18 August 1942

Lights dim last night and also from 9.30 to 11 pm.  Again this morning from 9.45 to 10.30.  Book issue yesterday afternoon.  I have ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ very small print.  Had a shave this morning with my rolls and have taken off my moustache just to see what has been behind it all these years.  The revelation does not greatly please me so now that my curiosity is satisfied I shall let it grow again.  Razors are issued about every 10 days.  These together with all other sharp objects like scissors, nail clippers and nail files had to be surrendered on entering here.  Goodness knows why – there are plenty of other ways to committing suicide if one is determined to do such a silly thing.  The only chance of getting one’s nails cut is to go on sick report and to take advantage of the presence of an impossible pain of surgical scissors in the dispensary.  I had my rib painted again with iodine yesterday, thanks to my getting through the door to the dresser as he passed along the corridor.  It feels better but is still far from being as it should be.  Lay till 9 o’clock this morning.  Our daily routine is as follows:  Awakened by the clutter of breakfast preparations in the corridor between 5 and 5.30 am, the cell doors are opened a few at a time at 6 am and we pick up our plate of rice porridge or ketan hitam (black sticky rice pudding) which has been laid down outside the door and extend our mugs for coffee which is brought round in a large basin carried by two coolies. The rice is slightly sweetened but there does not seem to be any sugar in the coffee.  I improve matters by adding sugar and powdered milk, of which fortunately I still have supplies.  Having partaken of this repast in the half dark, the empty plates are recollected and at about the same time the first light for cigarettes, or pipes is brought round.  All matches and lighters were taken away after we had been about a month.  The light, or ‘api’ as it is called in Malay, is given by means of a smoldering piece of twisted rope which is pushed at us through a small circular hole of about 1.25 inches in diameter whcih is situated at about chest level in the iron door of the cell.  Immediately above this hole which can be closed from the outside by a circular metal shutter, there is a small window of thick glass measuring about 9 by 2.5 inches, which is practically fully covered by a metal flap hinged above it on the outside so that we can be fully observed if necessary while our view of the corridor is limited to a mere strip under the bottom of the flap.  i never smoke so early in the day so after the plates have been removed I go back to bed where I stay until the bell, which hangs just inside the main entrance of the prison, strikes 9 am.  I have quite a comfortable bed.  I have three prison blankets.  Three months ago when the grass was cut outside, it was left in heaps in the exercising yard and I took advantage of this opportunity to make myself a mattress out of one blanket by having it doubled in the length and sewed up into a bad which I filled with the fresh, dry hay.  Mr Frommelt, a South African missionary did the sewing for me as I had then no needle and thread of my own.  A few others followed my example and more would no doubt have done so, had the further removal of hay not been forbidden soon afterwards.  I lie on the mattress with the second blanket spread over it and use the third for cover and sleep as snug as a bug in a rug.  On getting up, blankets etc are shaken out at the window and then I commence my housework which comprises going over the inside of the door, the cupboard, table and chair with a damp rag, cleaning the toilet inside and out and finishing up with swilling out the whole floor with water and drying off with my rag – an old pair of prison pyjama trousers issued to me during the first week.  Every ten days or so I go over the walls and ceiling with my small broom, wash my bed frame with soap suds to keep away the bugs, and clean my windows and bars.  The window opening which measures approximately 6 feet high by 2.5 feet broad is barred by 4 vertical iron bars strengthened by a cross bar in the middle and set in an iron frame built into the concrete walls.  These bars are equidistant from each other about 6 inches apart.  The bottom of the window is about 3.5 feet from the floor.  On the inside, there are three window panes which can be opened or closed at will.  The upper frame, of four glass panes, covers the top half of the window opening and opens inwards and downwards like a skylight.  The lower half has 2 frames of 2 panes each which open inwards from the centre, one to each side.  Housework occupies about an hour and, that done, I wash my face, brush my teeth, comb my hair and dress.  Dressing means putting on an undershirt, a pair of shorts, socks and sometimes a sports shirt or pyjama jacket if the morning is chilly, as it often is.  When very cold, I wear long khaki trousers in addition to all the rest.  After performing my toilet I have my first cigarette of the day, usually at 10 am.  The ‘api’ collie comes round the cells about once an hour the whole day until lights out.  After the cigarette and a chat with my next door neighbour on my left, I usually write these notes, read, play patience, sew, darn or wash some clothes according to the exigencies of the moment.  At noon, lunch is served.  Two courses are the rule – soup and rice.

The soup is made from a variety of vegetable and with the rice, in addition to the variable dab of hot spicy compound (sambal) or other mysterious native concoction, we sometimes get half a duck egg, salted or fresh.  Three times in four months we have had a small dried fish which stinks to high heaven but which has nevertheless been highly acceptable as providing some taste to the palate.  The plate of rice we pick up from the ground, the soup we receive in our tin plates from a big basin as with the morning coffee.  After lunch and plates removed, a smoke and chat and I then let down my bed and lie, usually reading, sometimes dozing until recreation time which has been lately roughly from 3 to 5 pm.  Recreation over, we return to the cells to be let out for a shower in batches of 10 or 15 minutes, later.  The bathroom, each containing 4 showers, are situated at the end of each wing nearest the centre of the building.  The prison is built in the form of a cross within a square.  The cross, two storied, contains cells, about 130 to each wing, the wings being designated North, East, South and West respectively.   My cell #316, is on the ground floor of the South wing, the sixth cell from the far end.  The arms of the cross radiating from a circular hall in the centre run towards the corners of the square of workshops, offices, hospital etc which forms the outer wall of the prison so that within the precincts four open triangles are thus formed, each triangle being bounded by one side of the square and two sides of the cross.  The cross and square stand quite free of each other, the end of each arm being about 10 or 12 yards from its respective corner.  The southwest and southeast triangles which are situated at the rear are used as exercising yards, the other two are more or less planted up with shrubs and flowerbeds.

After the bath, supper is served and consists, like the lunch, of soup and rice, although the soup is usually rather tasty and thicker by the addition of peas than at midday.  On Tuesdays and Fridays a small piece of boiled meat is added, also two bananas.  Supper is served at 5 pm and plates are removed and cells locked for the night about half an hour later. Until the lights dim at 10.30 pm the time is passed in smoking, chatting with one’s near neighbours, reading and playing patience.  Each day is exactly like the other except that on Sundays breakfast is half an hour later.  Depending on the whim of the doctor in charge, and changes in command occur about every 5 days, our recreation hour may be in the forenoon, afternoon, or both and can vary from only 20 minutes to 3 hours.

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Note from Pat O’Neill

Sukamiskin prison was used from the late 1920's as a prison for Indonesian nationalists and was known to the people as a symbol of colonial suppression. President Sukarno was here in prison, after his conviction in the sensational trial against him and some other Indonesian leaders in December 1930. The irony was that Sukarno some years earlier, during a short period as an architect, probably worked on the building drawings himself. During the Japanese occupation Sukamiskin was a prison for Dutch civil servants, until February 1944.
http://www.geocities.com/bandungcity/paseban.htm

6 August 1942

A calamity occurred in my cell this morning.  I had just dozed off after having been wakened at 5 am by the clatter attendant on breakfast preparation when I was rudely shaken into consciousness by a dull explosion.  I was lying with my face to the wall and turning round quickly and raising my head I was astonished to see high up on the opposite wall a large splash of some dark brown fluid splattered in all directions.  It was only  when a second later I felt and saw spots of the same fluid falling on me and the bed clothes that I realised what had happened.  On top of the cupboard above the bed there was a large bottle of soya sauce which I had placed in a lying position and the stuff must have fermented and blew the cork out like a bottle of champagne.  Ye Gods!  What a mess!  The whole cell, floor, walls and ceiling even, was bespattered with soya sauce in varying degree.  My pyjamas, the blankets and the mattress have a large share.  It has taken me the whole morning and forenoon to put things to rights.  I have had to wash my blankets, a big job when you have only one small zinc basin to do the washing and I am hoping for steady sunlight this afternoon to dry them.  Fortunately, the guard was changed a few days ago and I have now dared to hang the blankets out at the window, a proceeding which would have been certain to ensure me some hearty wallops from B the B if he had still been here.  We were let out at 10.30 am today – by mistake.  Few steps along the corridor and we were sent back and locked up again.  The east wing went out and had exercise and handball games in the south west triangle.  I expect it will be our turn this afternoon.  PB has gone and Fatty (our favourite so far) is again in charge.  he took part himself in one of the ball games appearing to enjoy himself hugely and proving himself a good sportsman, taking everything in good part and laughing heartily at his own mistakes.  We feel quite cheered up as a result.  Out wing (the south) was left out this afternoon from 4 to 5.30 as we expected and we had a pleasant time.  We were also exercised in the SW triangle, a run of about 10 times round the field followed by physical jerks.  Two handball games.  Then first bath in two days.  Supper red rice, half duck egg, boiled tapioca and usual veg soup.  Also my extra plate of boiled white rice and 2 bananas.  Exchanged ‘Pimpernel’ with Raymond for Dutch book ‘Onder het juk’ (Yoke of Bondage) by H Bong.

___________________

While waiting in the Head Office of the Bank in Union Terrace to be interviewed for the advertised vacancy my attention was attracted to a man of about 30 years of age engaged in some task at the main counter.  He was of average height, slimly built with very sharp features, keen dark brown eyes and almost black close curling hair.  In fact he attracted me so much that I found myself wishing that I should be engaged if for no other reason than to have the opportunity of making his acquaintance.  It must have been fated, for this was Douglas Campbell who was to become the only real friend I have ever had and whose influence will remain with me all my life.  Doug was a brilliantly clever man with an extensive knowledge and intense appreciation of the arts in general and literature in particular.  He it was who introduced me to the real world of letters and to the higher realms of music, in fact to an appreciation of the higher things of life in general.  If ever there was a square peg in a round hole it was Douglas Campbell in the Aberdeen Savings Bank, although to be quite frank I do not know where exactly he would have fitted in.  He was  a combination  of revolutionary in matters of convention, socialistic idealist and agnostic in belief – and his own worst enemy.  He judged himself very hardly, being extremely sensitive as to his faults, to such an extent in fact that it is my opinion that he would have made much more of his opportunities and abilities if he had not been so critical of his own shortcomings.  His greatest failing was that of indulging in periodical drinking bouts which sometimes lasted for days and which led him into strange and often undesirable company.  He had always spoken to me quite frankly of this failing – but I only saw him once in an intoxicated condition and it almost broke my heart.  He arrived at our house in Sunnybank Place late one evening very badly intoxicated, almost speechless, and I remember mother  having him lie down on a couch in front of the fire while she did all in her power to sober him up as far as possible.  I am not ashamed to admit that I broke down and cried like a child when I saw Doug lying there in that condition.  It was my first experience of an intoxicated person at close quarters, which in itself was a great shock, but the fact that it was this dear friend whom I practically idolised who was in this condition was too much for me.  It was by no means that I had, as one may be inclined to think, discovered my idol to have feet of clay.  That did not enter into my feeling at all.  It was the pity of it all which affected me so strongly, the realisation of the ‘what might have been’' for Doug if he had not been cursed with such a failing.  His friendship meant even more to me that ever after this revelation of human weakness.  It may seem strange that such a friendship should have been possible between a youth of 17 and a man twice his age, but the reason was simple.  Doug had never grown up and his boyish spirits were on many occasions more exuberant than my own.  It was his suggestion, one Sunday when we were walking round by the lighthouse, that we should set his bowler hat on a rock as a target for our marksmanship with throwing pebbles.  We threw stones at that hat for at least half an hour and Doug’s enjoyment at this defiance of such a convential symbol and glee when he scored a hit, were, I believe even greater than my own.  We used to go for long cycle runs together out into the country and there he opened my eyes to the beauties of nature.  For four years I had this wonderful companionship which, towards the end of that period, was more or less interrupted by reason of anther attachment, natural to my years, which I had formed.  It may be foolish of me, but I have always felt that if my allegiance had not been divided, I might have been instrumental in averting the tragedy of Doug’s passing.  Or it was perhaps fated to be so, as Doug himself had a love in his life, the object of which, with characteristic self depreciation, he regarded as one as far beyond the reach of his unworthiness as the stars.  One Sunday his cycle and boots were found on the top of the cliffs between Aberdeen and Cove and it is presumed that he had thrown himself into the sea at that point.  I never heard of his body having been recovered.

Let the following, which I wrote in my notebook at that time, be his epitaph:

The Guide took Youth by the hand and led him down the Way of Life.
And as they went he pointed out on each side many
Doors which Youth had not observed in his impulsiveness
As he impatiently strode along the Way, with
Eyes fixed straight ahead.
And of those doors there were many which stood invitingly open,
Some only half a jar, and a few which were tightly closed.
’By these and these’, said the Guide, pointing to the doors,
’Shalt thou gain what thou most desirest’.
And Youth so journed long by the Way and entered many doors.
Those things which he saw and learned beyond the doors
Made the Way seem a happier and brighter one
Than it had appeared hitherto.
Beauty appeared everywhere – in everything.
And those of the doors which were tightly closed
Yielded the richest treasures.
The Guide was always near, counselling Youth against
Rash and hasty judgment of those things in which
At first glance beauty and purity seemed non existent.
And Youth was I – and the Guide the best friend Youth ever had.

_____

I have lost a friend, a dear friend, and grieve deeply.
I ask myself,’Why do I grieve?’
The answer comes - ‘It is your sense of loss which is causing your grief’.
My sense of loss!  That sounds selfish – and it IS selfish.
Here I am, professing a belief in another and better
World and yet grieving that my friend has crossed
To the happiness and peace of the other side.
I have no cause to grieve for him if this is my belief -
and it IS my belief.
Therefore, what I call my grief is merely a revulsion
Of feeling caused by a selfishness
Which disturbs my mental equilibrium.

30 July 1942

Out 5.30 to 6.30.  PT from By ( a Dutch internee who was a physical training instructor) who was constantly interrupted by PB.  Change of guard – better type.  We are daring to talk between cells.

_______________

And, talking of memories, I believe the first thing I vividly remember in my life is standing on a low stool at the sink in the scullery of my maternal grandparent's house, drinking chloride of lime out of a bottle.  I could not have been more than 3 years old then but still old enough to get into mischief which might easily have had fatal results.  I remember spitting the stuff out as soon as it touched my tongue – not really a spit at that age, of course, but a slobber, and I heard in later years that a blue anchor which was embroidered on the front of the little jacket I wore, was bleached white in consequence.  Looking back, it seems as if all the mischief I got into between the ages of 3 and 6 took place in my grandparent’s house, probably because, I spent more time there than anywhere else.  I was the first surviving grandchild (my parents’ first born having died in infancy) and consequently must have been made much of by my mother’s still unmarried 4 brothers and 5 sisters as well as by the grandparents.  I think the very strong Clan feeling which I have and my ever earnest wish to keep all branches of my mother’s family united, no matter how far scattered over the earth they may be, must spring from the happy days when family affection was lavished upon me by all those dear people who are now so far away from me and from each other.  They, no doubt, remember vividly my almost setting the house on fire.  The smoking of cigarettes by my uncles aroused in me a keen desire to emulate them in the art of sending forth lovely clouds of smoke, and this desire, coupled with the fascination which the lighting of matches seems to possess for most children, led me to an act which might have had serious consequences.  I must have been between 4 and 5, I think, when one day, having found a cigarette end and provided myself with a box of matches which had been carelessly left lying about, I crept into one of the bedrooms and, standing before a low dressing table, the mirror of which was draped with muslin curtains after the fashion of those days, I endeavoured to light up.  In keeping my attention concentrated on the cigarette stub just below my nose, I had not noticed that one end of the mirror draping, blown by the wind from the open window, had made contact with the flame of the match.  Just as I had succeeded in achieving my first puff, I raised my eyes in time to see the flames spread to the window curtains.  Realising that I had done something very, very wrong, I must have decided that silence is golden.  My guilty conscience prompted me, I presume, to say nothing about it, so I just left the room hurriedly and, closing the door behind me, returned to the kitchen, trying to look as innocent as possible.  Fortunately, the opening of the door allowed the smell of burning to penetrate through the house, so that the outbreak was almost immediately discovered and the fire extinguished before very much damage had been done.  I cannot recall having been punished for this bit of serious mischief.  I should probably have been a better man today if I had been.  A  minor crime of mine in that house during those years was the smashing of practically every ornament on the kitchen dresser on at least two occasions.  In extenuation, however, I should mention that I am sure that dresser did not stand firmly on its four feet.  Anyhow, romping about the room, I brought up against the dresser with sufficient force to dislodge all vases, knick knacks etc, thereon with disastrous effect on those same.  I remember that my Grannie used to say that my first week’s wages must be forfeited to replace the damage.  I regret to say that I never fulfilled that expectation.  My uncles, Joe and Johnnie, were then mere lads of about 16 and 17 and I owe them the memory of many happy and thrilling hours in the old house.  They created for my especial benefit a secret society called ‘The Black Hand’ gang whose meetings used to be held in great secrecy and with much mysteriousness in one of the bedrooms once a week.  I used to be warned in conspiratorial undertones by one of the other that a meeting was to be held at such and such a time and would creep to the bedroom door and knock for admission in the prescribed secret manner.  The door being opened about an inch, the password would be demanded of me.  ‘Death and Blood’, or some such horrifying expression, and then I would be admitted to the gang’s secret meeting place.  The only light in the room came from one candle on the dressing table with, as background, a grim skull and crossbones symbol inked on a white cloth draping the mirror.  We three would sit around the guttering candle and discuss, in whispers, our plans for the stealing of the Crown Jewels or some such deed of daring.  There were all sorts of secret signs and oaths of secrecy to be sworn on every occasion and altogether the meetings of ‘The Black Hand’ gang provided me with such a thrill as I have never experienced since.  On meetings nights, I wore one of my father’s cast off jackets which had a piece of white cloth, on which a life size black hand was painted, sewed on to the lining on the left side.  In addition to the secret knock and password, the jacket had to be opened and the mystic sign displayed before admittance could be gained.  While the gang was functioning, my sister fell ill with scarlet fever, and, according to health regulations, all our clothes were taken away to be fumigated and decontaminated.  We often wondered what the authorities thought when the sign of the Black Hand was revealed!

The Pick Up

Outside on the road a dark saloon car is standing, a native chauffeur at the wheel and another native on the footboard. We get in. I am at the back between the two soldiers. The officer and the policeman sit in front with the driver. The native remains hanging on outside as we drive off.

I have been picked up at the rear annexe of the house at Tjiroemstraat 14 where we had found sanctuary with Mrs Kruseman and her married daughter, Elly Reindus. I realise all at once that the sounds we had heard earlier must have been a similar, perhaps the same, party, collecting Howes, another Britisher staying in the main house.

Fortunately, I reflect, Mrs Kruseman and Elly have not appeared and I am thankful that they have thus avoided possible eventual unpleasantness. They will have realised what is going on and have very sensibly lain doggo.

The car turns surprisingly to the left, down towards Tjibeuning - Plantsoen (local Public Gardens), and stops some moments later in a street corner. In the dim light of the street lamps, I can distinguish three Europeans and a few native policemen. When I see the Europeans I think at once "The bastards are helping the Nips!" I am quite wrong, however, as I am soon to discover.

After some rapid conversation between our policemen and the others on the street, we drive off again and I discover that we are in the Houtmanstraat, along which we proceed until we reach the house in which we have lodged with Mrs Reindus until two days before.

I realise then that the native on the running board of the car is the 'toekang kabon' (gardener) left behind by Mrs Reindus to act as watchman of the house in Houtmanstraat which we had vacated owing to the too close proximity of a Japanese transport column which has encamped itself along the open ground opposite the house and from whom we had already had several unpleasant visits.

Although I had notified the Police Officer of my change of address in accordance with the requirements of the Jap authorities in regard to British subjects, it is obvious that my escort has first sought for me at Houtsmanstraat and, failing to find me, has taken the 'toekang kebon' (gardener) along with them to show them where I am to be found.

The 'toekang kebon' is dismissed, the car turned round and some minutes later we are again at the corner where the group of Europeans and native policemen are still standing. The Europeans are squeezed into the car with some difficulty as they are all handcuffed together. They are unknown to me, but I learn later that they are Donald Gow, Stevenson and Maddock of the Goodyear plant at Buitenzorg (meaning literally, Beyond Cares).

The Jap officer remains with us inside, the soldiers and policeman festoon the running boards and off we go again. We drive for about 10 minutes and it becomes evident from the excited jabbering which goes on between the Nips and the natives that the driver is very uncertain as to the whereabouts of our intended destination. All was soon to be revealed.

At length we find ourselves on the Dagoweg (inset is a photograph of this road in slightly more modern times) and as we proceed down this thoroughfare I guess, correctly, that we are being taken to the headquarters of the Kempei-Tai (Japanese Gestapo). This organisation, which from hearsay and rumour we have already learned to dread, has established itself in the Roman Catholic school of the St Aloysius Brothers.

There is a great activity here. The building is ablaze with lights, cars and motor-lorries are arriving loaded with Europeans, all men, and dashing off as soon as unloaded, presumably to fetch another load.

We are ushered into the entrance hall which seems to be packed with men. I see a number of well known faces among the prospective internees. To right and left along the walls are tables with Japs and natives engaged in what seems to be a preliminary registration or check of the haul. My turn comes and I fill in some form or other which demands only simple particulars of name, nationality, date of birth, etc.

Soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets bark and grunt at us as we leave the tables and indicate that we are to proceed up the broad stairway which leads from the entrance hall. On arriving at the landing of the first storey my suitcase is searched by a soldier. He apparently finds nothing incriminating but succeeds very well in messing up the contents, so expertly packed by Ena.

Closing my suitcase with difficulty, I and the others in my particular batch, are ordered into a large square room, the floor of which is covered with a sort of thin blanket cloth.

The room is already half filled with men sitting on the floor. The early arrivals are the fortunate ones. They are sitting against the walls and have rest for their backs. No one speaks.

The soldiers shout at us unintelligibly, gesticulating towards our feet.

"Take off your shoes", calls someone softly from the already seated group. We do so and take our places on the floor in the middle of the room. I sit down, leaning on my suitcase and look around me.

I see many friends and acquaintances, both British and Dutch but the majority are unknown to me. Some lean against the walls or sit uncomfortably with closed eyes. Others, like myself, more wakeful, look around and we greet each other with a slight nod or faint smile. We are all feeling a bit dazed, I think.

After a while, I take 'Fate cannot harm me' from my pocket and try to read but I am afraid that nothing registers.

The sentries with rifles and fixed bayonets remain continually in the room, glaring at us balefully through narrowed eyes. These sentries are relieved by others about every 15 minutes, rather ceremoniously. They crash their rifle butts on the floor, bow to each other, utter hoarse shouts, present arms, bark again, crash butts, more bows, and the relief is accomplished. There may be only four different sentries altogether or maybe forty - I don't know. They all look the same to me.

Every ten minutes or so, fresh batches of internees arrive and take their places on the floor. Some, like myself, are fully dressed and carry suitcases. Others have nothing but the clothes they stand in, for the most part an open shirt and shorts.

One man is assisted into the room and is made to sit on a table just inside the door. He has a nasty, jagged wound on his right leg and from which the blood flows freely. I imagine, dramatically, that he has had a jab from a bayonet, but learn, a long time afterwards that his injury has been caused by his falling through a rotten plank on the floor of the truck in which he has been transported. A Jap doctor comes on the scene and renders first aid. The injured man then takes his place on the floor. He is Jack McConnell of the Hong Kong Bank and whom it is in due course to be my privilege to call a friend.

From time to time, a nasty little Jap NCO who is eventually to learn for himself among us the appreciative title of 'Basil the Bastard', checks up on those present by calling out names from lists apparently prepared in the reception hall below.

His weird pronunciation of the British and Dutch names makes it extremely difficult to understand who is referred to. Seeing the difficulty, one helpful member of a newly arrived batch steps to the side of the Jap, looks at the list, and suggest to Basil the B a more understandable pronunciation of the name to which there has been no response.

Basil takes a step backwards, glares at the helpful individual with mad fury in his eyes. Suddenly his hand comes up like a flash. The slap on the face resounds through the room, like a pistol shot.

This first experience of uncalled for and unreasonable Japanese violence, mild though it can be considered perhaps, shocks me to the core and I can't help beginning to feel some apprehension as to the treatment in store for us as internees of Dai Nippon.

The face slapping episode repeats itself a number of times during the long night, sometimes for the same reason as the first when some other helpful individual in a fresh batch makes the fatal mistake of daring to correct Basil's pronunciation, sometimes for other reasons which are clear to nobody but the Japs themselves, and perhaps not even to them.

About 5.00 am a Jap civilian and an officer come in and calls out a list of 30 names. Those called have to line up two deep, with their belongings, at the far end of the room. A few more faces are slapped, and at length the batch is marched out of the room.

This is repeated from time to time and as we hear the sound of motor trucks revving up and driving off outside we gather that we are being moved elsewhere.

In due course, my name is called and I am greatly relieved that I have succeeded in recognising it. I take my place in the row. We are ordered to number off. At the fifth time we do so, the Jap is apparently satisfied. I say apparently expressly because the Japs can't count for nuts!

We go downstairs An open truck has been backed up against the steps of the front entrance. We clamber aboard. We are so jammed that there is no room to turn or to draw a deep breath.

It is still dark. The stars shine above us; cold, beautiful and aloof. A faint paling in the eastern sky indicates that it will soon be dawn. It is chilly.

At an open window to the left of the entrance a Dutch policeman is standing. The Japs are forcing the Dutch police to assist them in the round up. This is Dicky van Ravenswaag Klaassen, an old acquaintance. I wink at him surreptitiously. Dicky, with a perfectly expressionless face, rubs his face meditatively with the widespread first and second finders of this right hand, the 'V' sign.

After some minutes of hoarse shouting and yelling, we drive off. As we turn into the street, I notice two women, Europeans, standing to attention on the pavement surrounded by Jap soldiers. What became of them, I wonder?

We drive east and in a short time, I find myself again in the Houtmanstraat and passing the house where we discharged the 'toekang kebon' (gardener) some 5 hours earlier.

Donald Gow is standing next to me. He says, "They are probably taking us up to Onrust". Onrust is an island off Batavia where the Dutch interned enemy aliens after the invasion of Holland in May, 1940.

I disagree. We are going East, I know, which is the opposite direction to Batavia. My idea is Garoet.

For some reason or other, ever since the possibility of internment has occurred to me, I have always had Garoet in my mind and my imagination has provided me with a picture of myself washing a shirt in a bucket of water in a sort of compound with an open barbed wire fence between me and open country beyond, with the hills in the distance, and behind me a sort of army hut but with vague figures moving in and out. Where this vision springs from, I haven't the slightest idea, but it is definitely not prophetic.

Eventually, we strike the main arterial road, built with the blood and sweat of thousands of natives by Governor Daandels over 120 years ago. We continue east and my belief in Garoet as the ultimate destination is strengthened.

It is rapidly growing lighter and when we have proceeded about 5 kilometres it is full day and the plateau of Bandoeng with its surrounding mountains is revealed in all its early morning beauty. Miles and miles of fresh green rice fields on either side, the nearby hills showing only their tops above the slowly rising early morning mists, in the far distance the mountains, a hazy blue, their lines sharply silhouetted against a clear sky.

We pass through a small village. A few natives on the road gaze wonderingly at the unusual sight of so many 'tuans' (white gentlemen) travelling in such unorthodox and undignified fashion.

We breast the hill this side of Soekmaniskin. Soekmaniskin! Surely not! The prison comes into sight and my sinking heart drops with a thud into my boots as the truck slackens speed just before the road which strikes off to the left, leading to the main gate.

Yes, there is no doubt about it now. Soekamiskin Penitentiary is our destination. We leave the main road and drive down the slight incline to the grim and forbidding looking building. The truck backs up against the massive doors of the main, the only, entrance.

A small observation window set in one of the doors opens and a confabulation takes place between those inside and our escort of Japs and policemen. The window closes and we stand in the truck waiting, a long time, some 15 minutes.

The doors swing open inwards and we clamber off the truck and pass within. We find ourselves in a sort of hallway about 30 feet long by perhaps 15 wide. At the far end the heavy doors now between us and the outside world are duplicated. To the left, a number of doors leading presumably to offices; to the right more doors and a stone staircase leading upwards to regions unknown.

After a lot of shouting and misunderstanding due to misinterpretation presumably of the Japanese orders, transmitted to us through the native police, we are lined up on each side of the hall with our belongings opened up for inspection on the floor before us.

We are ordered to put all sharp objects, such as razors, scissors, nail files and the like into big envelopes which are handed to us. All luggage is at the same time submitted to close search by the soldiers. As is to be expected by this time, a few faces are slapped.

Then money is to be handed over. For this operation we are taken upstairs into a small room where we sit on benches in a group. At a table just behind the door, the European governor of the prison is sitting on his chair with one leg drawn up under him, like a Budha. I understand this peculiar attitude some 3 years later when, to my great satisfaction, I see the same man sitting on a stool with both legs in the same position in the internment camp at Baros and am told that he is indeed a Bhuddist.

This man is Baudisch, an Austrian, I believe, and who, I am given to understand, had prior to Holland's entry into the war displayed Nazi tendencies. For reasons best known to the Dutch authorities themselves he has been retained in Government service as prison governor. His attitude now and later makes it clear that , in his opinion, his day has come.

Our names are called in turn and we step forward to the table and hand over the money we have on us. The amounts are noted in a book and the money placed in envelopes. I find that I have with me thirty guilders and nineteen cents.

The operation completed, we go downstairs again. We pick up our luggage, that is to say, those of us who are fortunate enough to have any, the heavy doors leading to the interior of the prison swing open. Two by two, like the animals going into the Ark, we pass through, cross an open space and enter then the main building of the prison.

We find ourselves in a long, echoing, stone paved corridor about 20 feet wide. A narrow gallery runs along each side. On right and left nothing but doors, both with the upper storey and on the level. Some of these doors stand open. I am not very bright this morning. As we march along , I think "What a lot of of lavatories."

Bang! Bang from ahead of me. I can't see what is going on exactly. We are being escorted by Jap soldiers and European individuals clad in a sort of blue uniform. One yells instructions in German. I think, "Michty me, they have handed us over to the Nazis."

Bang! The man ahead of me disappears.

Bang! I find myself in one of the 'lavatories'

This is to be my abode for 22 months.

******* to be continued