The Australians from 7th Division and Perth were trucked to Selarang Barracks, between Changi prison and the township of Selarang near the north-eastern tip of the island. The Barracks had been occupied by 900 Gordon Highlander Regiment soldiers and their families before the war. It had six three-storey, reinforced-concrete blocks. One building served as a kitchen. A small building at the other end of the square housed a clock tower. It had been put on Tokyo time, as had all the other timepieces in Singapore. The island even had a new name, Syonan, ‘Light of the South’.
Bolt and the men from Hut 68, still together—Bright, Farrow, Tait, Nadler, Wallis and Grout—had their first glimpse of their new home, billed as a ‘holiday camp’ by the Japanese. They had been impressed when they first saw Changi’s surrounds. The vegetation was lush. Yet two months of pounding from bombs and artillery had destroyed the appearance of the immediate area around the barracks. The atmosphere was sombre. Buildings were flattened; farmhouses were charred; fields were pocked with craters.
On the first day, prisoners new and old mingled in the square, looking for mates among the 25,000 POWs of Australia’s 8th Army Division. There was much talk about who had drowned after Perth’s demise, especially by those sailors who had been taken out of the water by the Japanese Navy and shipped to Changi. This led into discussion about Javanese natives, some who had murdered as many as ten sailors. Gil Haget was not the only one to have a horrible end. The men recounted what they had seen. There were a couple of believable tales about killing the Javanese, and even one of knifing a Japanese man to death. Bolt said nothing about his own drowning of one enemy sailor. Bright, true to their original understanding, remained mute on the subject.
‘I’ll bet there have been more than a couple of Japs cleaned up by our boys,’ Bolt said quietly to Bright. ‘Like me, they’d be cautious about any loose talk.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Bright said. ‘The walls have ears.’
‘And perhaps a few traitors open to bribes.’
No one, not even the Japanese, knew what to do with the POWs for the moment. They were left to their own devices and organisation. There were plans for barbed wire, but it had been rolled out around only about half the perimeter, and it was not properly pegged upright.
Their captors knew there was nowhere for them to run or hide, if they did try to leave. It was made clear, as ever, that any such adventurers would be met by firing squad or beheading. This was a deterrent for most inmates, although there was already talk of how to get off Singapore. Bravado reigned. Nevertheless, there were bound to be attempts to escape, and bound to be even more executions.
Once again Bolt and his group were able to find suitable quarters—two rooms on a second-floor level with two sets of bunks each. Bright, Wallis, Nadler and Tait took one; Bolt, Grout and Farrow the other. This accommodation had recently been vacated, but no one could tell them why. Perhaps the previous inmates had been sent on clean-up work details in Singapore town. Or maybe they’d been shipped to Burma or Japan for as yet unspecified labour. The timing was good for Bolt and his group, who were pleased. They had a toilet down the hallway. Ceiling fans worked against the incessant sun and hot afternoon breezes.
Red Lead, as ever, had to adjust to a new abode. Bolt took her into the square where a boxer dog, formerly owned by one of the Scottish highlanders, confronted her. He was fat and friendly, but Red Lead was not happy with the encounter. He went to sniff her and she swiped him on the snout. The dog jumped back and appeared hurt by her aggression.
The dog’s keeper, a Perth survivor, was amazed to learn the cat was Red Lead.
‘Christ, she’s grown!’ he said. ‘I first saw her in late 1941. By the time Perth went down she was bigger. But now! I’ve seen cats as big. But not as strong looking in the front legs and torso.’
Bolt soon learned that the Changi inmates were allowed to keep pets. There were several dogs, a few cats, one owl, two guinea pigs, a couple of rabbits and even five snakes controlled by one digger from 8th Division who loved reptiles. Many POWs were allowed birds, some of them Singapore natives with startling plumage. Red Lead watched them from a second-floor ledge. Her head followed them as if watching a staggered tennis match. She was fascinated, perhaps by the red and green wings, or their juicy size. They would be more of a challenge to catch than the rats.
One day, Bolt watched her slope down the steps to a vegetable garden where she noticed a mouse. She trotted a few feet, and went down on her haunches as if to spring. Then, just as quickly, she lost interest. It seemed that while the rats were fair game, the little mouse was not. She didn’t even bother tormenting it with a playful paw.
Red Lead had more trouble adjusting than before. On the second day she explored close to the block and met a lazy brown Siamese cat with blobs of white fur on its head. Red Lead was intent on territorial activity, letting the other know she was already in charge of the second floor. The Siamese, also a female, was most disinterested in such primitive behaviour. She dawdled past the nervous Red Lead as if the new arrival was not there. Red Lead arched her back and hissed. The Siamese didn’t even glance back. Red Lead was left sitting and contemplating such indifferent behaviour. It could even have been a snub.
Noel, Grout and Bolt witnessed the cats ‘meeting’. Noel, in his usual way, offered unsolicited information.
‘They were talking,’ he said to Bolt. ‘Did you know that cats have a hundred sounds with which to communicate?’
‘Had no idea.’
‘Your cat said the most, but she wasn’t ignored. There was a little squeak from the Siamese.’
‘Could you work out the conversation?’
‘Not really.’
‘No idea?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘They can’t talk to each other,’ Grout said, with a head shake.
‘They communicate,’ Noel said adamantly.
‘Impossible. That brown cat is a Siamese, right? Red Lead came from Burma, right? They’re two distinct cultures, aren’t they? They don’t know each other’s language.’
Noel thought Grout was serious.
Bolt smiled and said, ‘You’re wrong, Grouty. Red Lead comes from Mae Sot, a town just inside the Thai side of the border with Burma. They are both from Thailand.’
After the cats’ low-key meeting Bolt discovered the owner of the Siamese was an English soldier in another block. His name was Private Harold Pint. He was about 38, and was as languid and listless as his pet. Harold had been in Changi for eight months and was resigned to his fate of ordinariness.
‘Better in some ways than back home in Birmingham,’ he said to Bolt. ‘At least the weather is better.’ He had no opinion on the war, except to say, ‘Da bloody bulldog [Churchill] will win it for us. Only upper-class I ever admired.’
Bolt was impressed with the activities in Changi and the fact that the captors kept well away and let Allied officers maintain discipline. There were schools for everything from languages and highland dancing to cooking and judo. Bolt considered running a vet clinic, and giving some instruction, but decided against it. He’d have to answer too many questions about why he had dropped out of his university course to go sailing. He also feared his lack of formal qualifications would be questioned.
Mail from Australia was delivered in December 1942, and Bolt joined the scramble to see if there were letters for him. There were 43, from family and friends. Only two were from his fiancée, Pamela Steer. He’d met her first when they were six years of age and he’d asked her to marry him then. She’d said ‘yes’, but then they did not see each other again for nearly three decades until she was making a name for herself as a cabaret singer and dancer. She was, in the Australian vernacular, a ‘stunner’. She was a brunette, taller than him, and as bright, although she opted for more artistic endeavours such as singing, dancing and painting. People often told him he was ‘fighting above his weight’ with her, but he never took such comments seriously. He admired her physical beauty yet it was her vibrancy and sharp wit that attracted him most. She was risqué with her humour, which belied her gentle manner and femininity.
He ripped open the most recent letter from her, which was dated August—making it three months old. He could not believe the content. It was, in effect, a ‘Dear John’ epistle. She had married another man, an Australian surgeon who had not enlisted. The brief one-pager informed Bolt that she had to tell him, if he were dead or alive. ‘You’ll never appreciate Bob. But after what he did for me … well you know the rest.’ Bolt couldn’t believe the words, which confused him anyway.
Red Lead, with her typical sensitivity, jumped on his lap and worked her paws on his stomach. He was stunned by the information. He had dreamt of marrying Pamela. Now she was with another. He cried softly. The cat began to purr. He lay on his lower bunk bed. Red Lead hopped on his chest and massaged him again. She purred louder and gently licked the tears running down his cheeks. Bolt felt the rough tongue, and cried more.
He couldn’t open the other 42 letters. Instead he went for a long walk around the barracks and the grounds, avoiding conversation with other POWs. After an hour he returned to his room, sat on the sofa, and opened the other letter from Pamela, dated 1 May 1942. Her words stunned him for a second time. In early March, a few days after Perth was sunk, she was in a motorcycle accident that resulted in a smashed leg which she had to have amputated.
‘I am your one-legged, non-dancing fiancée,’ she wrote. ‘Can you, will you, still want me, a sorrowful amputee? I ask that not knowing if you are dead or alive! There are so many rumours. One said that everyone on board was drowned. The other said you had all been beheaded. We just don’t know. Am I writing to a ghost? It’s like praying to God. He never answers! Well, not directly. I had a really good surgeon. He’s a “Mister”, which as you know is a Master Surgeon. A very handsome one too. Which reminds me. What will you do if you survive? Surely you won’t stay in the Navy? Will you finish your Vet degree? … I really can’t stand writing to a void!’
Bolt had to stop himself from crying again. Hurt as he was, he felt a deep sadness for his now former fiancée, who had high hopes that her singing and dancing would take her into the movies. He wished he had been there for her. His eyes welled again when he re-read her line asking if he would still want her.
‘Of course I would,’ he mumbled to himself, wiping away tears. He felt Red Lead land on the sofa next to him. When he ignored her, she pawed his arm. He stroked her neck and back, and scratched her under the chin, which she loved. He put the letter down and gave more attention to her. Bolt marvelled at her capacity to understand his moods.
He played with his gold watch, which was inscribed: ‘To my true love Dan, forever, Pamela’.
He shook his head.
‘Not now,’ he mumbled.
He tried to write a letter, and found himself pouring out recrimination, which he knew would be pointless and wrong, even if she had told him to his face, instead of by letter months after the events. He started but did not finish the letter knowing that even if he completed a reply it would probably never reach her.
The whole experience depressed him. He wondered about his future, any future. Pamela had ditched him for a master surgeon. Bolt mused that her mother, who was class conscious and snobbish, would be pleased. She had never thought her daughter should marry anything less. Certainly not an animal doctor and, worse still, a sailor.