The Forgotten Highlander - Alistair Urquhart [43]
Our officers had been told that we were moving to special ‘rest camps’ in which food would be more plentiful than in Singapore. In these hill camps we would be supplied with blankets, clothing, mosquito nets. Even gramophones would be issued at the new camp, along with medical supplies to equip a new hospital. There would be no marching except for short distances from the trains to nearby camps, transport being available for the sick and unfit, as well as our baggage. The ill men would have better prospects for recovery in a ‘pleasant hilly place with facilities for recreation’.
Thousands of miles away Japan’s European ally Nazi Germany was issuing similar rosy promises of ‘resettlement’ in the East to Jewish families.
But some of the men, desperate to believe that their luck was changing, actually believed it all and were excited at the prospect of filling their bellies and escaping slavery in the docks. There were cheers and shouts of ‘Let’s go!’ and ‘Sounds great!’
Firmly believing that we were about to be massacred I kept silent, my jaws locked with tension. I had seen with my own eyes the Japanese capacity for cruelty and I could not believe this cock and bull story about ‘holiday camps’. It was astonishing that so many did.
We were taken into Singapore on the back of lorries, the first time that I had been in the outside world since our capture seven months before. Notwithstanding the burned and bombed-out buildings, Singapore seemed back to normal. The Chinese seemed back to their usual activities, cooking, bartering loudly, playing mah-jong, gambling and dextrously pedalling rickety bicycles while balancing chickens in wire cages on the handlebars. Yet it passed in a blur of colour and noise. I was more interested in where we were being taken. Our officers knew but we did not that we were to travel by train.
By the time we arrived at the station, already hordes of British prisoners were standing about. I recognised the uniforms of men from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and the Royal Artillery. Seeing such a large number gave me comfort. Surely they would never massacre all of us. Hundreds of men milled around, slow in their movements, mindful of the Japanese machine guns. Some prisoners were being herded into tiny steel goods wagons in randomly selected groups of thirty-five to forty. The Japanese mixed everyone up, separating them from the herd-like safety and companionship of their regiments. You could see close friends drifting apart in the mêlée and all the while trying desperately to stick together.
The trucks had previously been used for transporting goods like rice, sugar and rubber. They looked like shipping containers but were smaller with large sliding doors. Those squashed inside the wagons were pleading with the Japanese not to force any more men in. Some trying to clamber aboard with kit bags had them chucked off by those already inside, who shouted, ‘No room for that. We can hardly stand!’
A young private, a Gordon Highlander alongside me in the truck from Changi, turned and said, ‘I hope we get a carriage with some seats.’
‘I doubt it,’ I mumbled.
Another Gordon piped up sarcastically, ‘Aye. One with a window. And maybe a drinks trolley. It must be ninety degrees already. God knows how hot it’s gonna be inside those wagons.’
We were taken from the back of the lorry to join the swarm of prisoners embarking on the trains. I felt sick with trepidation. There was an air of sheer terror. Men were almost dancing on the spot, hopping from foot to foot, unsure what to do with themselves. The Gordons who had earlier cheered that we were off to a holiday camp looked horrified.
‘They told us it would be like Butlins. This doesn’t look like a holiday to me. We’re going to die.’
As we neared the train I could hear banging and frantic cries from inside locked carriages: ‘Open the doors! Open the doors! We can’t breathe! Open Up!