‘These warehouses . . .’
‘They call them godowns, and there were literally hundreds of ’em.’
‘Aha, godowns. And you were . . . ?’
‘Loading the contents into Japanese merchant ships, virtually the wealth of Malaya, Britain’s second-richest colony after India. You name it, tens of thousands of tons of tinned food and other goods, hundreds of shiploads of rubber and tin, both of which the Japs needed badly. Then of course there was the captured military equipment. My work gang of forty blokes only did the godowns. But some of the other blokes who did the dumps said they were huge and placed all around the island: tens of thousands of guns and millions of rounds of ammo, thousands of brand-new trucks and cars, hundreds of heavy guns and thousands of shells.
‘There was, I remember, a warehouse we entered that had all the equipment and medicines needed for a major military hospital and several field hospitals. In effect, there was enough captured field equipment, armaments, food and medical supplies for the Japanese army to continue their invasion of the Pacific without requiring very much more to be sent from Japan. The Brits had advanced the Japanese invasion of the remainder of the Western Pacific, and equipped them better than in their wildest dreams. And they supplied them with an intelligent labour force they didn’t have to pay to do the hard yakka.’
‘Your face, Danny . . . the bashing?’ Craig Woon reminded him, noting that his patient seemed to prefer to stick to generalities.
‘Oh, yeah, right, but first I have to explain about our sudden change of diet because it’s relevant to the story. After the first few days, five days to be exact, we’d pretty well eaten all the rations we carried. Then we realised that the Japs were going to give us only rice to eat, and not very much of it at that. The immediate result was bloody catastrophic. We were constantly hungry, but even worse, the change of diet seized up our bowels: constipation on a massive scale; we were shitless in Gaza, or, if you insist, Singapore. Corporal Catterns held the record – thirty-eight days without a shit. We ate almost nothing and grew extremely weak, something the Nips, accustomed to a diet based on rice, couldn’t understand, and they thought we must be on a hunger strike. Savage bashings with rifle butts, pick handles or boots were so common they were almost the norm. They’d discovered a warehouse that contained thousands of pick handles and it became the weapon of choice among Nip NCOs, even over the much-loved heavy bamboo stave. We were severely beaten for the smallest things: if you didn’t spring to attention quickly when a Jap approached, or if your feet weren’t properly aligned, or your bow wasn’t considered respectful enough to satisfy the ego of the gibbering peasant in front of you. But worse, far worse, was if you were a big tall bloke: the smaller the Jap and his cohorts, the greater the pleasure they took in beating you to a pulp until you lay unconscious at their feet. It was clear that the Nips thought of us, particularly the big guys, as less than human; after all, we had surrendered and so we were, in their culture, beneath contempt. Starving, constipated, and having the shit beaten out of us every day, we —’
‘Perhaps not the appropriate expression?’
‘Huh? What isn’t?’
‘Having the shit beaten out of you would have brought some relief, I’d have thought.’ Craig Woon grinned.
Catching on, Danny chuckled. ‘Oh, okay, you’re right,’ then added quickly, ‘Well, to put it differently, we were forced to endure a great deal of crap!’
‘And then some, it appears. I think we’ll stick with the original metaphor,’ Dr Woon added, regretting his levity.
Danny continued. ‘And then some luck – one morning at the height of the constipation crisis, we were given a godown to clear that was chocka with food and general supplies. We gorged ourselves all day and within hours some of the blokes were creeping into dark corners to take their first crap in two weeks and coming back with smiles on their gobs as if they’d just won the lottery.
‘I’d warned the men not to take anything back with them to the barracks because the godown was going to take a week to clear. I told them we’d load the waiting freighter so that the edible stuff went into the hold last; that way we’d have a week at least on a decent diet.
‘We’d also found a store of medicine – quinine, emetine for dysentery, although that wasn’t our problem at the time, other valuable stuff we realised the Japs were never going to supply to prisoners. So we loaded up on those, concealing them on our bodies. The risk wasn’t that big. Our underpants hadn’t yet worn out so we could hide most of the medicine in them – it wasn’t hard when you were wearing the overlarge khaki shorts the Brits called Bombay bloomers. Besides, by the end of the day the camp guards barely bothered to search us – a cursory pat over the shirt pockets, slap on the thighs to locate anything in our trouser pockets and that was about it. Bob’s your uncle, nothing easier.
‘But that night proved to be different. We marched back into camp and instead of the usual pat ’n’ slap before we went on our way, there were shouts of “Ki o tske!” (Stand to attention!) Then a truck roared up and came to a halt directly behind us. A platoon of Jap soldiers jumped out and lined up on either side of the road, flanking us. What now? I thought. We were learning that you could never tell what was likely to happen next with the Japanese, and these blokes looked different.
‘Well, what did happen next was that a Japanese officer stepped out of the front passenger seat of the truck, a British Bedford by the way. He was short and fat, his uniform obviously specially tailored, which was unusual in their officers, who didn’t much go in for anything fancy in their everyday uniforms. The point about this bloke was that he also wore a monocle, just like those propaganda cartoon posters sending up the Japanese you used to see at the post office and town hall. Of course we all bowed deeply and that’s when everything came unstuck in a helluva hurry.
‘Snowy Pitt had disobeyed orders and concealed a can of Nestlé’s condensed milk under his slouch hat. It was standard practice to strap your hat on so it couldn’t be snatched off your head in a quick search, but he can’t have fastened it under his chin because, as he bowed, out it tumbled, landing with a thud on the road in front of him and rolling directly toward a Japanese corporal standing almost beside him. I stood maybe three steps from him and couldn’t believe my eyes. The Nip let out a bellow of rage, and lifting his heavy bamboo stick in both hands, he smashed it into Snowy’s face. Snowy went over backwards, landing hard on his arse. A second soldier rushed forward, his bayonet aimed at Snowy’s guts. I don’t remember how, but the next thing I knew I was holding the Arisaka rifle with that wickedly long bayonet, and the Jap soldier was on his back with a blood nose beside Snowy. Thank Christ I didn’t react instinctively and stick him. Suddenly there were guards with fixed bayonets coming at me from everywhere.’ Danny grinned. ‘I was about to have more holes in me than a kitchen colander. Then the Jap officer barked out a command and everyone froze. He was behind me so that I couldn’t see him, but the next moment there was an explosion of pain in my lower back and I sank to my knees. The next blow was to the kidneys, the pain so intense I was unable to even scream. My legs folded under me so that I was seated on the back of my thighs. Everything was a red blur that cleared just sufficiently for me to see the officer in front of me holding a soldier’s rifle by the barrel and stock. Then the steel-capped butt came down hard into my face. I recall a brilliant flash of pain and then nothing more.’ Danny paused and glanced at Dr Woon, who held his head in his hands, staring down at his desk. ‘That was the last time I saw through my left eye. It seems he had a couple more goes with the rifle butt.’ Danny shrugged. ‘It turned out the Japs in the truck and the officer in charge were kempeitai, Japanese military police, renowned for their cruelty and greatly feared even by the Japanese rank and file soldiers.’ He glanced up, Woon now acutely aware of his ruined eye. ‘Well, that’s about it, doc. The recovery took about a year and it wasn’t a lot of fun.’ He grinned. ‘But here I
am, ugly as sin.’
Dr Woon thought again about the prisoners of war, those who had died of despair. How had Danny, with very little medical help, painkillers or drugs to stop infection, made it through to the end? Not just made it, but, as the highest-ranked NCO, taken on the additional responsibility of running the camp and maintaining discipline and morale among the prisoners.
In reading Danny’s war record, Dr Woon realised that he wasn’t your average recruit. He’d noted that Danny had passed his first two years at university with distinction and had jacked it in with only months to go to complete his degree. This alone seemed to offer a clue to his personality. He was also a sporting hero, accustomed to the approbation of others. Moreover, he was obvious officer material, someone young men would happily follow into combat. Yet he had elected to join as a private. Again, his rapid promotion to sergeant major proved that he was not so egalitarian that he was opposed to climbing the ladder of command, and he had clearly demonstrated his willingness to exercise authority. According to the men who had survived the concentration camp, his leadership had been exceptional. Some claimed that he had saved many a prisoner’s life by fearlessly confronting the Japanese guards in their own language, and complaining directly to the commandant, Colonel Mori, over the harsh and cruel treatment of his men. He’d often stoically taken a private beating afterwards from the Japanese guards or the even more vengeful Koreans who, while under Japanese jurisdiction, were allowed to mete out punishment and took great delight in outdoing their masters in every form of cruelty.
This was a young man grown prematurely old, who seemed to contain a whole bundle of contradictions. One wrong decision to abandon his studies had led to his undoing; his dreadful disfigurement and the scars resulting from four and a half years of medical neglect pointed to trouble ahead, including the possibility of revulsion from the opposite sex. And his spinal injury was yet another burden, ruling out any chance of rebuilding his self-esteem through his sporting prowess. As a civilian he would lack the responsibilities and rank that had sustained him in the prisoner of war camp and this, added to everything else he had suffered, could easily lead to acute depression.
Dr Woon understood only too well that people might find it difficult to hire Danny and he might find it equally difficult to hold down a job. Danny Dunn was a good man, perhaps even an exceptional one, but it would be easy for him to become bitter and aggrieved. He should have faced a bright future, but it was now in jeopardy. As a doctor, Woon wanted to know more, and was sufficiently concerned to realise that
the next few weeks were critical to the ultimate rehabilitation of
Danny Dunn.
‘Danny, when you get back to Sydney will you keep in touch? You’re going to need quite a lot of work on that face. We’ve got an ear, nose and throat specialist coming from Melbourne in a week or so, a Dr Adams. He’ll take a look at your nose and advise. Besides, if you agree, I’d like to get to know you better.’
‘Sure, I’d like that, doctor . . . er, Craig,’ Danny said.
‘Just one more question. What happened to Snowy Pitt?’
‘They turned on him after they’d beaten me up. Unfortunately he lost both eyes to the kempeitai lieutenant’s work with a rifle butt,’ Danny said quietly.
Dr Woon cleared his throat. ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘Did he make it?’
Danny laughed quietly. ‘Sure did. We made him the camp barber.’
‘You didn’t!’ Woon exclaimed, laughing.
‘It helped his self-esteem, knowing he was needed. At first he was pretty rough, but I guess it didn’t matter: we weren’t going anywhere. But in the end he became a bit of a tonsorial artist.’
‘And he got through?’
‘Yeah, he made it. I’ll look him up when I get home, see how he’s going.’
Woon hesitated a moment then asked, ‘You’re not bitter?’
‘What . . . over the can of condensed milk? Shit, no. He was taking it back to camp for his best mate. Snowy was always going to cop shit. He was six feet tall, hair the colour of Bondi Beach, blue eyes . . . everything the Japs hated. Besides, he’d probably have gotten off with a severe beating if I hadn’t grabbed the Jap’s rifle.’
Dr Woon didn’t reply. He felt he was learning a new culture, a mixture of the singular determination to survive and the unspoken duty of care for your mates, the two things almost amounting to a contradiction in terms. He made a mental note to follow up on such unexpected behavioural phenomena to see if they appeared elsewhere in the various prisoner-of-war camps.
Then, reaching for Danny’s war records, he said quietly, ‘I read these last night, made a few notes. Would you mind if we carried on a bit longer?’
‘No, go for your life. I guess the worst is over. Don’t know if talking about it has helped any but thanks for listening.’
‘University. Two, no two and a half years,’ Woon looked up. ‘You didn’t complete your degree?’
‘No, sir . . . er, Craig.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Didn’t seem much point at the time.’
‘With only months to go?’ Woon asked, obviously a little surprised.
‘In hindsight it was stupid, I guess. As it happened I could have completed my exams and still made it overseas in plenty of time. We hung around Malaya doing bugger-all, waiting for the Japanese army to arrive.’
‘You don’t think it may have been worth completing your degree?’
‘Now? Yes, of course. But at the time all my mates had signed up and had left Balmain. My parents own one of the pubs and I was getting looks from the patrons. Where I come from, university isn’t big on the agenda but fighting for what you believe in is. And fighting for your country is top of the list. On the other hand my mum was determined I’d finish – it was sort of the whole purpose of her life. Sometimes it seemed like she lived for nothing else, and it was putting me under a lot of pressure – Mum or country. Then there were a couple of incidents, one in the pub and another when an old woman working in a cafe gave me a white feather, that kind of thing. Dunkirk came, people were talking about the Japs joining the war and Australia being in danger of invasion. I guess I cracked or something, just wanted to get away from it all. Besides, I couldn’t really see what good an Arts degree would do me.’ Danny shrugged. ‘As it turned out, it wasn’t the smartest move I could have made.’
‘You didn’t think of becoming an officer? After all, you had the qualifications.’
‘Another no. Not where I come from. They’d have called me a bludger.’
‘Peer pressure, social conformity, then the added pressure of your mother’s expectations?’
‘Yeah, dumb as it sounds, that’s just about it, doctor.’
‘Not at all. Those are among the commonest reasons why people do things.’ Woon put down his fountain pen. ‘Well, Danny, may I suggest you think about completing your degree? It’s as good a way of handling your rehabilitation as any and it’s going to be a while before you fully recover.’ He paused and looked straight at Danny. ‘The bastards have made a fine mess of you, old son,’ he said leaning back in his chair.
Danny attempted to grin, knowing that his expression was closer to a grimace than the wry grin he’d intended. ‘Yeah, there were one or two moments, doc.’
‘Well, we’ll see what we can do here. I feel reasonably certain we can cure any tropical diseases, ulcers and whatever else we find, and we can build up your weight and strength a little before you go home. But any plastic surgery to your face will need to take place in Sydney. Not a great deal we can do about your back except to strengthen it and teach you how to use it differently. I’ve looked at your papers, it seems you were quite an athlete – rugby and water polo, eh?’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be playing either again, unless you want to end up in a wheelchair. But if you can swim regularly it will help your back immeasurably.’ Danny watch
ed as he wrote out a prescription for the hospital pharmacy. ‘Better get used to taking these. They won’t cure you but they’ll help a little with the pain.’
Danny grinned. ‘Thanks, doc. I confess, even a little will help.’
‘There is one more thing.’ Woon glanced down at his notes for a moment, then looked Danny in the eye. ‘You may be sterile. We suspect that severe starvation may cause permanent sterility. I’m sorry —’
‘Doubt it’ll be a problem, doc. I can’t imagine women are going to be queueing up.’
‘Well, let’s wait and see,’ Woon said, then went on briskly, ‘We’re going to put you into traction, see if we can release the pressure on your vertebrae; it sometimes helps. I’ve also made an appointment for you with Dr Adams for early next week, see if he can do something to open those sinuses and advise on your nose reconstruction.’
But traction didn’t do much to relieve Danny’s chronic back pain. Dr Donald Adams, the nose bloke from Melbourne, didn’t help much either. He was a civilian who cultivated a carefully clipped RAF moustache to go with the gratuitously acquired rank of captain. He was grossly overweight in a hospital where the patients were all walking skeletons, which added somewhat to the incongruity of his presence. The brand-new tropical officer’s uniform he wore, complete with enormous Bombay bloomers and khaki hose pulled up to his very pink, sun-starved and chubby knees, explained why his patients dubbed him ‘Colonel Blimp’. He wore army boots and not the usual officers brogues, no doubt to support his ankles, and waddled like a penguin, his new boots squeaking with each step, so that they announced him well before he appeared. In size he compared favourably to Half Dunn but lacked his joie de vivre or sense of humour. His clipped, often monosyllabic speech, coupled with an abrupt and condescending professional manner, made it very difficult for the patients to warm to him.
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 11