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Part 3 Continued. Eventually, after repeated attempts the “Penny Dropped” and he spat on the ground muttering a curse to “George” and was let off. We were all a lot wiser after this lesson. Then came the day of revenge for the entire Chinese population. It was called “Sook Ching” meaning purge through purification. Really it was the wrath of the conquerors for the Chinese fund-raising campaigns and military support given to the British. They came to our flat shouting “Chin-na, Chin-na” and with fixed bayonets all Chinese including Ah Foo our amah were forced onto the street. In haste she took some food and water which was as well, as none was provided. I dashed to the window and watched in horror the hundreds of Chinese men, women and children herded along Hill Street like cattle, because some of the soldiers carried long bamboo canes. It was such a sad sight, the old and sick carried by relatives and friends, children crying and those older women with bound feet trotting along trying to keep pace with this flow of humanity towards Fort Canning. No one knew what was happening so fear showed in all their faces. The “purification” took about three days in various Mass-screening centres throughout the Island resulting in the massacre of several thousand people. After the war there were War Crimes Trials for the perpetrators. All males were categorised, Towkays or merchants, Civil Servants, Students etc. and those fortunate to be released, went on their way with an “Examined” ink stamp or chop on their arm. The unfortunate ones were the Communist, Volunteer Forces and Secret society members identified by tattoos. Also anyone picked out by hooded men. All were driven away in trucks and executed at various places like Changi beach, and Blakang Mati Island, now renamed “Sentosa”. The name “Blakang Mati” means After Death. It was a pre-war fashion amongst young Chinese men, to have five dots tattooed on their hands between the thumb and forefinger to impress their peers, as it meant membership of a secret society. Now it was a one-way ticket to paradise, as the Japs looked at all hands. Some of the cadets I had admired at St. Patrick’s school were now also doomed. With the economy in ruins and our lives shattered, the Japanese Military Administration called “Gunseikanbu”, began to repair the war-ravaged city. All municipal workers were ordered back to work, so water and electricity supplies returned to normal. The huge stinking heaps of rotting rubbish were removed to everyone’s relief. British and Australian prisoners were put to work on the bomb-damaged buildings, which included the Chinese school opposite our flat. They seemed quite cheerful, working with sledgehammers and shovels clearing the debris, and the Jap guards left the supervision to their own officers, because of language difficulties. This meant that the officers could move freely from one site to another, and as time went by they took advantage of this freedom. When out of sight of the guards, with nods and hand signals, we boys would pass on food, soap etc. and also arrange luncheon meetings. These were very tense affairs, and I can remember Auntie shaking with fear. Captain Wallace of the Australian army took down our names in his notebook, saying that when the war was over, we would receive thanks from his government. On reflection, this was sheer madness because if the Japs got hold of his notebook, we were done for. They were crazy times and we all lived dangerously. After a while all this fraternisation had to stop, because the Japs got wise and responded cruelly, both to the prisoners and the civilians caught. This reminds me of an incident I witnessed in nearby China Town. I was on an errand for Dad passing some prisoners working on a bombe site when I noticed a well-dressed Chinese woman alight from a rickshaw. She beckoned a small Chinese boy nearby, and asked him to hand over to the prisoners a loaf of bread she had in a bag. No sooner had he done so, when I heard a loud “Kurra” and from nowhere a guard grabbed the frightened boy. Trussed up with rope like a terrified chicken, he was hung up on some metal railings facing the working party. With his wailing in my ears I made a hasty exit from the scene. It is with embarrassment and sadness that I recall a foolish boyhood prank of mine that went horribly wrong. Parked rickshaws with their tired skinny owners taking an afternoon nap, was a regular scene on the street below our flat. I had just packaged in newspaper some fish heads, guts and tails for disposal in the kitchen. Then looking out of the window, I thought it a good laugh to throw it down on a rickshaw puller fast asleep with his mouth wide open. Unfortunately the package missed its target falling into the middle of the road instead. To my horror a prisoner working in the bombed Chinese school opposite, saw the package and thinking it was food, ran out and picked it up. I felt awful but consoled myself that the Jap guard didn’t see him, so no harm was done except to his feelings. Dad decided to return to our home in Katong to see if there was any thing we could salvage. We managed to borrow some bicycles for the long ride via the Kallang Bridge and were apprehensive of the many road checkpoints ahead. We got through the city ones all right, without loosing our bikes, and knew the bowing routine well. Approaching the Kallang Bridge we joined a queue of people waiting to bow to the sentry there. The usual shouting from the Japs who were particularly agitated was going on, and as usual I saw a few terrified Chinese bound with rope at the side of the road, awaiting their fate. We then had to line up at a table for interrogation, and finally crossed the bridge, then once again joined another queue to bow to the sentry there. It was then that I saw some headless corpses on the river mud bank below. With great relief, we finally arrived safely at Lorong Stangee, and saw the house still standing amongst the coconut trees in the soft white sand. ��ѿ��ý at last! The Malay family came out to greet us but they looked uneasy, and a bit afraid. In fact they seemed surprised to see us alive and said how fortunate we were to have been away at the time the Japs rushed our house with drawn swords and bayonets. Apparently someone had told them white people lived there. Of course there was nothing to salvage from the place, ankle deep in litter. Later, when chatting to the Malays in their home, I noticed our bed in their back room. Fair enough, we got a whole flat “For free”. When some normality returned, we or at least Dad had to decide how we were going to support ourselves. British currency was invalid and the new Nippon currency looking like monopoly money had to be earned. Eurasians had white-collar jobs and thought themselves a cut above the others, were now bottom of the pile and had to do menial jobs. Everyone was theoretically financially equal and all debts were cancelled, so Dad’s bankruptcy was over. Of course, those who had cash at home and stacks of food hidden were all right. British currency was used in the black market as well as barter. Caught dealing in British currency was “Death”. Dad started selling the contents of the flat, like curtains sheets etc, but one sheet we kept to make a “Nippon” flag. I can’t remember where we got the red for the rising sun, perhaps a dressing gown. Every house or flat had to display a flag or else! It is amazing how ingenious we all were at such a difficult time. The flags in our street gave it a carnival-like appearance and some flags had oval shaped suns. Dad was overweight, loved cooking and his food too, now had a bright idea. He would turn our flat into a “Lunch Only” restaurant for a select few clientele. They would come from the offices in the City nearby. Food rationing hadn’t been enforced then, but later when it did, we took their coupons for the rice etc. So with Dad and Ah Foo in the kitchen cooking on charcoal burning clay stoves we were in business. It was a success. We had an Armenian woman, a Parsee and a Russian-Chinese gentleman called Stephan from Hong Kong, as some of our exclusive customers. L and I helped in the food preparation and also the shopping in the local markets. I didn’t like going into China Town because of the bullying from the Chinese boys there. They were particularly nasty, calling us names like “Angmo kia” which meant “White monkey”, spitting at us and provoking fights. The other job we did, was delivering lunches to the offices in the city on an old bicycle we acquired somewhere. The rice, curry and desert would go into a “Tiffin carrier” in separate containers carried one on each handle bar with the rest on the rear carrier. I didn’t mind this task but dreaded the checkpoint at Anderson Bridge over the Singapore River leading to the city. One day after dismounting from the bike I noticed a crowd near the bridge so I went to see what the attraction was. Being small I had to push through the crowd to the front and what confronted me I shall never forget. There on a wooden platform was the head of a man, bruised and battered with a notice in Japanese pinned to his matted black hair. I was so petrified I froze, staring at his blackened eyes and bruised cheekbone. From behind a Japanese soldier pushed pass me, grabbed the head and started reading the message, then he put it down on its ear. The sight of the tubes etc and the wrinkled black edge of the neck will always haunt me. In total I saw eight decapitated heads at various places. Usually covered in flies as they were left for days to impress on the people that thieving or disobedience would not be tolerated. Auntie had a Chinese “Towkay” friend who imported “Gula Melaka” which is dark brown sugar, from one of the nearby Islands. Somehow both E and Auntie became his business associates by distributing the hard round cakes of sugar to customers all over town. They wore large straw hats and walked miles in the hot sun carrying heavy baskets. Worn out at the end of the day, they earned a few of the new Nippon dollars, but it was a slog. Eventually a sort of normality settled in, the road checkpoints disappeared, there were few prisoners working around us, and we were left alone by the Japs to get on with our lives as best we could. Security was still tight as most of the Jap army was in transit for other theatres of war like the Dutch East Indies, New Guinea and Australia. I often watched sweating columns of Jap troops marching with all their guns and equipment towards the docks, also thousands of miserable prisoners. Perhaps some were going to the railway station bound for the infamous Burma Siam railway. Clad in ragged uniforms with monsoon capes when it was raining, they weren’t the happy whistling lot depicted in post-war films that I have seen, and they always avoided looking my way as we passed. Their tiny aggressive guards with long fixed bayonets on their rifles made sure there was no fraternisation with the locals. Perhaps some were going to the railway station bound for the infamous Burma Siam railway. We also saw many bombers and Zero fighters fly low overhead, their strange camouflage quite fascinating. Their Navy too called into port, but we never saw the ships close up. All in white uniforms the sailors looked particularly tiny. They used the ex. Union Jack club as their HQ. Army discipline on the streets was enforced with savage brutality. Soldiers or Sailors caught improperly dressed or breaking the rules were beaten by roving patrols, the officer in charge wearing a bright red sash across his chest. The offender although knocked to the ground several times, would leap up, stand to attention and take more blows. Seeing this quite regularly, we civilians realised why no mercy was shown to us. Officers of higher rank were driven around in ex. British staff cars, bearing red or yellow flags, the latter being the more important. With horns blaring, they would attract smart salutes from all the troops and God help the soldier who was slow in doing so. “Banjo” meaning lavatory was a word, which caused confusion and some laughter in the shopping arcades when they got the “Singapore trots”. All troops carried bayonets on leave so many a shopkeeper was threatened in the bargaining process, and in an argument would come off worst.Once I saw a rickshaw puller demand more money and when he was told “no” by the soldier, he muttered a curse. He was immediately grabbed by the soldier and thrown all over the street like a rag doll. When unconscious, the poor fellow’s rickshaw was smashed to bits like matchwood, the two large wheels kicked out of shape. I know why “Jujitsu” is called a martial art. One day in China town, I heard the loud crashing sound of crockery and when I went to see what was going on, I saw a dissatisfied Jap customer knocking down the dozens of china bowls whilst the stall owner looked on in horror. Obviously he didn’t enjoy his noodles. When the schools reopened we were required to attend St. Joseph’s, our old school on the Bras Basah road.

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