The end of the war brought with it a tumult of emotions. We were overcome with joy at our newfound freedom, naturally, but it was tempered by a sense of uncertainty. The world was a very different place from the one we had been taken from in 1942 and, institutionalised as we had become, there was an apprehension about what would happen next.
We didn’t leave the camp straight away, but had to stay for a few more days of voluntary incarceration. The Allies had dropped leaflets into the camp after the surrender, advising us to stay put for our own safety. We didn’t know what awaited us outside the camp and we had no papers, no money and nowhere to go. So we stayed at the camp and awaited the arrival of the Allied troops to take charge and help us.
We all hoped and prayed that we would soon be repatriated and that family and friends had made it through the war for us to return to. We yearned to go back to our normal lives, but after almost six years ofworld war, we had to face the stark reality that those lives didn’t exist anymore.
It was a rainy day when a bunch of cheerful British soldiers helped us up onto the back of a pick-up truck and drove us away from the camp for the final time. ‘Good riddance,’ we all cried as we set off.
I was glad to still be with Pat and her daughters. They had been my one constant in the past few years of chaos. We were taken to a temporary holding camp where our details were processed and we underwent medical assessments. After years of malnutrition and starvation diets, we were reduced to skin and bone. Our bodies were unaccustomed to eating normal amounts so a careful refeeding process was required. The temptation when one has been starving is to dive in and eat one’s fill, but this ended in tragedy in some cases.
Looking in the mirror for the first time, I cried. I instantly felt ashamed of my vain tears; I was alive, after all, and so many others were not. I didn’t recognise who I was anymore. I didn’t know the old woman who looked back at me from the pane of glass. She had dull, haunted eyes and skin like tanned leather from days working under a relentless sun. Emaciated and malnourished, her hair was lank and unkempt. She was at least a decade – if not two – older than me. She couldn’t be me. But she was who I had become.
My appearance was, however, the last of my worries. Uppermost in my mind was Noel. When we left Sime Road in August 1945, he was three and a half years old. Despite the ordeal, he was a happy little chap, if a little shy. He was small for his age but the medics deemed him healthy and his speech and physical development were progressing well.
It had been three and a half years since I had promised Noel’s mother to deliver him to his paternal grandparents in England, but how could I give him up now? He was my son and I was his mother, bonded by the worst of experiences and a deep and unwavering love. Sleep proved elusive those first few nights in the holding camp; our bodies unaccustomed to even the slightest of comforts, the canvas camp beds felt like five-star luxury! But what kept me awake most was the thought of my parting from Noel.
After just over three weeks in the holding camp, it was time for another parting. Pat and her girls had been issued berths on a ship bound for Perth; they were finally going home. They had received the wonderful news that her husband, Joe, had made it through the brutal ordeal of working on the Thai-Burma Railway. He was safely back on the family farm in Fremantle, being taken care of by his mother and waiting for his girls to come home.
Not only would I miss Pat terribly, but I envied her joy and comfort of returning to her family. If I did make it back to England, I had no idea who or what awaited me. But I was happy for her, too. Mary and Lizzie were now aged thirteen and sixteen and, despite everything that they had endured, they had become the most delightful young ladies. They were bright and intelligent, both keen to finish their school studies and apply to university. But, most importantly of all, they were immeasurably caring and kind. They had been like sisters to Noel and he adored them. On that last morning, I hugged them both close, kissing each of them on the cheek, then watched as they picked up Noel for one last cuddle.
I hugged Pat one final time and the tears flowed. For three and a half years, she had been my rock. We had been through so much together and had made it through. We had shared the good times and the bad, the laughter as well as the tears.
‘Strewth, Dozza, don’t get all emotional on me now!’ she said, exaggerating her Australian drawl to lighten the mood, whilst blinking back her own tears. ‘Keep your pecker up and remember: it’ll all be alright in the end. And if you’re ever over in our neck of the woods, you be sure to look us up!’
Just a few days later, it was my turn to receive a precious white envelope from the desk staff at the camp. It contained twotickets for passage on the Royal Mail Line ship SS Almanzora, bound for Southampton. I read the names on the tickets and wept. I couldn’t believe it was finally happening. ‘Mrs Dorothy Llewellyn and Master Noel Llewellyn,’ I read out loud. It was strange to hear Noel’s full name. Of course it was biologically correct; Douglas had been his father, after all. But that connection was gone and his only remaining link was to me, his mother.
On the morning of Saturday the 15th of September, 1945, a date I will never forget, I packed our meagre belongings and we set off to the docks. It was hard to explain to Noel what was about to happen and how our lives would change as we left Singapore. But he was excited at the prospect of going on a big boat.
A strange feeling of déjà vu washed over me as we boarded the ship. I remembered walking up the gangplank on that fateful night three and a half years earlier. But everything was different now. Instead of a tiny baby in my arms, I carried a wriggling three-year-old. And instead of the deep sense of anxiety that filled the ship that night, the mood was lively and cheerful.
We found our cabin and settled in for the journey with our cabin mates, an older British lady called Nora and her quiet teenage son, Peter. Noel was curious about our new surroundings and, after a thoroughexploration of every nook and cranny, he soon snuggled into the soft pillow on the bed and was fast asleep. I watched him for a while, he was so content and I envied his peacefulness. Inside, I was in a real quandary over what to do with him when we arrived in England. I wanted to put that moment off for as long as possible, but at the same time I couldn’t wait to set foot back on British soil.
It was on the third morning of the voyage that the most marvellous thing happened. Noel and I had just finished our breakfast and were making our way out along the deck and back to our cabin, when I heard someone call my name. Until now, I had recognised a few women from the camp on board the ship, but I had chosen to keep myself to myself. This voice belonged to a man. It was deep and familiar to me.
‘Nurse Llewellyn? Is that you? Dorothy?’
I stopped and turned to see a figure behind us. The sun was behind him and he was a dark silhouette against the light. He was tall but his shoulders were hunched, leaning heavily on a walking stick as he approached us. I looked closely at his features and although the thick beard was a new addition, I recognised the shaggy blonde hair and easy smile.
‘Dr Archie!’ I cried. Tears filled my eyes and a huge wave of relief flooded through me. For so long, I had feared him dead andhad blamed myself for what had happened to him. I rushed towards him and reached up to embrace him in a tight hug.
‘You’re alive!’ I said, smiling as I held him close.
‘It would seem so.’ He laughed. His eyes softened as he looked down at me. ‘Hello again, Dorothy.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘And hello, young man,’ he added, looking down at Noel, who, confused by the excitement, was clinging on to my leg. Dr Archie reached down and ruffled his hair. ‘Look at you, Noel, you’re getting so big now!’
Noel looked up and studied the newcomer’s features for a moment. Then he reached up and held out his hand. Dr Archie smiled and began to trace a circle on Noel’s open palm with his finger. ‘Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear . . . ’
A shy smile slowly spread across my son’s face. ‘Doctor,’ he whispered, making us both laugh. He was a shy little boy, so it was marvellous to see that he not only remembered, but was pleased to see our old friend.
‘But your leg,’ I began, conscious that he was standing awkwardly. ‘Come, please sit down and tell me everything.’
I ushered the doctor over to a bench on the deck and Noel climbed up onto his lap, fascinated by his beard. As we sat there, looking out at the tranquil waters ofthe Malacca Strait, he told me what had happened to him since we had last met.
On that last, fateful morning, he had been on the receiving end of an angry guard’s frustration. The swift verbal reprimand that he should have been given for seemingly encouraging my insubordination soon descended into a brutal beating. I winced as he told me how it had taken two other guards to pull his attacker off him. It had left him broken, bleeding and unconscious.
The Japanese leaders of the camp respected Dr Archie. He had proved himself useful at the camp and they recognised his unwavering devotion to duty. Now, thousands of prisoners were returning from the Burma Railway, many of whom were in desperate need of medical attention, and Dr Archie’s skill was urgently needed. But before he could help others, the doctor needed to heal himself.
The vicious attack had left him with a black eye, a fractured collarbone, two cracked ribs and a broken leg. Ashamed of how one of their men had treated the respectable doctor, the Japanese Major in charge of the camp had come to personally issue a formal apology and assure him that his attacker was being punished for overstepping the mark. Dr Archie was then transferred to a solitary room, far away from the hospital and his colleagues, where one of the Japanese doctors nursed him back to health.
‘And I made a pretty good recovery,’ he concluded. ‘Apart from the leg, that still gives me a bit of gyp.’ He gave a wry smile, which fell when he noticed me wiping away silent tears. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, touching my wet cheek.
