More activity

That afternoon we were unpleasantly surprised to observe a long procession of Japanese army trucks entering Houtmanstraat from the south. We quickly closed up the front of the house and remained doggo while the trucks were parked along the open ground opposite. When night came we showed no light and although there was a lot of commotion and shouting until a late hour, we were left undisturbed. The next morning when I left for the office, I found that the row of parked trucks already extended to almost opposite the house and many Japs were in evidence. About a couple of hours later I had a guarded telephone call from Ena.

"Can you come immediately?" she said. "We have visitors".

I knew what that meant. When I arrived I found a Jap sprawling in a chair on the verandah. Elly and Ena informed me hurriedly that they had had three Nips wandering through the house until about 10 minutes before but that the other two had left, leaving the sprawler behind. I went out to the verandah and sat down opposite him. There was nothing we could say to each other so we just sat in silence, smoking. I just decided that I had to sit him out if possible, or at any rate to wait long enough to try and discover what he was after. About an hour later, he managed to convey by signs that he wanted paper and a red pencil. On the paper he scrawled some weird looking Japanese characters and leaving the verandah affixed the paper to a wooden post on the edge of the field opposite the house. He did not return.

In a short time it became evident that this sign was an indication for parking more trucks which again started to arrive in large numbers so that in due course the line had extended some hundred yards past the house to the north. We were now under Japanese surveillance with a vengeance. By lying doggo again we escaped attention that evening, but many neighbours had unpleasant experiences of Jap visitors who made themselves objectionable in ways which we ourselves knew only too well.

The next day the three of us held a council of war. Elly was all for joining her mother in Tjitaroemstraat and was kind enough to suggest that Ena and I could also be accommodated there if we wished.

So the upshot was that we decided to move the next day. Again I rang up the piano people, who must have been getting fed up with me by this time, and the piano came to rest for the second time in his warehouse. Incidentally, we never saw it again.

The following day, Saturday, found us installed in Mrs Kruseman's annex at Tjiarroemstraat 14. We had the, by this time, usual difficulties in obtaining transport but with the aid of some coolies and a hand drawn cart, and a few journeys backwards and forwards by 'sad' (dog cart) we managed to send the frigidaire back to the Dagoweg and to bring our stuff and Elly's to our new santuary.

On the Thursday of this week a notice had appeared in the newspaper ordering all British subjects to report at the Police Headquarters for registration and this Ena and I had done. On Saturday, therefore, I notified them of my change of address so that it was certainly not my fault that they had so much trouble finding me on the night of the 14th.

At the beginning of this week, too, Sparkes and his wife had both collapsed from nervous strain and had taken up their abode in a joint room at the Borromeus Hospital. I still suspect that in some way or other (perhaps from his neighbour, Mrs Graven) he had had advance information of the registration, and, suspecting (as I did) that it was the preliminary move towards internment had thought to dodge the issue by being classed as a hospital case. If that was really his idea, he miscalculated by only one day.

I recall that I visited him in Borromeus on Saturday and referring half jokingly, to the registration, said, "Thursday, we register - Friday they prepare their lists - Saturday is a half holiday and Sunday a free day, so they'll intern us on Monday".

Sparkes left hospital on Monday and was picked up the following night, the fatal 14th April.

For the past ten days or so previous to our coming to rest at Tjitaroemstraat, there had been many rumours flying around about sudden raids being held by the Japanese usually at night. Today one would hear of a complex of houses on the Dagoweg having been entered and the men taken away and tomorrow another story of the same nature would be told concerning a street in another part of the town. Already the headquarters of the Kempetai (Japanese Gestapo) in the Neetjanweg had acquired a sinister reputation and whispers were heard of the tortures which the Japanese Gestapo resorted to in order to extract confessions, real or imaginary, from their victims. Any scepticism as to the truth of such seemingly incredible tales was due, alas, to fade away in the light of subsequent events.

On the morning of the 14th, Mrs Van Ginkel rang up. She said to Ena, "Bill is probably going on a journey, but you yourself not yet." This we interpreted as a hint that she had information to the effect that my internment was imminent, but as we had by now become somewhat fatalistic in our attitude towards this possibility, I am afraid we did not react in any particular way.

And so I arrive back at the moment when the stillness of the night of 14/15 April, 1942 was shattered by the peremptory ringing of the door bell at Tjiroemstraat 14.

*********

And so, my friends, we come to the conclusion of the first chapter of my Dad's manuscript. I hope you have enjoyed and learnt from this 'taster'. In the new year I hope to be able to transcribe the rest of the manuscript into book form which will be available for purchase. This will take a little while since there will be a lot of typing! The remainder of the manuscript includes a short daily, if somewhat brief, account of life in Sukamiskin Prison whilst at the same time my father describes in detail, moments of his life. There will be a wonderful insight into life in Scotland during the early 1920s; life as a youngster at school and beyond. This proved to be a clever way for my Dad to keep his mind exercised during very long boring hours whilst cooped up in a cell. Each word was written in pencil and as time went on and paper became scarce the writing became smaller and smaller. I still have some of the writings and even the stub of the last pencil used. For me, it has been an inspiration and has allowed me to 'rediscover' my father as a very keen, sensitive person who lived through troubled times but someone who still managed to keep his sense of humour and above all, his sense of worth.

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