Digger’s Story: Surviving the Japanese POW camps was just the beginning
David
Digger’s
Story
Surviving the Japanese POW camps
was just the beginning
David Barrett and Brian Robertson
Foreword by Yuki Tanaka
To all those prisoners of war of the Japanese who died before they could be rescued and to those who, on returning home, suffered from the residual effects of their imprisonment and died long before the time nature normally allows us to enjoy life.
Contents
Foreword
Acknowledgements
Preface
The Monsoon Drain
Part 1 The Years of Learning
1 The Early Years
2 To the War
3 Retreat to Singapore
4 The Fight for Singapore
5 Life at Changi
Part 2 The Years of Survival
6 The Officers’ Mess
7 Journey to the Railway
8 Mates and Survivors
9 The Return of F Force
10 Relative Respite
Part 3 Locating the Graves
11 Freedom
12 The On-on Hotel
13 Back to the Railway
14 The War Graves Commission
15 Transition
Part 4 A Final Accounting
16 The Business Life
17 Fighting Again
18 The Fight Continues
19 The Health of the Ex-POW
20 To Geneva
21 Reconciliation
Picture Section
Endnotes
About the Author
Imprint
Other Titles from The Five Mile Press
Foreword
During the Pacific War, the death rate for POWs under the Japanese was seven times that of those detained by the Germans and Italians. The majority of them were captured by the Japanese in the first three months following the outbreak of war in the region, so most who survived until the end of the war endured more than three years of arduous and painful internment. In fact, the post-war death rate among surviving POWs of the Japanese was four times higher than that of those imprisoned by German and Italian forces. These statistics clearly reflect the brutal treatment of POWs by the Japanese.
This gripping biography, a remarkable joint work by David Barrett, a former POW, and Brian Robertson, a skilled researcher and writer, vividly portrays the cruelty and brutality that Japanese troops inflicted upon POWs and numerous romusha (forced Asian labourers). David’s honest and straightforward account of Japanese wartime behaviour illustrates how easily the inculcation of malicious ideologies – such as racism, imperialism and Emperor-worship – can lead to barbarous behaviour. We Japanese need to examine seriously how our fathers’ and grandfathers’ generations were able commit such atrocities as a result of the indoctrination of nationalism. At the same time, we need to educate our fellow citizens – in particular, our politicians – about how Japan as a nation should bear responsibility for such war crimes.
David’s compelling testimony is evidence that one can survive such an indescribable, prolonged ordeal with the aid of wisdom, a deep understanding of humanity and a sense of humour. It is truly moving to learn how he maintained humane compassion despite ruthless treatment by the Japanese day after day for three and a half years. Unsurprisingly, his hatred of the Japanese remained with him for many years after the war. Ultimately, though, his profound humanity overcame this hatred, as he gradually made friends with people from this former enemy nation. This experience reminds us that hatred does not permit progress; rather, it destroys the humanity of those who continue to be consumed by it.
David’s strong sense of justice is closely intertwined with his humane compassion. His continuous search for justice for former POWs of the Japanese Imperial Forces, even decades after the war, has moved many people, not only his fellow former POWs, but also Japanese supporters, including myself. His warm-hearted and embracing friendship for Japanese people has contributed to a strong and healthy grassroots relationship between many Australian and Japanese citizens. In short, David’s life clearly symbolises continuous and powerful resistance to the dehumanisation caused by war, and for this reason he can be called ‘A True Digger of Peace Making’.
Yuki Tanaka
Research Professor
Hiroshima Peace Institute
Acknowledgements
David Barrett told this story and I wrote it. We live in a retirement village in Queensland Australia, in the lower and upper units of the same building. Our coming together to produce this book was just by happy chance. David wanted to tell his story and I was indeed fortunate to get the opportunity to write it. I thank him sincerely for willingly risking his life’s story to one who until that time had written only school textbooks.
We usually met on Sunday afternoons in David’s unit. We sat at his dining room table and I switched on the recorder as he organised a bottle of good red wine. We would then spend an hour or two talking about some aspect of David’s life, after which I would stagger downstairs and leave the transcription until the following morning.
David is a collector and hoarder of all letters, artefacts, photographs and the like that he came by throughout his life. There were newspaper cuttings, documents, correspondence, reports and minutes of meetings, all pertaining to activities in David’s long life, particularly for the period from 1986 to 2000 in connection with the Reparations Committee. I thank David for being such an archive keeper, although it took me years to sort through everything. There is probably enough material to write at least one other book!
The authors are indebted to Ria Fewster, another resident in our village, her late husband Col, and Barbara L’Herpiniere from Perth, who read each succeeding chapter and reported faithfully the whole way through. Also to the members of the Scribblers writers’ group meeting every month at Mary Ryan’s bookshop in Springfield. I could not have written the book without everyone’s very valuable, encouraging and critical comment. Thanks also to Stanley Sparkes, yet another village resident, who took great care during development of the early chapters to ensure that the authors understood the correct use of the English language. Trevor Tindall, a co-author of mine in the textbook business, also needs a thank you for the application of his skills and knowledge in the Japanese language.
Marjorie, my wife, gave valuable feedback on the presentation of the story, typed all the unreadable documents, and patiently supported me during the whole time the book was gradually emerging – over a long three and a half years. Thank you, Marjorie.
We are also very grateful to our agent Curtis Brown and our publisher The Five Mile Press for taking this book on in these very uncertain publishing times and to our very able editor, Julian Welch, who was particularly helpful in structuring the book.
David also hopes that many young people will read this book and gain some understanding of the kind of things that happen in war. He is also a little worried about the swear words in the story. We both apologise for that, but they were hard times and we judged that it would be best to tell it as it was. David wishes to assure all young people, his great-grandchildren in particular, that he no longer swears and hopes that they don’t either.
Brian Robertson
Preface
The Monsoon Drain
‘Well, we can’t bloody go anywhere else, can we?’ said Private Roy Keily. It was a statement, not a question.
Roy was sitting with Private David ‘Digger’ Barrett on the lawn just outside t
he entrance to St Andrew’s Cathedral, Singapore, around lunchtime on 15 February 1942. They had their backs against the trunk of a large tropical flame tree and were enjoying their first real meal for several days, which had been supplied by a hastily constructed field kitchen in the cathedral’s grounds.
The two men were discussing the latest movement of their unit, the 2/9th Field Ambulance of the Australian 8th Division. They had moved a lot recently, always seeking a safer location for their more than 400 sick or wounded men.
‘Back to Australia should be the next move, eh?’ Digger replied. ‘Perhaps if we —’ But before he could complete his sentence a shell exploded at the far side of the lawn, and then another, closer.
Both men hit the ground, their food no longer a concern. Mess tins, biscuits and bully beef went flying. More explosions followed. Digger could hear the whine and whistle of shrapnel above him as he lay flat on his stomach, pressing himself into the lawn, half-choking on the smoke and the pungent smell of burning grass.
Get lower, get lower, he thought. I’m not dying here.
When at last he dared to look around, he saw the concrete of the open monsoon drain that surrounded the cathedral; it was barely ten metres away. That was his goal. He knew he had to reach it right now if he was to survive.
Shells continued to explode nearby, despite the large red crosses that were plastered on the roof and walls of the cathedral. Trying to ignore the hell around him, Digger put every ounce of effort into shuffling forward, on his knees and elbows, snake-like towards the drain. Not for a second did he contemplate standing and running.
At the same time he was thinking about his mother. He couldn’t understand it. It was as if one half of his brain was remembering his mother and what they did together at home, while the other half was concentrating on getting to the drain. And yet another part of his brain was wondering why he was thinking of his mother at this time.
Exhausted, Digger gratefully reached the drain and dropped into it. He knew that, barring a direct hit, he would be relatively safe here. Gasping for breath, he began to take stock of his situation. The drain was a good eighty centimetres deep and about a metre across. Digger was able to sit in relative comfort, except for his knees and arms, which, he suddenly realised, were hurting like hell. When he inspected them, he discovered burns: he’d been crawling over hot fragments of shrapnel on the lawn.
All Digger could hear was the thunder of shells exploding nearby, and shouting coming from the cathedral and the Adelphi Hotel at the other side of the lawn. Although he knew that keeping his head down was the best course of action, he couldn’t resist raising it just high enough to glance at the main entrance of the cathedral, where just two minutes earlier he and Roy had been relaxing. A few ambulances had been parked on the lawn near where they’d been eating. One had suffered a direct hit and was now a twisted wreck. There was no sign of Roy. So I got here just in time, Digger thought.
The 2/9th Field Ambulance had been moving into St Andrew’s Cathedral for the past day or so. They were gradually vacating their old Main Dressing Station (MDS), which was in the Cathay Building at the end of Orchard Road, and setting up the cathedral and the Adelphi Hotel opposite as their new one. This was just the latest of many moves that the unit had made on its fast retreat south from Mersing, on the east coast of the Malayan peninsula.
As bad as Digger’s situation in the monsoon drain was, he was confident that he would survive. He’d always had the ability to look ahead to a positive outcome rather than dwell on a present problem. This had sustained him when the bigger lads beat him up during his first year at Hyde Street State School in Melbourne. Even as he was losing the fight, he had still tried his best to give as much pain as he received, and he knew that as soon as he was able, he would plan revenge.
Despite the occasional bullying incident at school, Digger had thoroughly enjoyed his early childhood and his teen years. He had great mates, who, regardless of the hardships of the times, were together able to create adventures that saw them grow and develop into young men eager to enter adult life.
Perhaps because of the way he had spent his youth, Digger had a perpetual optimism that he was always able to call on, no matter how dire the circumstances. This was to stand him, and his mates, in very good stead over the next few years. They would indeed need all Digger’s ability and positive attitude, and much more besides, in order simply to survive.
Part 1
The Years of Learning
Chapter 1
The Early Years
Digger was born David William Barrett in Charlestown, New South Wales, on 18 February 1922, the third child of David and Ethel Barrett. Their eldest child was Reginald, and then there was Digger’s sister, Iris. From the moment he was born, his father called him Digger, and the name had stuck. Perhaps his father recognised a fighting spirit in his son, or perhaps it was just that he had served in the Australian Army towards the end of World War I. For whatever reason, Digger’s nickname endured.
In 1926 the whole family moved to Footscray in Melbourne, where Digger’s father went to work in a foundry. He was a good family provider. In 1928 the family moved a short distance to a shop premises in Barkly Street, Footscray. Digger, Reginald and Iris were transferred to the nearby Geelong Road State School.
During the 1920s, most women whose husbands had a job were content to be housewives. However, this move to rent and operate a shop was Ethel’s idea. Digger’s mother not only took care of the family, but also eventually became the main breadwinner as well.
David Barrett senior, Digger’s father, always remained aloof from the children, and it was Ethel who supplied all the love and care. Perhaps the hard foundry work and long hours sapped his strength, as he never seemed to have the energy required for a loving relationship with his wife and children. Even when he was a young child, Digger’s father was remote and unapproachable. Digger was never afraid of him, but he was belted for talking back to him on several occasions.
Digger’s father was gruff and brutal. As a boy, Digger thought this brutality was because his father was an Englishman. The other men he knew were the fathers of his schoolmates, who were generally good fun and friendly towards their children, and they weren’t English. It never occurred to Digger to question this reasoning until he was practically an adult.
His father had deserted from the British army and boarded a ship bound for Australia, subsequently jumping ship in Adelaide – or so Digger understood. He had changed his surname from Barrett to Sowter to protect himself from the authorities. He was David Sowter when he met and married Ethel, and had only changed his name back to Barrett just before Digger’s birth, by which time he felt it was safe to do so. As a result, Digger’s sister and brother both had the surname Sowter.
The shop Ethel Barrett rented – at 311 Barkly Street, Footscray – was big and airy, although it had only one large display window looking onto the street. The lounge room, dining room and kitchen were behind the shop, and the first floor had two bedrooms and a large landing. Digger, being the youngest, had his bed on the landing. There was a carport and several outhouses in the back yard, which was accessed through the lane at the side of the shop. Digger’s father would send him to the nearby Plough Hotel with a billy, which he would put on the bar, asking the barman to ‘fill her up, please’.
Ethel was no ordinary woman. Whereas many women would probably have sold children’s clothes or groceries, Ethel was interested in and knowledgeable about radio. Her shop sold various types of furniture, but its main product was American Van Ruyton radios. By the age of eight or nine, Digger, encouraged by his mum, was using part of a large storeroom in the shop to build crystal radio sets, which he traded at school.
Financial hardship in the 1920s and 1930s led many people to abandon their dogs. Digger turned this sad situation into another entrepreneurial activity. He rounded up stray dogs, took them home, fed them, washed them and groomed them. After kitting them out with collars and leads, he would
take them to the doors of houses in the up-market areas of town and sell them. This gift for enterprise, which was always encouraged by his mother, would serve Digger well in the future.
As he progressed through the grades at school in the early 1930s, Digger got only average marks for most subjects. He was interested in preparing for life after school but could not, at this early age, see the value of subjects such as history and geography. He certainly wanted to learn about people and how they lived and worked, but he considered that the present and his own future were much more important than someone else’s past.
Digger and some of his more adventurous friends would occasionally skip school and hitch a ride into town on the horse-drawn beer barrel cart, as it returned to the brewery with the empties from the Plough Hotel and other nearby pubs. He and his mates would then go exploring. When they were hungry, they would ask the nearest greengrocer for any ‘spec’ – fruit that was unfit for sale. When the time came to go home, they would simply go to the nearest police station and claim that they were lost. Digger’s father would come to collect the boys in the family’s 1928 Chevrolet. He never seemed to care that young Digger was wagging school.
In 1936 Digger left school. He was fourteen, and he went to work at the Australian Glass Factory in Melbourne. His boss was Tommy Hall, a friend of the Barrett family. Digger learned to stencil product manufacturers’ names onto glass bottles; the names were then baked onto the glass in a kiln. He was a good and reliable worker but had only marginally more enthusiasm for glass manufacturing than he’d had for school. However, the company’s management was pleased with his efforts, and Tommy Hall soon put him in charge of the stencilling section. Digger now had a few even younger boys working under him.
