smile spreading across his features.
With a curt nod he moved on.
His knees shaking, Frank made it to the top of the gangplank, the contents of his precious sack still undiscovered. Rough hands grabbed him and shoved him toward a series of steep iron ladders leading down into the forward hold. No life jackets were issued to any of the prisoners. They remained locked in the wooden cupboards on the upper deck, adjacent to the ship’s lifeboats.
With the sack slung over his shoulder, Frank was all but thrown down the steps, joining the mass of bodies in the darkness below. At the bottom of the stairway he found that the ship’s hold had been converted into a prison ship. Rough wooden platforms ran along either side of the interior, dividing it into two floors. Those first down the ladder had been herded into the all but total darkness of the lower level.
Conditions were abominable. With only four feet of headroom, those on the lower level couldn’t stand, and they were packed so tight that there was no room to lie down. Instead, they squatted, row upon row upon row. Frank found himself a place on the upper floor. It was little better except that there were portholes, which at least held out the promise that when the ship began to move there might be a little air.
Frank settled down with Les Searle, Jock Devani, and the others, his back to a steel bulkhead. The heat was already intense. The entry hatch to the hold appeared like a small square of daylight above them, a shaft of sunlight streaming through it and piercing the thick darkness. But shortly, even the hatch was slammed shut, sealing the men inside a giant metal oven. In no time the prisoners were sitting in pools of their own sweat.
With the hatch locked shut Frank felt he could finally risk releasing Judy. She poked her head out of the sack, tongue lolling and panting heavily as she gazed around at her new surroundings. An instant later Frank had her out and she was lapping thirstily at the water that he’d brought with him from the camp. That done, they settled down to endure as best they could the sea voyage to Singapore.
It was midafternoon when the SS Van Waerwijck slipped her moorings and steamed out of the harbor. Once she hit the open sea, she formed up in a convoy with two oil tankers, another cargo ship, and a pair of Japanese Navy corvettes for protection. She steamed onward, keeping close to the Sumatran coastline, the rhythmic slap of the waves beneath the hull lulling many into an exhausted sleep. But it was fitful and uneasy. With limbs entwined there was little room to lie down and less still to move around.
Les Searle found himself desperate to stretch his legs. He was curled up tight against the bulkhead, with another prisoner lying in his path. As for Judy, in spite of the terribly cramped conditions she seemed happy enough. She was with Frank and her wider family—her fellow conspirators—and for now at least she had escaped whatever fate had awaited her at Captain Nissi’s hands.
With dusk the ship came to a halt and dropped anchor. The engines were shut down, but still the oppressive heat in the cramped hold lasted long into the night. With dawn the Van Waerwijck was quickly under way again. It was June 26, 1944, a day that would be burned forever in the minds of those aboard that ill-fated ship.
After repeated complaints to the Japanese guards, some respite from the terrible conditions below deck was granted. In small batches, prisoners were allowed up into the fresh air twenty minutes at a time. But of course, prisoner 81A-Medan was going nowhere. Judy the stowaway would have to remain ensconced in the darkest recesses of the hold or she risked getting discovered.
A constant stream of buckets of hot water was lowered so the men could brew tea. But the more quickly they drank, the more quickly the sweat seemed to pour from their bodies. By midday the fierce heat was reaching its zenith. From stem to stern a deathly quiet gripped the vessel. The prisoners suffered in numbed silence, the ovenlike conditions seeming to roast their very brains. It was only the malaria and dysentery patients who kept disturbing the mute stillness, the eerie moans and cries of their fevered delirium echoing back and forth.
Tucked away in her corner, Judy sat so still and so statuesque that it was almost as if she knew that she was a stowaway and what the costs of discovery might be. Once again, just her presence among the prisoners proved a massive morale booster. The very fact that she was still there showed how they had put one over on the Japanese. She was a symbol of their stoic resistance and their survival—survival that in her case had been achieved against all the odds.
Across the hold from Judy sat a young British Army sergeant called Peter Hartley. Hartley had distinguished himself during the battle for Singapore by being one of those who had refused to surrender when the order was given to do so by his commanding officer. Instead, he had stolen a boat from Singapore harbor, and via the Indragiri River he had embarked upon a journey to Padang that was almost a carbon copy of that undertaken by the gunboat crews—both man and dog.
He’d reached the besieged city at the same moment as Judy and her fellows, so missing the final ships sailing to safety, and he had likewise ended up in Gloegoer One. There a strange series of events had unfolded. Being a particularly religious man—he was a strong Christian even before the outbreak of the war—Hartley had been recruited by the camp’s British padre to assist in his services and especially to help officiate at burials. But before the padre had been able to instruct Hartley very much, he had himself sickened and died.
Hartley—not properly trained and certainly not ordained—had become by default the padre of the British at Gloegoer One, and in that he had done a sterling job. Ensconced in the hold of the SS Van Waerwijck, he gazed at the large liver-and-white dog across the way from him, marveling at the incredible life she had led. All in Gloegoer had heard of their mascot’s string of wild adventures—on the gunboats, in Singapore, and during her long flight to the POW camps—and it strengthened their determination to have her remain one of their number.
Now here she was again—smuggled aboard and miraculously still with them. Hartley thanked God that she had not been discovered. Having her there on that hellish ship was oddly comforting. Hartley watched the Gloegoer One mascot lay her fine head between her forepaws, as if to rest. Gradually, he felt his own eyes closing, the stultifying heat and the motion of the vessel lulling him to sleep.
Neither man nor dog would rest for long.
In the seas off eastern Sumatra, June 26 was a calm and sunny day. The Van Waerwijck steamed onward toward Singapore, her captain and crew remaining blissfully unaware that a British submarine had spotted her.
The first sign that Commander Robert Alexander, the captain of HMS Truculent, had detected of the small convoy was a plume of smoke on the distant horizon. Minutes later he’d spotted an aircraft circling overhead, forming some kind of an escort. He’d closed to within 3,500 yards, a range from which he could study the vessels properly.
As he hunched over his periscope, gazing intently at the enemy ships, the British commander realized he’d stumbled upon a small Japanese convoy. After he scanned the cluster of vessels from end to end, one—a twin-masted steamer with a single funnel churning out a dark plume of smoke—clearly presented the largest and most juicy target. Unaware that she was carrying hundreds of British and Allied POWs, Commander Alexander unleashed four torpedoes, then dived, settling upon the bottom at 58 feet depth.
Onboard the Van Waerwijck Les Searle had just been called onto the open deck. It was a chance to grab a little fresh air. The sense of relief after the punishing conditions below was unbelievable—even though he’d been summoned to help with a decidedly unpleasant task, that of cleaning the ship’s latrines. Midway through the work some sixth sense made him glance out to sea. He froze. Just below the surface were the unmistakable tracks of white turbulence formed by torpedoes. Four of them, and bearing down on them fast!
Les felt overcome with shock and disbelief, yet still he managed to yell out a warning. “Torpedoes! Torpedoes off the port side!”
His cry ca
me too late for the ship to take any kind of evasive action. Moments later the first torpedo struck the SS Van Waerwijck, throwing up a geyser of white water high into the air. It tore into the ship’s hull just to the rear of the forward hold and adjacent to the coal bunker. Those who were on deck knew instantly what had happened, and several threw themselves into the sea. But those packed into the rear hold had heard only a deafening thud reverberating through the vessel, and they couldn’t know what calamity had befallen the ship.
As Les raced across deck to warn them, the second torpedo was ahead of him. The blunt-nosed projectile tore into the rear hold, where several hundred prisoners and one dog were packed like sardines. The explosion proved so violent that it buckled the deck, blasting several Japanese guards high into the air. Seawater began pouring into the ruptured hull.
The Van Waerwijck let out a tortured groan and started listing badly to port. In the forward hold the bulkhead that had separated the prisoners from the engine room collapsed. Blasted coal dust turned the air black as night as ghostly, soot-covered figures fought one another for a place on the ladder and the chance to climb to safety. On the deck above a chaplain was crying out Hail Marys and Our Fathers at the top of his voice as he wrestled open the cupboards holding the life jackets and handed them around to those fighting to get clear of the sinking ship.
Drums, chests, and falling planks of wood crashed about the badly listing deck, trapping those who were struggling to get free. The ship was sinking stern first, and the water was already claiming its first victims. In the rear hold it was utter chaos. Figures clambered over each other to get access to the stairwell. As the ship heeled over still farther the wooden platforms disintegrated into heavy planking, massive splinters crashing down on top of bodies and trapping many. The huge covers for the hatches had been blown inward by the force of the explosion, crushing those below.
As the ship heeled over still farther, the packing cases that constituted the deck cargo broke free and crashed into the hold. Seawater swirled and gurgled as bodies fought to make their escape. Les Searle peered in through the open hatch, searching amid the mass of twisted metal, wood, and seawater for Jock Devani, Frank, Judy, and the others. He leaned into the darkness and hauled figures upward as he joined those trying to drag as many as possible out of that giant steel coffin.
But Jock, Frank, and Judy were nowhere to be seen.
When the first torpedo struck, Peter Hartley, Gloegoer’s makeshift padre, had woken with a start. He’d gotten to his feet, a sense of panic sweeping through the hold, only to be blasted down again by torpedo number two. Moments later sounds began to filter into his numbed brain: rushing water, splintering wood, the agonized screams of those who were trapped. The harsh wail of the ship’s siren rent the gloom while the floor beneath him rocked and shook as if an earthquake were tearing through the ship.
High above him he saw a square of daylight—the hatch—with figures clustered desperately around it. The ladder was besieged. There was no way he could make it out by that route. Instead, he began to climb up the jagged mountain of packing cases that had tumbled into the hold. If he could make the high point, he might just be able to attempt a leap for the open hatch.
For an instant he glanced across at where Judy had been sleeping, her head resting on her paws. The most amazing sight met his eyes. Frank Williams had hoisted Judy up and was trying to squeeze her out through a porthole. When the torpedoes had struck, Judy had been nestled comfortably between his knees. He’d known that there was no way he could carry her through the mass of men who had began to fight for the one escape route—the ladder leading out of the hold. Instead, he’d turned to the nearest porthole, wrenched it fully open, and lifted Judy toward it.
Trusting to the last, she’d allowed him to ease her head and forelegs through the opening even as the ship had begun her final death throes. She’d turned her head toward the stricken vessel, eyes searching for Frank, as if she’d expected him to be following after her.
Instead, he’d uttered a few encouraging words. “Out you go, old girl! Swim for it!”
With that he’d given a final push on her hindquarters, and Judy of Sussex had tumbled into the sea.
Chapter Seventeen
It was four minutes past two in the afternoon when the SS Van Waerwijck gave up the ghost and was claimed by the waves. It had taken just twelve short minutes for her to go down. But not all of the ship had disappeared. The stern was stuck in the mud, and the bow section remained likewise just above the waters. She’d broken in two, but she hadn’t been lost from the survivors’ view completely: there were hundreds in the water all around her, fighting for their lives.
Meanwhile, her nemesis, HMS Truculent, was doing her best to make her escape as the Japanese corvettes came hunting. A pattern of six depth charges was dropped, massive eruptions showing where they’d exploded deep beneath the waves. This first salvo hit wide of the mark, so the corvettes swung around to release a second, this one falling much closer to the British submarine. A third attacking run sent more depth charges churning up the waters around their target, the shock waves pounding out a deathly rhythm against the British submarine’s hull.
But by now Commander Alexander had gotten his vessel under way, and he managed to creep away silently and make good the Truculent’s escape. The British submarine left behind her a sea that was littered with debris and flotsam, plus hundreds of men struggling for their lives.
The Van Waerwijck had been sunk in the Malacca Strait some 500 kilometers north of Singapore. The shore was several miles distant, and there were few who were able to swim for it. Instead, figures clutched on to just about anything that might provide some form of buoyancy—broken wooden beams, life rafts, scattered life vests. Amid the thick, oily scum that covered the water, crates of live chickens bobbed about, their worried clucking adding a surreal touch to the ghostly scene.
A flight of Japanese bombers with fighter escorts appeared overhead, searching for the British submarine, but to no avail. HMS Truculent had slipped into deeper waters just as stealthily as she had appeared. With the threat gone, the Japanese tanker ships steamed back into view, having moved closer to the shore in an effort to hide. Lifeboats were lowered, but the crew had strict orders to prioritize the rescue of their fellow Japanese and Koreans. The British, Dutch, and Australian prisoners would have to wait their turn.
Among the first POWs finally to be plucked from the sea would be Frank Williams. He’d been in the water for a good two hours, clinging to a lump of wreckage. For all of that time he’d kept his eyes peeled for a familiar figure, one that he was so desperate to spot—a liver-and-white English pointer dog-paddling through the oily swell.
When Frank was finally able to clamber up one of the nets thrown over the tanker’s sides he was exhausted from the time he’d spent in the water, his eyes showing as white circles in his otherwise oil-blackened features. With a last despairing glance over the ship’s rail, he allowed himself to be led aft to the galley. As he did so, he consoled himself with the thought that he had done all he could to save Judy.
It was in the lap of the gods whether she lived or died, though he very much doubted whether the Japanese would make much of an effort to save a dog, especially one that was a forbidden stowaway. His biggest worry was that she might have gone back aboard the stricken ship to search for him and had failed to get out before the vessel went down. After all, she’d gotten herself trapped aboard the Grasshopper, and only the spirited action of Petty Officer White had saved her.
Along with the rest of the rescued prisoners, Frank was given a ball of sticky rice to stuff into his mouth with his oil-smeared hands, plus a mug of tea. As more and more soot-blackened figures joined them, the deck became horribly crowded. There was only the open steel above the oil tanks for the survivors to squat on, and the afternoon sun was heating it up like a furnace. Soon it was impossible to so much as step on the deck without burning the soles of the feet. All the men could do was squat
under the burning sun and suffer in a shocked and stunned silence as the search for more lives to save went on and on.
Unknown to those rescued prisoners, the greatest ever four-legged lifesaver was hard at work out there on the water. Les Searle had managed to escape from the stricken Van Waerwijck, whereupon he’d set out to swim for the nearest Japanese tanker. As he was stroking his way through the wreckage-strewn seas, he came across the most incredible sight of all. A finely shaped dark head was arrowing through the water, powerful forepaws thrashing at the surface. There was a figure at Judy’s side, and he had one arm thrown across her shoulders as she pulled him toward safety.
Les could barely believe it. Why didn’t the poor bitch shake him off? he wondered. Surely, under the dead weight of a fully grown man she’d drown.
But Judy made it to the nearest rescue boat—a local tongkang that had arrived on the scene—after which her shipwreck victim was hauled aboard. Yet still she wasn’t done. With cheers of encouragement ringing in her ears she turned around and set off to find others. She helped bring in a good half dozen survivors before she became too exhausted to drag any more to safety, at which point she resorted to pushing lengths of driftwood toward those who were the most in need.
Eventually, she allowed herself to be hauled aboard the tongkang. Bedraggled and smeared in oil, Judy was more dead than alive. She was totally exhausted, her ribs showed sharp and angular through her emaciated sodden flanks, and her eyes were red-rimmed and smarting, but she was still very much the heroine of the hour.
Sadly, there was little opportunity to treat her as the champion lifesaver that she was. Instead, she had to be hustled under a length of canvas that had been used to cover the bodies of some of her most hated human oppressors: a pair of Korean guards who had drowned during the ship’s sinking. Judy would have to keep those corpses company for the remainder of the voyage to Singapore—otherwise the guards might discover her presence and, remembering Captain Nissi’s orders, unleash savage retribution.