It turned out that one of the men had only been wounded, and one of the nurses, as soon as the fire opened, had dropped into the water and lain there as though shot until after the Nips left. She was quite unhurt. These two survived on the island until another patrol boat, this time under an officer, picked them up and brought them back to Singapore.

It was curious that the Japanese General commanding Singapore at that period should have thought fit to circulate all P.O.W.s with an account of Japanese Bushido. This was an alleged code of honour and chivalry that is traditional in the Japanese nation; according to Bushido the captor is gracious and generous to his captive. Possibly this is believed by a very small percentage of Japanese, though I don’t think many would dream of practising it. All I can say is, that we never once saw in the official policy of the I.J.A. towards us any indication whatsoever that they were treating us even as human beings. There being no cultural or other tie in common between us, there was never any polite contact made between British and Japanese officers. We had surrendered; we were cattle for exploitation – nonhuman. The tribute of Lieutenant General Yamasita to the British Commander for his gallant but futile defence of a waterless island was officially forgotten.

About the end of June, in spite of the better food, and being fed up with pure boredom, I was allowed by the C.O. to go back to Changi and the University; and on the next sick truck I was the conducting officer. We left Bukit Timah about the middle of June.

CHAPTER 5

THE officer left in command of the remainder of my battalion at Changi was the same fat major whom I had ‘cut dead in the lats’. He was a man of not over great intelligence and, because he always seemed to anticipate ‘rockets’ from his superiors, he was liable to burden his subordinates with many wretched little regulations. In spite of this, however, he did a lot of good work in improving the cleanliness and thereby the health of the unit. His nickname was apt, but lacking in dignity – it was ‘Gutty’ Browne. I had to report back to Gutty, and it was an unpleasant surprise for him, as he had enough difficulty persuading his subalterns to carry out his wishes already. I found him in the Battalion garden, swinging a stick in the middle of a patch of lalang grass and blinking at me like an old bull elephant over the top of his spectacles. He was not glad to see me, but was kind enough not to say so in as many words. He merely suggested that it was usual to report a sick draft in by going up to Divisional H.Q.