by Gillian Chan
“You want?” I asked.
“Hai! Yes.” His eyes were gleaming. “How much?”
I had paid close to six hundred Canadian dollars, nearly all my poker winnings, for the ring, but I knew I wouldn’t get that much for it. When we first arrived, one Canadian dollar was worth about three and a half Hong Kong dollars, so after a quick calculation I said, “Fifteen hundred.”
Old Shig laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.
“One thousand,” I said, which only made him laugher harder, slapping his knee with the hand not holding his gun.
I was getting desperate. “Five hundred.”
Shig’s English had improved a lot. “You are a big joker,” he said. “I give you two hundred.”
My heart felt like it was breaking, but two hundred dollars would buy us fresh eggs, maybe even some tinned goods. I pictured how thin Ike had become, how I could see all of his ribs.
“Okay,” I said. I expected him to tell me that he would bring the money tomorrow, but no, he had it there and peeled off some tattered looking bills. I made sure I had the money before I produced the ring again. He palmed it quickly and then walked off, not looking back once.
I vowed that one day I would buy Alice the best ring I could.
Obelisk Hill, Hong Kong Island, December 8–13, 1941
When I look back on this period, I can’t tell what happened on what day, at what time. There were things that were constant, though, and I’ll try to describe those.
First of all, there was the uncertainty. Rumours were rife and what verified news we got was all bad.
It wasn’t just Hong Kong that the Japanese had attacked. We found out that they had bombed the U.S. base at Pearl Harbor the same day, the beautiful place we had docked on our voyage here. I wondered what had happened to those dancing girls.
Secondly, instead of being the weak, short-sighted runts that the British officers had told us about, the Japanese had cut through the defences on the mainland like a hot wire through ice and after just two days were attacking Kowloon itself. A company from the Winnipeg Grenadiers had been sent over to bolster up the defence and what we guessed would soon be a retreat as the enemy gained ground. The Japanese could only be delayed so long by blowing up roads and bridges.
The sound of heavy artillery seemed to get nearer each day. We could hardly tell what the weather was like because the skies were filled with smoke from the bombed buildings and dockyards. Our eyes and throats smarted from it and the sharp smell of cordite was everywhere.
I half envied the Grenadiers — at least some of them were seeing some action. We were just waiting, camped out in our battle positions. When Ike, Killer, Paddy and I were taking a break to eat a hot meal that had been brought up to us, I said as much. “Don’t you wish we were over in Kowloon now?” I asked. “Doing what we’ve been trained to do — fight — rather than sit around waiting to be bombed.”
Ike looked at me, then glanced away. His voice was low when he finally spoke. “I don’t know, Jacko. I hate the waiting, but I’m scared too.” Killer snorted at that, but didn’t get a chance to say anything as Ike continued. “Not so much scared of what might happen to me, but scared that I’ll go to pieces and let everyone down.”
I knew what he meant and I forced myself to speak. “Yeah, we all feel that, I reckon, Ike. It’s natural, I guess. But we’ll be all right if we stick together.”
“Speak for yourselves.” Killer’s voice was loud. “You sound like a pair of schoolboys, still wet behind the ears. I know that I’ll be fine once the real fighting starts. I won’t need anyone to hold my hand. I’ve been in fights before. I know how to handle myself, all right!”
He carried his mess tin away and went to sit with some other guys, as if we were somehow contagious.
“What’s up with him?” Ike asked.
“Who knows?” I replied. Ike obviously hadn’t noticed how quiet Killer became whenever there was a bombing raid, how his hands shook and continued shaking even when the all-clear sounded.
The third thing that bothered everyone was the lack of sleep. With the bombing and the sounds of heavy fighting coming from the mainland, it was only possible to snatch catnaps and we were all bleary-eyed. We’d upped our patrols and guards too, because of fifth columnists — Chinese sympathizers with the Japanese who were doing their damnedest to disrupt everything they could on the island. The phone lines that weren’t already damaged by bombing (which was uncannily accurate) were constantly being cut, so we ended up relying on runners to relay orders or information. We had few enough trucks or transport as it was, having had to commandeer and scrounge what we could, and if the trucks weren’t guarded when not in use, tires would be slashed, windshields smashed or the oil pans punctured. It got so bad that we were suspicious if we saw any Chinese in the area, especially because most of them were staying out of the area we were in. Some guys got a bit trigger happy, something I saw myself. I’d been sent with a message to another platoon and was just delivering it when there was a shot and a scream coming from over near their cook tent. A young Chinese was writhing on the ground, clutching his leg and wailing. He was dressed like a coolie, in those dark blue, pyjama-like clothes they wear. Couldn’t have been more than about sixteen. Whether he was a saboteur or whether he was just hungry and stealing food, I had no idea, but he’d been shot before any questions were asked.
The soldier who had shot him ran over and aimed his rifle at the man’s head, as if to finish him off. I was frozen in place, waiting to see how this would end.
A lieutenant ran over, shouting, “Stand down!” A sergeant was hot on his heels. I followed until I was within hearing distance.
“Let him finish it, sir,” the sergeant said. He looked grim. “It will be one less to worry about.”
The lieutenant was torn. I could see how deeply he frowned. “No, take him to Stanley Village, to the police station there. See if they can get any information out of him.”
The sergeant went to protest but the officer walked away. His face red with suppressed rage, the sergeant barked out orders, detailing the shooter and another rifleman to take the wounded boy away. They roughly manhandled him so they could half-carry, half-drag him down the hill towards the village, ignoring his groans and cries of pain.
I almost laugh now when I look back and think how much that shook me up. It was nothing.
The fourth constant in those days was the bombing. No day went past without air raids. Sometimes there were as many as six or more in a day. We’d hear the eerie wail of the sirens and scramble for our positions, ready to fire if any Japanese planes came within range. We weren’t green any more, standing there gawking. Much of the bombing was aimed at Kowloon on the mainland, but they were going for Hong Kong Island too now, hitting the docks and the roads, trying to cause as much disruption as possible.
As the Japanese entered Kowloon and the fighting became street to street, the bombing raids concentrated on us rather than there. Maybe those fifth columnists had given them details of factories and gun emplacements, I don’t know, but those Japanese pilots seemed to home in on them. We had some near misses our way. It didn’t help that the bunkers and pillboxes had been built out of shoddy material, and too much sand had been used, weakening the concrete.
The noise and the smoke got to me after a while. I would even hear the sounds of planes and the thumps of explosions in my head when I tried to sleep.
As roads were bombed and transport became more difficult, we rarely got hot food any more, making do with whatever rations were brought up. I’m proud to say that we held up well. We bellyached about everything, but what soldier doesn’t? Lieutenant Mason was all right. He did his best for us. Oldham was still a pain in the arse, always sniffing round to see if he could fault us, but he was efficient, I have to give him that. Our platoon was always well organized, and when the bombing started up, he was unflappable. I don’t know how he knew, but Ike told me that Oldham had been in the first war, in the trenc
hes in France, before he came to Canada. Maybe those experiences had shaped him.
North Point Camp, Hong Kong Island, April 1942
I wasn’t telling the truth in my last bit. I said we all held up well, but Killer didn’t. I wasn’t going to write anything about this, but after seeing him today, swaggering around, telling his stories again … Only now they’re stories about what he did here in Hong Kong in the battle. And he’s been “persuading” other guys (the weak ones) to “share” their food with him. I’ve had it. I can’t stay silent.
Obelisk Hill, Hong Kong Island, December 13–17, 1941
When the mainland finally fell, we were besieged on the island. I don’t know how they got as many troops back as they did. It was a miracle that the Grenadiers only lost one man. They didn’t know what happened to him. No one saw him get killed or wounded; he just never made it onto the last ferry back. I couldn’t get him out of my head, and I think others felt the same, because we speculated about what might have happened. Killer said that the fifth columnists likely got him.
The other Grenadiers were full of stories about how Chinese gangsters were taking over and that they had been secretly in touch with the Japanese. Some of the gangsters got so brave that they were shooting at the retreating soldiers and one Grenadier didn’t make it back to the ferry. Nobody even knew if he had been killed or not. Paddy, ever the optimist, suggested that maybe he had been rescued by a kindly Chinese family and hidden. None of us had the heart to set him straight.
The first day after the withdrawal was chaos. Everything got shuffled around then and the Rifles got the short end of the stick. General Maltby, the overall commander, divided up the Hong Kong garrison into West Brigade and East Brigade. The Grenadiers were in West Brigade under our own Canadian commander, Brigadier Lawson, but the Royal Rifles ended up in East with a British commander, Brigadier Wallis. They didn’t say so, but it was pretty clear that our officers were not pleased at all.
The official line coming down from above was that we could hold out here on the island until help came, but we didn’t believe the brass, not really. We knew what was coming. It was just a question of when and how.
With the final withdrawal of our troops across the harbour, the bombing lessened briefly, which was good, but the noises coming from Kowloon as the Japanese celebrated taking the city were indescribable. Some guys said they could even hear screaming. I think they were exaggerating. Maybe down by the harbour you could hear it, but not where we were. I didn’t want to think too much about what was happening there. It was bad. We found that out later.
Killer was one of the guys talking big, full of what he would do when the Japanese finally invaded. He kept giving Ike a hard time, which was pissing me off — little digs here and there, like, “Sure you can hold it together, Ike?” Ike just laughed it off, but I knew it bothered him.
The Japanese brought their artillery into Kowloon and now that we were in range of their guns, our lives became even more uncertain, with shells as well as bombs falling. With bombs, at least there was some warning, because there was always the air raid siren and the sight of the actual plane. But the shells just came out of the smoke-filled skies. The only warning was a strange hissing sound, like a large, angry cat was bearing down on us.
A van commandeered from a local business had been used to bring up some food and water for us. Stale corned beef sandwiches tasted terrific and we were back in our dugouts chowing down on them as if they were thick steaks. We’d learned to grab any food that came our way because we never knew when we might get more. Roads from Victoria were continually being shelled and there were stories that some Japanese sympathizers were ambushing lone vehicles.
Sergeant Oldham and the driver of the van threw themselves into our dugout when the first shell landed. It missed, sending up a shower of dirt and stones that rattled down on us. I had never been more thankful for my tin hat, but my bare arms and legs were scoured with what felt like hail. The second shell was a direct hit on the van, sending fragments of metal flying everywhere before the van burst into flame. The noise was tremendous, deafening, leaving my ears ringing. The force of the blast knocked us off our feet, and I landed on top of Killer, who was wriggling around beneath me, screaming as loud as all get out.
When everything quietened down, Oldham was looking in our direction and I thought he was going to complain that I didn’t fall in a soldierly fashion or some such guff. He was mouthing something, and it wasn’t until the ringing in my ears eased up and I struggled to my feet that I could make out that he was asking if we were all okay.
“Anyone hurt?”
Most of us were too shaken to speak but Killer piped up, “Me, Sergeant.”
I turned round, puzzled, because I had completely covered him.
He was standing there, white as paper, holding up his hand. His little finger was gone completely and the one next to it was mangled, the tip hanging by a shred of skin. Blood was gouting out and I realized that the back of my uniform shirt was wet with it too.
“Shrapnel, was it, boyo?” Oldham advanced towards where we stood, with a funny look on his face.
“Yes, Sergeant.” Killer was becoming paler and his voice was weakening.
“Nasty stuff, that shrapnel,” Oldham muttered, catching Killer as his knees began to buckle. “Caplan and Houlihan, take him over to the medic and we’ll get him down to the hospital at St. Stephen’s.” He paused and added, “Where he needs to be now.”
Ike and Paddy jumped to it. Ike looked a bit green at the sight of all that blood but he held it together.
I started to protest, to say that there was no way that Killer could have been hit by shrapnel, but Oldham cut me off before I even finished the word sergeant.
“Looks like you dropped your knife when you fell, Rifleman Finnigan.” He was looking just to the right of my feet. “You’d better pick it up and clean it.” I looked down behind me and there on the floor of the dugout was a bloodstained knife, lying next to Killer’s finger.
“But, Sergeant …” I protested.
Oldham moved closer to me, thrusting his face forward. “Are you refusing a direct order, boyo?” He bared his teeth in what could hardly be described as a grin. “I could have you on a charge for that,” he said, “but if you pick that knife up quickly and clean it off nicely, we’ll say no more.”
I muttered a sullen, “Yes, Sergeant,” and did as he asked, then stood there not knowing what to do with the knife, as I still had my own.
“Oh dear,” Oldham said, “it looks like I made a mistake, as I see your knife in your belt.” He put out his hand and waggled his fingers for me to give him the knife. “I’ll make sure that Rifleman Kilpatrick gets this back.”
He hopped nimbly out of the dugout and walked off, whistling. I couldn’t see what he had done with the knife. About 10 yards away he stopped and turned round. “Get rid of the finger, too, boyo.” He gave a little chuckle, but it was one that had no humour in it. “Give it a decent burial. Kilpatrick has no use for it any more, has he, since it’s served its purpose?” He winked at me and tapped his finger on the side of his nose.
I didn’t understand what was going on then, and my only thought was, Bastard!
North Point Camp, Hong Kong Island, May 1942
We’ve had an uproar in the camp. We were all called out on parade and told through Colonel Tokunaga’s interpreter that we have to sign a piece of paper saying we promise not to try and escape. It’s crap. It’s a POW’s first duty to try and escape, even though here it’s not really possible — six-feet-tall white men aren’t exactly going to be inconspicuous if we manage to get out, and where would we go? Quite a few of the guys, me included, weren’t going to sign, whatever the consequences, but our officers eventually told us to do it, saying that as it was being done under duress, it didn’t count. One guy held out, and the Japanese guards beat him on the spot before dragging him away. We’re all waiting to see if he ever comes back.
Once all the f
uss died down, I told Ike what I wrote about Killer.
Ike shook his head and said that I should maybe cut Killer some slack, especially since he was at the makeshift hospital at St. Stephen’s College on Christmas Day. I can see why Ike would say that, but I find it hard to forgive Killer. His boasting — which he’s careful not to do around any of the others who were at the hospital too — makes out that he challenged the Japs when they came roaring into the hospital. Most of the other survivors won’t talk much about what happened, but we were the first troops there the next day. We helped bury the dead. We saw the aftermath. It was obvious that anyone who tried to stop the Japanese soldiers didn’t stand a chance; they were bayoneted where they stood. That’s what happened to the medical officer in charge and the other doctors. Hell, they even bayoneted the wounded in their beds. Those who survived had no choice but to remain silent, praying that they wouldn’t be next. They couldn’t even stop the nurses being raped and killed.
Killer and his talk sicken me.
Hong Kong Island, December 18–19, 1941
There were false reports of the Japanese invading, but the real thing came in the middle of the evening of December 18.
The weather was awful, raining like mad, and with the smoke coming from the paint factory and docks that had been bombed on the shoreline near North Point, visibility was dire. The Indian troops were manning the pillboxes there. They never stood a chance. The pillboxes had already had the hell bombed and shelled out of them on the preceding day, and there were just too many Japanese coming ashore. I’m told that the Rajputs did their best, but once some of their officers were killed, the defence lost its backbone. Although they continued fighting, the enemy easily bypassed them. They were brave bastards.