by David
The Japanese were the only authority that had to be obeyed and it became difficult for the British and Australian officers to retain their authority over their men. It was doubly difficult for the British officers because of their authoritarian approach. Generally, Australian ORs were happy to take orders from Australian officers because their normal relationships were always more relaxed.
Digger was annoyed by Colonel Benson, who used the very British custom of referring to privates by their surname only. He ordered Digger around and always called him ‘Barrett’. Digger could stand it no longer.
One day, he just stopped what he was doing and approached Colonel Benson. ‘Look, mate,’ he said, looking the officer in the eye, ‘my name is David, my nickname is Digger and my rank is private. You can call me David, Digger or Private Barrett, but no more “Barrett”. Understand?’
Finding himself a little out of his depth with this Australian private, Colonel Benson hummed and hawed a bit before saying, ‘Well, that seems perfectly reasonable.’
Arguments sometimes occurred even among the closest of mates. Occasionally violence erupted. On one occasion Digger even threw a punch at Yabba. They were digging a grave at the time, and he’d just had enough of Yabba’s constant chatter about women that he had known. It was only one punch. Yabba, who was bigger and heavier than Digger, got such a surprise that he didn’t even retaliate.
Yabba suffered a broken tooth, and Digger immediately regretted what he had done. Ever afterwards, Yabba’s broken tooth was visible when he smiled, and it was a permanent reminder to Digger that he should not have lost his temper. But like all good mates, Yabba just accepted what had happened and never even mentioned it again.
As the months went past, Digger and his mates got used to their life. Hard as it was, Digger always looked forward to the next day and thought about what opportunities it might bring. His optimism rubbed off on his six closest mates. Together, they regarded their lot as temporary, not as bad as it might be, and they looked forward to the small rewards they could scrounge.
No L Force POWs were ever given new clothes or boots, not to mention soap or toothpaste or anything like that. Despite even their minimal pay, most men had no footwear and were reduced to wearing only loincloths.5
Nevertheless, Digger took as much care with his appearance as possible. He was always clean, smart and polite, particularly to the Japanese guards. He went out of his way to present an unafraid and confident persona, even though the Japanese officers were always trying to bully and intimidate the POWs. Although Digger was dressed in rags, the guards who knew some English called him ‘Dandy’.
The Japanese officers came to the work sites quite often. They talked with the POWs but the conversations were always one-sided. While the Japanese were contemptuous of the prisoners and the Allies in general, the POWs could not retaliate at all.
During one such encounter, Digger and his mates were reminded, as they frequently were, that one Japanese soldier was worth ten Australians. The goading continued for so long that some were brave enough to mutter some words of dissent. This is what the Japanese had counted on. They asked whether the Australians were brave enough to put up their champion against a Japanese wrestler.
The officers kept looking at Digger, expecting a reply. Digger knew they would not let up until they received a reply, so he looked across at Mick, more or less dobbing him in for the job, which he immediately regretted.
Mick stared daggers at Digger as a makeshift circle was marked off in the bare earth. One of the older Japanese officers threw Mick a loincloth, and another fixed it around his waist like a Sumo wrestler would. The older officer seemed to be generally in charge of the event. He stated the rules of the fight, all in Japanese, and then simply signalled for it to begin.
The Japanese fighter was shorter than Mick. No one at Kanchanaburi was fat, not even the Japanese, but he clearly weighed more than Mick, who was pure muscle and bone, courtesy of the very poor diet and the daily gravedigging.
The two men circled each other and then locked together, each struggling to get an advantage. The Japanese fighter, having a lower centre of gravity, began to push Mick towards the edge of the ring. The Japs were shouting to their man, while the Australians were encouraging Mick.
Although he was being pushed back, Mick had a firm hold of his opponent’s cloth belt. He heard the advice being shouted out by his close mates, who did not care if the Japanese understood them or not: ‘Lift the bastard off the ground . . . Throw him out of the fucking ring!’ Mick hoisted the Japanese wrestler up and threw him out of the ring.
A huge cheer went up from the POWs. In the confusion of that moment, Mick was whisked off by the Japanese. Digger doubted very much that it was to award him a prize.
When Mick finally came back to the hut, his face was badly bruised. He clearly felt murder in his heart for Digger. But Digger was not in his usual place, having decided that it was better not to see Mick that night. He spent the night regretting his part in the arrangements.
The next day at the romusha gravesite, Digger tried to apologise to Mick. All he got in return was: ‘Just shut up and keep fucking digging.’ That was good enough for Digger. He assumed that eventually he might be forgiven.
Chapter 9
The Return of F Force
On 17 October 1943, the railway was finally completed when the lines from the north and south met near Konkuita. This was a railway camp 262 kilometres north of Nong Pladuk, Thailand, and 153 kilometres south of Thanbyuzayat, Burma.
By November, F Force was gradually being evacuated from camps up the line to Kanchanaburi and then to Singapore. Its men had probably experienced the worst conditions of any force working on the railway. By the time F Force arrived at Kanchanaburi, its 3600 Australians had lost about one-third of their number, while the British had lost almost two-thirds of their 3400 men. Many were not in any condition to travel any further, and so there was a huge influx of patients into the Kanchanaburi hospitals. The original H Force Hospital was soon overcrowded, and so four additional huts were taken over from the No. 2 Coolie Hospital.1
Hundreds of F Force men died of cholera, but many more died of dysentery, malaria, beriberi, strongyloides or other parasitic diseases, all brought on or exacerbated by overwork and lack of food. In many cases, men just gave up and died in misery.2
As soon as Digger heard that F Force was returning, he was on the lookout for Bobby Small. Digger was used to living and working with men who were underfed and overworked, but nothing prepared him for the condition of the men of F Force. The worst of it was that they were quiet. As bad as conditions were at Kanchanaburi, the Filthy Seven were at least able to joke about them. They knew they would survive and they talked about it constantly. This was not the case for the men of F Force. Many had given up hope and were simply waiting to die. Some, even when they were on the way to recovery, were unable to drag themselves out of their depression.
Digger soon found his mate. Bobby was very ill, and not the man Digger remembered. Digger found him lying on the ground in a corner of the camp. Bobby had no firm and friendly handshake for Digger, who soon learned that he had dysentery and bad malaria at the very least. All that Digger got was a quiet ‘Hello, mate . . . it’s great to see you again’. Bobby was literally half the man Digger had known at Changi.
Digger quickly organised for Bobby to join the Filthy Seven in their hut. Bobby still slept on the floor at night, but during the day he slept in Digger’s place on the bamboo platform. Digger and his mates provided Bobby with medicines and much better food.
Over the next few days Bobby rested as the Filthy Seven went about their gravedigging and other work duties. They would eat together in the evenings, and everyone encouraged Bobby to talk. They spoke about Changi and what a terrific time they’d had there. They reminisced about the snakes in the swamp, collecting the snails to feed and cure Joe Milledge of his dysentery, about how they got one up on the officers by taking their tinned food, and ab
ove all about getting drunk on the booze that Bobby had made in the hospital’s boiler room.
They also talked of the future: what they would do when they got home, how soon it would be before the war ended, and what they would do to the fucking Japs when that day came. They all agreed that they would go to Japan and bite the balls off all the breeders!
If willing someone to get better had any effect, then Bobby should have been improving. All Digger’s mates could see how he did everything possible to aid Bobby’s recovery. Bobby had all the quinine he needed and the healthiest and most tempting food that it was possible to acquire in the circumstances, but he showed little improvement. His bouts of malaria fever did not abate.
Digger woke one night to find that Bobby was missing from his usual place on the floor next to him. He found him sitting outside on the ground next to the hut. Digger sat down beside him. The two men leaned against the wall with their feet in the drainage ditch.
‘I thought it might be cooler out here, mate,’ said Bobby, ‘but right now it’s getting a bit cold even.’
‘No worries, I’ll get my blanket,’ Digger replied, knowing well the effects of the malaria.
When he returned, the two sat together with the blanket around them. They talked of how they would get home, and the places they would pass through on their way. Digger did most of the talking and Bobby eventually drifted off to sleep. Digger didn’t have the heart to wake him. Eventually, he too slept.
Digger awoke to a cool dawn breeze on his skin and the first birdcalls from the surrounding jungle. He was aware of Bobby’s head on his shoulder and gently supported it as he attempted to manoeuvre him into a better position. At that moment he had a terrible feeling. He was suddenly conscious that Bobby’s body was as cold as the early morning air. Bobby had already left for home.
The hate that burned in Digger’s heart for the Japanese – for what they were responsible for – was as real as the grief he felt for his dear friend. For the next few days, Digger hated everyone as he grieved both for his friend and for his own predicament. Whose fault was it that his friend had died and he was stuck in this hellhole? The Japanese. It was their plans for the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, and the way they went about achieving them – men working to death on starvation diets and with no medical supplies. Everything for the fucking Emperor, no matter who died in the process.
Bobby would not have died if that mouse mouth, General Percival, and the other superior Pommy bastards had done the right thing and fought for Malaya and Singapore instead of surrendering. What a fucking balls-up that had been. Never mind the British officers – the Australians couldn’t even trust their own bloody officers, who seemed to think they were entitled to more food than those in the hospital at Changi. Christ!
Most of all, Digger thought about his own part in all of this. Why the hell had he volunteered? How stupid had he been? He’d thought it would be bloody marvellous to be one of the boys, off to the war, seeing far-flung adventurous places, fighting for King and country. What a load of ignorant, nationalistic crap!
Here he was, twenty-two years old, and what had he achieved in his young years? Absolutely bloody nothing. It seemed like this wouldn’t change for a while yet.
After a few days, Digger’s feelings of grief and self-pity lessened, particularly as he thought more and more about taking revenge against his present masters. He had no concrete plans yet, just a few ideas, but the bastards would pay for Bobby’s death, one way or another. Of that he was sure. By the end of the week, Digger had recovered and was back to his old self again.
H Force also passed through Kanchanaburi on its way back to Changi. Among its men was one outstanding officer, Major Dr Kevin Fagan. It was no exaggeration to say that the men whose lives he saved worshipped him. He was praised by all men in H Force, and others – such as Digger and his mates – who got to know him during his time at Kanchanaburi. Above all, he was admired for his courage during the long 150-kilometre march from Bam Pong north to Tonchan and Konyu, where H Force worked on the line. Years later, Russell Braddon paid tribute to him:
Above all, there was the extraordinary courage and gentleness and the incredible endurance of the medical officer, Major Kevin Fagan. Not only did he treat any man needing treatment to the best of his ability; he also carried men who fell; he carried the kit of men in danger of falling, and he marched up and down the whole length of the column throughout its entire progress. If we marched one hundred miles through the jungle, Kevin Fagan marched two hundred. And when, at the end of our night’s trip, we collapsed and slept, he was there to clean blisters, set broken bones and render first aid. And all of it he did with the courtesy of a society specialist who is being richly paid for his attention and the ready humour of a man who is not tired at all.3
Dr Fagan, who was quite sick himself with malaria when he arrived in Kanchanaburi, continued to perform operations. Digger determined to support him as much as he could by donating the substantial sum of money he had accumulated through his trading activities. He also organised to purchase drugs ordered by Dr Fagan through Boon Pong.
Dr Fagan was particularly skilled in treating bad tropical ulcers, which included performing the amputations that were frequently required. Digger learned a great deal during the brief periods he could assist Dr Fagan, when he was not required to be at the romusha gravesite.
Dr Fagan later wrote of the relative luxurious operating conditions he experienced in Kanchanaburi.
The facilities available for surgery in the Thailand prison camps were not elaborate. My operating theatre, for example, was at first the open air, later a tent fly, and still later, when we returned to the plains at Kanchanaburi, a luxurious affair of palm leaf with a mud floor, but completely fly proofed with American Red Cross mosquito netting. Sterilising of towels, instruments and dressings was done in a four gallon ‘dixie’ on an open fire outside the operating theatre. Under these conditions, in addition to excisions of ulcers, such operations as appendectomy, mastoidectomy, craniotomy, ‘pinning’ of the tibia and skin grafting were performed with a minimum of septic complications. This fact was due to the skill and devotion of the theatre orderlies, who fortunately had received their training in better circumstances and earlier in our captivity.4
Another person Digger met through Dr Fagan was Ronald Searle, an artist who later became known around the world for his St Trinian’s cartoons. He was a member of H Force and stayed at Kanchanaburi while he recovered from beriberi and tropical ulcers. He later wrote:
When most of H Force was eventually shifted from Kanchanaburi to be taken back to Singapore and returned to the authorities that owned us, I had to be left behind. I have one or two memories of a great hut in Kanchanaburi in which I lay, no longer able to move. High, endlessly long and crammed with skeletal looking bodies sprawled on raised bamboo platforms, it was a luxury hotel compared with what we had just left in the jungle. I was adopted by a cheerful bunch of Australians and two Dutch officers, all of whom were still in rather a mess themselves. They nursed me, spent their money on eggs and extras from the natives for me, washed me and, of all unlikely things, procured some sulphur drugs from somewhere for me. Anything was possible for the Australians – even the impossible. They saved my life and got me back on my bare feet again.5
Digger and Yabba had many conversations with Ronald, who described to them the conditions under which H Force had worked. They were expected to work at ‘speedo time’, whether they were sick or not, as they cut through solid rock at Konyu on the bank of the Kwai Noi River. As Ronald wrote:
Needless to say the ‘speedo’ order did not decrease the casualty rate, nor did it speed the advance of the railway. Parading for the count at dawn we were a sorry looking lot. Most of us were suffering from something colourful or dramatic that made it a misery to exert ourselves or stand for long periods. Nevertheless we went through the motions. As the first thin rays of sunlight appeared through the vast canopy of trees above us, the order to
stand to attention was yelled. It was regularly answered with whoops from the families of gibbons that gazed down on us as our guards bared their shaven heads. Then the signal was given and we faced the east, bowing low five times as we chanted as best we could after our guards the soldiers’ ‘prayer’ to the Emperor.
Hitotsu: Grunjin wa chusetsu o tsukusuo honbun to subeshi!
Hitotsu: Grunjin wa reighi o tadashiku subeshi!
Hitotsu: Grunjin wa buyu o toutobu beshi!
Hitotsu: Grunjin wa shinghi o omonzubeshi!
Hitotsu: Grunjin wa shisso o mune to subeshi!
And translated it means:
A soldier must honour loyalty as his most important virtue
A soldier must be impeccably polite
A soldier must be courageous
A soldier must treasure his principals
A soldier must be frugal
Our dawn chorus over like good Japanese soldiers we politely, courageously and ever so bloody frugally, pushed off for ten hours or so of Imperial rock-breaking down by the muddy Kwai.6
As the men of H Force recovered, they were transported back to Ban Pong and then all the way back to Changi. When it was Ronald Searle’s time to go, he took Digger aside and presented him with a few of his drawings as thanks for how Digger and his mates had looked after him.
By April 1944, Japanese medical officers – and even other officers and privates who had no medical qualifications – were staffing the hospitals in the Kanchanaburi area. They provided little treatment and interfered with the treatments recommended by the POW medical officers. In some cases, the prisoner MOs had no more status than a dresser.
By this time, the L Force medical orderlies were all on manual work: digging latrines, construction work, road-making, constructing air-raid shelters for the Japanese, felling, cutting and carrying wood and bamboo, and plucking grass. Major Kudo’s reason for assigning the medically qualified POWs to manual work was very likely so that he could pocket the money he had been allocated to feed romusha labourers for these tasks.7