The case that most shook me was one that occurred in my own platoon. Walking through the hospital one day I recognised one of my lads, to my surprise, in the Skin Ward. I had left him at Bukit Timah, and he had now come in with septic ringworm. We chatted a while, and he should have been all right within a week. Two days later we had a note from the hospital saying that he was on the seriously ill list with acute bacillary dysentery. I went to the hospital at once and saw his M.O., who even then could only give him a 50-50 chance. The doctor said that a gentle pep-talk each day might do a little good, and he also gave permission for a friend of the man to come to the ward as a personal nurse.

The first time I actually saw him though, my heart sank. Already his body was wasted and his stomach was hollow; his eyes were halfclosed, and as he turned to look at me I could see the huge, distended pupils, like those of a man drugged. But he could still recognise me and the friend who had come to nurse him. From censoring his letters on the ship out I could remember the name of his girl, and I talked gently to him about her, trying to make him realise that life was very much worth fighting for; and we tried to make him remember his life in his home town. The doctor said there was nothing else we could do. It all depended on the virulence of the infection and how lacerated his bowels were.

The next day he was noticeably weaker, quite unable to control himself, and constantly belching. That afternoon a blood transfusion was called for, and eight volunteers came up to the hospital with me to ensure that some of us should be in the right Blood group. One of the Garden Corporals and myself were in the needed group, and though my blood was reluctant to flow, with the corporal it was like turning on a tap, and within half an hour a pint and a quarter had already been put into the dying man; but I saw the look on his face and knew that only a miracle could save him.

That night, the first and last time for years, I went out to the padang and prayed a queer sort of agnostic prayer to any benevolent deity who might exist. But the next morning came the news that he was dead. His body was escorted to its humble grave beneath the Union Jack, accompanied by comrades from his own platoon.

And that was a typical dysentery death. Some, God knows, had all sorts of complications, and others were long, lingering miseries, but thanks either to Japanese inefficiency or callousness – and I believe it was the latter – thousands of our men, and tens and thousands of the Japanese’ fellow-Asiatics, were to die.