We made our way up the hill to a clearing in the jungle where the sailors, who were from the British Royal Navy, took charge. The wounded were cared for by a group of British and Australian nurses and those who were healthy scouted about for materials to make shelters. I volunteered my help, but my offer was turned down on account of having the baby. So I sat in the shade with some of the other mothers and their children. One of the women handed me a bag that I recognised as Harriet’s, telling me I should have it as it belonged to my friend. Relief flooded through me when I opened it and found packets and packets of powdered baby milk. I hadn’t known her long, but Harriet proved to be a real friend to me.
Days passed, turning into weeks as we adapted to this strange existence on Pom PongIsland, wondering what would become of us. Our number grew as other ships were sunk and survivors scrambled for their lives, just as we had. It became overcrowded and the place soon became dirty and unsanitary.
Our days took on some sort of routine and, little by little, we managed to make our way past the numbing horrors of SS Kuala. We slept under makeshift shelters and ate whatever we could, foraging for food and enjoying the feast when fish were caught or coconuts were found. Fresh water was in limited supply and the mosquitoes drove us crazy. We had only the clothes we’d arrived in and my dress soon resembled a washed-out dish cloth.
It felt like a hopeless situation and I shudder when I think back to those long nights of fear and uncertainty. But the little bundle I was responsible for kept me going. After everything that had happened and everyone I had lost, I suppose I needed a reason not to give up. And that reason was him – I couldn’t let him down.
One morning, around three weeks after our arrival on the island, a group of Japanese soldiers arrived at our camp. They barked orders in their limited English and pointed their weapons at us. All the women and children were gathered together in one shelter and told that it was time to leave. We collected our few, meagre belongings and lined up, ready to follow the soldiers.
A new fear took over as we faced an unknown destination. Strange as it might sound, we had become used to our camp at Pom Pong and had found strength in our little community there. We had no idea what would happen next.
CHAPTER 24
Singapore
June 1942
Dorothy grinned. She was back in London with Daisy, laughing with carefree abandon as two handsome young men whirled them around the dance floor of the Hammersmith Palais. The room pulsated to the lively Glenn Miller tune that the band was playing. All around them swirled elegantly dressed couples, a sea of tailored suits and flowing gowns, illuminated by the soft glow of the large central chandelier. It was magical.
Suddenly, the music stopped and Daisy faded into the distance. Dorothy called her name but her friend was gone.
A gnawing ache in her hollowed stomach reminded Dorothy where she was. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and felt the usual sense of dread creep all over her, the same way it did every morning when she woke. She was not dancing freely in London, but was held captive in Changi Prisoner-of-War Jail.
Dorothy felt the baby stir beside her, nestled snugly against her side. She looked down and saw his dark eyes staring up at her.
‘Hello, little one!’ she whispered, cautious not to disturb the others in the cell. She smiled at him and felt her heart warm when he smiled back. He gurgled happily and reached out his little fingers to touch her.
She had named him Noel. As a Christmas baby, it seemed appropriate. Plus, it made her smile as it reminded her of a family outing to the West End to see one of Mr Coward’s plays before they had moved to Singapore.
The baby was six months old now and, despite the pitiful rations, he was healthy, if a little small for his age. Dorothy had no idea how to judge such things and relied heavily on her cellmate, Pat, for guidance. She was a cheerful, no-nonsense Australian woman from a small town just outside Perth and Dorothy was grateful for her support. Pat’s two daughters, Mary and Lizzie, were aged nine and twelve and loved to play with Noel and help take care of him.
The five of them lived in a tiny stone cell that measured six feet by eight. Dorothy and the baby slept on the one raised bed in the middle, with Pat on a mat on the floor on one side and the girls huddled together on the other. A tiny window in the corner gave them some natural light and, on the occasional breezy day, some much-needed fresh air. Facilities were basic and a hole in the floor at the back of the cell was all they had for a toilet. The place was crawling with bugs and there was no escaping the stifling heat. Originally built to accommodate 800 prisoners, Changi Jail was now bursting at the seams with over four times that many.
The first few days had been the hardest. On returning to Singapore from Pom Pong, the women and children had been forced to march across the island to Changi. It was a distance of fourteen miles and they were utterly exhausted before they even began. Their clothes were now barely more than rags and their shoes completely unsuitable for the task. It was a savage undertaking, punctuated by barked orders and violent threats from their Japanese oppressors. The sun had beatdown relentlessly and, dehydrated and hungry, many had collapsed. Dorothy soon resisted the urge to help them after receiving a menacing shove in the back from the butt of a Japanese rifle.
Singapore had fallen and the Japanese were now in charge. It had all happened so quickly, the very next day after Dorothy had set off on SS Kuala. So much for Shenton Thomas’s resolute belief that the island was impregnable, Dorothy had mused as they were marched past debris left by the Japanese attack. They passed bombed-out buildings and mounds of rubble, occasionally catching sight of a dead body. She had been away from the island for only a few weeks, but everything had changed.
Once they had rested and recovered from the ordeal of their arrival, life in the prison took on a strict, monotonous rhythm. The day began with an early-morning roll call followed by meagre breakfast rations of over-cooked white rice. After that, Pat would set off for her assigned duties in the laundry and the girls, Mary and Lizzie, would go to the makeshift school. There, they spent their mornings in the company of other children their age, having lessons from Mrs Ward, a retired teacher from England.
With a young infant to take care of, Dorothy was not assigned work duties. Instead, she spent her mornings taking care of Noel, often in the company of other mothers and their children. It kept her busy, but she found the long hours tedious. They lived in a constant state of uncertainty, with very little news of what was happening in the outside world and no idea how long they would be held captive.
Early on, Dorothy had realised that the best plan was to keep her body busy and her mind occupied. So when Maryand Lizzie returned from ‘school’, she left Noel in their care and volunteered her help in the gardens. There was something quite satisfying about tending the vegetable plants and it was good to feel useful, knowing that the food they grew – mainly sweet potatoes, taro and spinach – would help supplement the pathetic rations they were fed by their captors.
One afternoon, Dorothy returned from her garden duties, tired and muddy as usual, to find a screaming baby and two anxious-faced girls. Lizzie, the younger of the two, was sitting on the end of one of the beds, looking as if she was trying not to cry, while Mary was walking up and down the cell, bouncing baby Noel on her shoulder in a desperate attempt to soothe him.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ Mary began in a panic when Dorothy came in. ‘He was alright for most of the afternoon, perfectly normal. Then he started to look a bit hot and bothered about half an hour ago. We got him some water but he just won’t stop crying! I’m so sorry, Dorothy!’
Dorothy took the baby from the young girl and tried to mask her alarm when she felt how hot he was. She had never seen him like this before and she was worried. But she forced a smile and reassured the girls that they hadn’t done anything wrong.
Just as she was wondering how to calm the baby and bring his temperature down, a Japanese guard appeared in the doorway and shouted at them, ‘Too loud! You be quiet now! Stop noise!’
‘He’s sick!’ Dorothy showed him the baby. ‘Too hot!’ she tried to explain in simple words, putting her hand to his forehead to demonstrate.
But the guard shouted, louder now and in Japanese, then slammed the door behind him.
Dorothy fought hard to control the panic that now surged through her. Mary and Lizzie were huddled together on the bed. They looked up at her, their matching brown eyes filled with fear.
Dorothy took a deep breath. ‘It’s alright, girls,’ she managed with a smile, as she bounced Noel on her shoulder. She spoke to him softly, trying to soothe him, but her efforts were in vain and his screaming continued. A passing guard banged on the door outside and Dorothy winced. She had seen first-hand the punishments that these men were capable of exacting for insubordination among the prisoners.
