Tea love and war, p.20
Tea, Love and War, page 20
And so the stories of retreats and rearguard actions continued. We guessed that the newspapers were probably restricted from telling us the whole truth. On 24th January my father wrote again:
My dear Stuart
No news from you since the arrival of the Christmas cable and letter news up to mid November. It may be weeks before we hear from you. Malaya is indeed an anxiety for us both from the general and personal point of view. Tonight only sixty-five miles from Singapore! How much further? Can we reply effectively? We continue to hope and personally I remain hopeful because the impossible cannot happen. And tonight another retreat in Libya! It is a good thing Russia keeps on so wonderfully. She is absolutely marvellous…
Poor mother, listening to the news hour by hour, depressively downhearted but with an overlay of nervous energy keeping her going until the next transmission. One of her letters started:
Darling Tootoo
The days drag on and no word from you and we don’t want word of as that might be bad news. We try, but it is impossible to picture what you are going through …
Despairing, we read of the advance of the Japanese army down the peninsula, finally as far as Johore. We were now aware that the enemy forces had reached the straits overlooking Singapore Island itself. My father wrote:
7th February 1942
My dear Stuart
We have been extremely anxious for two months and now if possible the anxiety is increasing owing to the lapse of time and no news. Our main comfort is that we feel that it is probable that the exigencies of the situation prevent your sending a cable. It is now the siege of Singapore and the dice are hardly loaded in your favour. But we hope that you are back there and that you will be protected.
The whole of Britain was holding its breath. The nation had been taught that Singapore was impregnable, my father not alone in saying that ‘the impossible cannot happen’. Having said that we had been knocked sideways by the news of the loss of the Repulse and Prince of Wales which had been a massive body blow to national morale. Daily news of constant retreats only added to the collective anxiety.
There was huge excitement at Morland Avenue when a letter in Stuart’s distinctive handwriting finally arrived. As my mother and I identified the airmail envelope on the mat behind the letterbox we fell on it and tore it open.
25th December 1941.
What a Christmas! Last two or three days not so bad but for bombing. Got last letter in lull before storm. Went on train to Thailand, blown a large bridge day after storm broke and not many sensations have not been through in last fortnight. Not under shell fire (save mortars) but pretty well everything else. In the line as infantry – very unpleasant. Writing on knee in lorry. Lost count of bridges blown up – nearly broken my heart, smashing of engines. Have had wind up sky high at times. Fear of unknown, not as frightened under rifle and machine gun fire as expected. Lost lot of friends. Bill Williamson, etc. Hope will rebuild bridges and hope Jap success is flash in pan and we’ll push them back to the sea. Lot of things to settle, lost most of kit, all mufti, photos, etc. As soon as the Yanks get going, can’t lose now if we tried! Damnation to the Japs!
Once we had devoured the contents we telephoned my father in Nottingham to tell him that a letter had come through. He came home early and must have read the letter through three times before he was able to speak. It was obvious that he was so very pleased, as were we all, that we had such news of Stuart’s exploits.
Depressingly, my sensible father soon poured cold water on our initial enthusiasm by reminding us that the date of the letter coincided with the Christmas telegram. In other words, it told us nothing about Stuart’s survival that we did not know already. A desperate month of the campaign had passed in the meantime.
When Arthur came home to our flat that night he and I went through every word that had been written. Whilst we had at least some news to pass on to friends and family we were all aware that the absence of anything more up to date did not bode well.
The very next day the newspapers carried the headline
CAUSEWAY BLOWN; BATTLE OF SINGAPORE BEGINS
followed by a quotation from ‘Lieutenant-General A E Percival G O C Malaya’:
The battle of Malaya has come to an end and the battle of Singapore has started. For nearly two months our troops have fought an enemy who has had the advantage of great air superiority and considerable freedom of movement by sea. Our task has been both to impose losses on the enemy and to gain time to enable the forces of the Allies to be concentrated for this struggle in the Far East. Today we stand beleaguered in our island fortress. Our task is to hold this fortress until help can come, as assuredly it will.
Britain was in the grip of one of the worst winters in memory. Snow continued to fall and villages were cut off. In Cheshire there was continuous snowfall for twelve solid hours. My father was finding it very difficult to commute to Nottingham and even trips to the local shops were hazardous. It seemed unreal to be reading of the heat and humidity of fighting conditions in Malaya whilst we were battling with snowdrifts and huddling round our gas fire to keep warm.
On 6th February we were told that even soap was to be rationed, to only four ounces per person per week: such were the minor, if real, hardships at home as we struggled to come to terms with potential defeat in the Far East. Life was full of extraordinary contrasts.
We hoped and prayed that the news of reinforcements approaching Singapore would turn the situation round but then, often on the same day, we heard of oil tanks being ablaze and continuous bombing raids by the Japanese air force. What were we to believe?
Two more weeks of desperate anxiety, the whole country speculating about what was happening. Despite his iron external control I could see my father’s dread of the outcome. Finally, on 15th February 1942, there came the announcement over the radio.
Our army in Singapore had surrendered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The nation was horrified. We had thought that Singapore was impregnable – how could this have happened? From our personal point of view we did not know what to think, we had had no direct information, and now we began to hear of huge numbers of prisoners of war. Had Stuart survived? Was he wounded and would we hear of him from hospital? Would details of prisoners not come through soon?
Once more we gathered round the wireless set to hear Winston Churchill’s words:
A heavy and far-reaching military defeat – one of those moments when the British nation could draw from the heart of misfortune the vital impulse of victory. We must not underrate the power and malice of our latest foe. But neither must we undervalue the gigantic overwhelming forces which now stand in the line with us in this world struggle for freedom.
We appreciated the sheer scale of the tragedy with tens of thousands of troops involved, we read and read again the details of the casualties as they were published, but there was so little precise information available.
Japanese claim to have taken prisoner 60,000 imperial troops at Singapore, figures are not disputed in London where, however, it is pointed out that no exact figure can be given until the casualties are known. Tokyo states that this force consisted of 15,000 British, 13,000 Australian and 32,000 Indian soldiers.
Was Stuart one of these? One could only sit and hope whilst life went on and my pregnancy advanced.
Then particular fears emerged as news came in of Japanese atrocities towards troops in Hong Kong. Our government confirmed the worrying news that
there have been no reports of treatment of prisoners and the Government could not regard the situation as satisfactory until Japan allowed the International Red Cross to function.
As we continued to shiver and the newspapers reported that February 1942 had been colder over England and Wales than any February since 1895, we read that the Red Cross had protested over ‘Japanese barbarity’ in Hong Kong
which would come as an especial shock to all the relatives of the many thousands of British subjects who have fallen into Japanese hands.
There were also fears that Australia was at risk of invasion. Darwin had been bombed by the Japanese and the Australian nation was mobilized. The fate of individual soldiers on Singapore Island seemed almost to have been forgotten.
It was on 31st March, over six weeks after the surrender, that an envelope came from the War Office addressed to my father. By chance he was at home that day and we gathered round as he opened it. I could see him fighting for control as he saw the reference at the top of the page:
0.8.2187. P (Casualties)
He read the letter carefully but not out loud, simply said ‘missing’ and passed the letter to my mother who then gave it to me when her tears prevented her from reading further. I remember the key passage:
I am directed to inform you that according to the latest information available in this office your son, 2nd Lieutenant S V Poyser, Royal Engineers, was serving in Malaya during the hostilities which terminated in the capitulation of Singapore on the 15th February 1942. Every endeavour is being made through diplomatic and other channels to obtain information concerning him. It is hoped that he is safe and, although he may be a prisoner of war, it is necessary to post him as ‘missing’ pending receipt of some definite information.
We were at the same time enormously depressed and slightly relieved. Depressed because we all knew that a ‘missing’ letter was usually the prelude to the worst news coming; marginally relieved because there was no actual confirmation that he had been killed. We knew that the number of prisoners of war was huge and we felt sure that very many of them must be unaccounted for in the particular circumstances of the surrender.
That evening Arthur tried to reassure me by stressing the words ‘it is hoped that he is safe’. He felt that at least there was some hope.
I occupied myself by copying out Stuart’s Christmas letter and the War Office letter by hand and sending them on to relatives and friends. We of course spoke to Louise on the telephone and I sent the letters to Stuart’s old girlfriends, to the Blacks in Scotland and to Epsom College.
Then, ironically but dramatically, another letter reached us apparently written on 15th January, four weeks before the fall of Singapore.
15th January 1942
No.3 Field Company S/M Malaya
I am still whole and fit, how or why I don’t quite know, but I am. I’ve been very lucky. We are ‘out of it’ now for a bit, back behind the line to refit and reform.
I think I last wrote about Christmas, it seems years ago. I haven’t had a letter or anything from anyone since the war started. I haven’t seen a newspaper more than once or twice, and only heard the wireless about three times, we get odd pamphlets about the outside world sometimes.
I am now 2nd in command. Teasdel and I are the only one’s left of the original officers of 3rd Company who sailed overseas. Beattie went three or four days ago, he may be still alive, no-one actually saw him killed, but he will be even luckier than I was if he gets back. I’ve lost everything I possess three times!!! That is I’ve collected, begged, borrowed or stolen another set including three cars and lost each one, the only original things I possess are my boots, revolver and identity discs!
I almost had a direct hit on one car by a large bomb, I have now got Beattie’s clothes on and managed to collect another car. I was cut off three times in eight hours, four days ago, and lay in a ditch for the five longest minutes of my life with a Jap tank on the road within six feet of me and hell going on all around, our own guns and bullets bursting all around me. I shall perhaps be able to tell you all the details one day.
I’ve wandered about alone in a swamp and jungle like a hunted animal but by the grace of God I’ve got back. I did one walk of 20 miles non-stop, I daren’t stop as I’d never have started again!
I’ve had adventures and thrills and frights to last a hundred lifetimes. Almost the longest retreat in history and being Sappers just about the last back all along, I can’t wait to tell you the bridges I’ve blown up and the scorched earth I’ve created. I’ve lived through the last month’s hell and now for the first time I’ve done everything – eaten, washed, shaved, rested and stand a good chance of being alive this time next week!!
What a life! What a war! But we’ll be OK soon now that aeroplanes and help are arriving. What a lot of bridges we shall have to build. We shall become as expert as we have become at destroying them, there are not many people who have blown up as many bridges as I have, we Sappers in Malaya must be the demolition experts of the world!!
I’ll try and send a cable to let you know I’m OK. We may be able to get some mail now, and there is some chance of the mail going if it reaches you (I wonder if my other two letters did?) Let Louise know, she is probably worried, poor girl.
Quite a lot of planters have got through, the devil looks after its own! Roach of Digboi, Bill Merton and Bill Williamson are the only one’s who haven’t as far as I know. Poor old Roach was killed quite near me. Rusty Howell is OK.
Well, touch wood I may be able to write again soon, heaven only knows but it looks as if we are out of it for a day or two.
Take care of yourselves, keep smiling and DON’T WORRY
Love to you all
Stuart
It was an amazing description of events and when my father read it I could see his enormous pride in what Stuart had been through, contrasting with his desperation that his son was missing and probably dead.
I read the letter so many times that I could have recited it word for word.‘… wandered alone in the jungle like a hunted animal’ – the phrases went round and round in my brain. Again I copied out the letter and circulated it to Louise and others.
But was my brother still alive?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The baby, nicknamed ‘Boady’ (being short for Boadicea), was due on 23rd April 1942 but was late. It was not the best of times. Everyone was very tense, Arthur was very tired and overworked, my father was depressed with the lack of news of Stuart and my mother was not only clinically depressed but also had very little help. Food was rationed and scarce.
On 2nd May I was admitted to Fielding Johnson Hospital and after thirty-six hours of long and difficult labour our son Christopher Stuart Martin Mitchell was born. In the circumstances it was appropriate that Arthur and I should choose Stuart as the second name.
Sadly, I was badly nursed – indeed the sister in charge resigned afterwards, apparently by way of admission of what had gone wrong. I was in great discomfort with lots of stitches and could not sleep; in my exhaustion I got out of bed when I was not meant to and went downhill as a result. I was ordered to have full-time nursing and it was three long weeks before I was discharged. I had difficulty feeding Christopher and felt wretched; I ran a temperature and deep breast abscesses were diagnosed. I was operated on at the house and the abscesses were filled with yards of dressing and gauze; my temperature peaked at 104 degrees and another operation was needed. It was ten weeks before Arthur and I were to be together again in our small Springfield Road flat.
Arthur was a very proud father and helped with the baby in every way he could. In his spare time he retired to our small bathroom where he had started to build ‘the Red Engine’, a three-foot-long wooden model of a railway engine with big wooden wheels ready for the toddler that Christopher was soon to become. The sounds of sawing and sanding lasted well into each carpentry night and I had to become immune to the sawdust that stood on each bathroom surface and permeated our small flat.
At weekends we would sometimes go to Stratford to show Christopher off to his paternal grandparents or perhaps to Birmingham to catch up with old friends. Bill Gaman, Stuart and Arthur’s great friend from Birmingham with whom we had been skiing on that memorable holiday in Val d’Isère, and his wife Huldah had also become parents for the first time. Bill, all six foot six of him, became one of Christopher’s godfathers. An example of the light- hearted exchanges they had is found in the note that Bill wrote from Birmingham in May 1942 enclosing a poem headed ‘Father’s Lament’ which included the verses:
Christopher Stuart has boisterous poise
(and John C Gaman’s noise annoys)
In later years they’ll wax their skis
And soar uphill into the breeze
They’ll be boys with quelque poise …
Now Mary has a little lamb
And Huldah Mary too
Before so long the erstwhile pram
Will be somewhat ‘de trop’
When Christopher Stuart is six feet two
And father ninety-six
There’ll be some fun, that’s mighty true
When Stuart’s up to his tricks.
Not to be outdone, Arthur responded with his own poem, ‘Reply to a Father’s Lament’:
Why should you grieve so, laddy
It really isn’t right
The fact that you’re a daddy
Should make the world seem bright!
I think myself quite clever
To do what I have done
In my cap’s a feather
And I think it’s fun
So dry your tears, you silly goofs
And let your feelings loose
For I am simply cock-a-hoop
Come, Gaman, shall we schusse?
Despite the excitement of Christopher’s arrival, and the attention that he attracted from family and friends, our fears as to Stuart’s fate hung over us. It was the wait that was the worst, month after month and no news. Somehow an important part of each of our lives was in limbo.
North Africa, Italy and Greece were new battlegrounds. In the East, Burma had fallen with massive casualties. The news that General Orde Wingate’s Chindits were making incursions as a prelude to an Allied reinvasion of Burma failed to raise our spirits.
Inevitably we were no longer optimistic that Stuart might somehow have survived as a prisoner.
Then, nearly four months after Singapore had fallen, a letter arrived from Lieutenant Colonel Steedman from Bangalore:
