In mid-February 1943, about 100 of the Perth sailors, including Bolt and his group, and 200 of the 7th Division machine-gunners were ordered into trucks at Changi and taken to Singapore railway station. There was a heavy mist over the harbour, which threatened rain. The POWs looked wistfully, with a trace of distant lust, at Chinese women, wearing yellow conical hats, red tops, discreet long blue skirts and black thongs.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Farrow said to Grout.
‘God! I hope not!’
‘Some of them looked sweet.’
‘No way!’
‘What?’
‘I’m a Richmond fan, yellow and black. They’re in Melbourne colours.’
The POWs had been promised plentiful food, fabulous Thai countryside and there was even mention of beautiful women, if they helped build a mighty railway for the Emperor, although it was not specified if he would ever see it. They could bring gramophones, blankets, clothing and mosquito nets. There would be no long marches. Transport would be provided for unfit men and luggage. Good canteens, always a selling point, would be at each work area. This workforce was one of the early ones but not the first. The Japanese had learned to make the project look enticing. In a sudden effort to step up the railway construction, which would run 280 miles over much difficult mountainous terrain and deep valleys, ill prisoners were allowed to join the group. The reasoning from the captors was that the task would be in such lovely conditions that the sufferers of malaria, beri-beri, dysentery and a dozen other ailments, including little understood mental illnesses, would be cured.
Very few of the POWs bought the propaganda. They had heard rumours that the Thai experience would be horrific, but for many it was a chance to move on from the confines of Changi. Perth’s sailors were being splintered into small work groups, and sent to a variety of places in Burma, Thailand and Japan. Bolt’s group, despite some differences among them, stayed together for the Thailand venture.
As they waited at the station, Japanese spokesmen, with their struggling English pronunciation, began to provide a different picture of their journey.
‘Thais are thieves,’ the POWs were told, ‘keep hold of all possessions. Thais like footwear. They will steal your boots.’
They were informed of a strict no pets rule. Bolt, with Red Lead perched neatly inside his pack, had one small bargaining chip left, along with 200 of the American dollars he’d won in roulette games in Changi.
Grout, Tait and Farrow were nervous for him and the cat.
‘What are you going to do?’ Grout whispered as they waited.
‘Pray?’ Bolt said, noticing a Japanese sergeant who would be in charge of the train they would soon be taking.
‘That’s bloody Hoto, isn’t it?’ Tait said first.
‘And fucking Little Hitler with him.’ Nadler groaned. ‘God bugger me dead! Those bastards!’
Bolt stepped out of the line and called, ‘Sergeant Hoto, over here.’
Hoto looked around sharply and marched to Bolt.
‘Not feeling too well,’ Bolt said. ‘Is there a sick bay?’
He pressed the money into Hoto’s hand.
Hoto didn’t react. He bellowed for Little Hitler to take Bolt on board, and followed them into a carriage. Little Hitler was dismissed. Hoto asked what he wanted.
Bolt loosened his wristwatch.
‘This is pure gold,’ he said under his breath. ‘I want you to have it.’
Hoto examined it.
‘Why?’ he said with a dead stare.
‘You will be able to sell it on the black market for five hundred American dollars. Very expensive. Try it on.’
Hoto did so.
‘Looks so good on you, Sergeant.’
Hoto glanced at Bolt’s pack, but said nothing and the two men returned to the wharf. The POWs were given a long list of rules for the Thai assignment. They included no animals being allowed. Bolt was nervous about the mercurial Hoto double-crossing him about Red Lead. The cat, for her part, was not moving in the pack. It was hot. Bolt opened the top a little more and patted her. She was sleeping. Her breathing was not laboured. Red Lead was getting used to the travel. As long as she was with her small tribe of humans, she was content.
At 2 p.m. the men were ordered into closed iron carriages, with two open carriages for the Japanese guards controlled by Hoto. The train jolted off across Singapore island, causing some POWs to lose their footing.
‘Bloody Jap driver,’ someone complained.
‘Give him a break,’ Grout said, ‘the train has square wheels.’
A couple of POWs glanced at him, unsure if he was serious. Seeing this, Grout added, ‘Haven’t invented round ones here, yet.’
The men complained to the one Japanese guard about the heat. He opened the sliding door about 2 feet. The POWs took it in turns to look out at the scenery, which was at times depressing. Big oil trucks had been flattened like tin cans, and now sat in black pools far too familiar to the sailors. Hundreds of women were doing the dirty work of cleaning up after the men of war.
They reached the causeway joining the island to Malaya. It had been partially broken up by bombs from the retreating British, Indians and Australians. The train passed the Sultan of Johor’s palace, with its square tower, from which the Japanese had planned Singapore’s invasion and destruction.
‘The guys in the eighth wanted to blow that palace,’ a soldier said, ‘but the flamin’ British wouldn’t let ’em. Didn’t want to upset the sultan and his bloody harem, hundreds of young, gorgeous women.’
No one knew if this was true or not, but it sounded good to the companion-starved POWs.
‘We can always pick ’em up on the way back,’ Grout said, giving the thirsty men a laugh, and a fleeting covetous thought, or three.
The men soon stopped viewing the land, which was just miles of monotonous green rubber plantations.
The first leg of the journey was broken up by two pit stops, in which the POWs were ordered to ‘do their business’.
‘Crap on demand, fellas,’ a POW said, ‘or forever hold thy stink.’
Bolt opened the pack to allow Red Lead her moment.
‘Geez, you’ve let the cat out of the bag now, mate,’ someone said. Bolt was too busy to respond. He had one eye on Red Lead, who obliged his urgings, while relieving himself.
Red Lead in diligent, hygienic cat fashion, scrapped over her deposit.
‘Hey, Red Lead,’ one man called, ‘can you do mine too?’
She sniffed around, bent low. Bolt grabbed her and placed her back in the pack, making sure she had enough satisfying sips of water from his bottle.
The cramped journey continued for many hours until they reached a further stopping point at midnight. As they filed out of the train to a platform, someone asked where they were.
‘Gemas,’ the guard said.
‘Gemas or Venice?’ Grout said, but there were no laughs. The men were fatigued. They were livened a fraction by food, the usual rice fare, but with a dash of something green, which could have been curry soup.
‘My gosh,’ a POW remarked, ‘this has flavour.’
‘Yeah, dog vomit,’ came an unpopular reply.
After almost an hour’s break the irritated, increasingly silent POWs were steered to the carriages again for the onward journey of seven hours to the Malayan capital of Kuala Lumpur.
Their arrival there saw the men stampede for the water tower. They yanked down a hose which poured out the life-giving liquid. It was variously drunk or used to wash by hundreds of dirty travellers. Bolt hung back, not wanting Red Lead to get swamped or drowned in the rush and crush. He took her gently from the bag. She was drowsy. She recovered and, to Bolt’s shock, rushed to joined the milling rugby scrum in the communal shower. Guards waded in, punching and belting the POWs, one of whom stood on Red Lead’s tail. She gave a high-pitched yelp. Drenched, she dashed to the worried Bolt. But he did not scold her. She needed a reassuring pat on her wet, matted fur.
Once order was restored, the men were given their breakfast, which was the same gruel of rice and green curry-tasting soup. Some men had a bad reaction even before continuing the journey, and the train was held up while they vomited or defecated.
The next leg, in bright sunshine, saw the metal door opened even further. More rubber plantations were replaced with hills and valleys of various shades of green, with the odd farm visible. The war had been over here for nearly a year, but evidence of it was strewn everywhere. A long graveyard of cars, interspersed with tanks of some sort, predominated. The men were aroused by the occasional sight of downed Japanese fighter planes, broken like kids’ abandoned toys. There were happy gasps and finger-pointing directed at the Japanese guard, who knew what was exciting his charges.
There was nothing he could do and would be overwhelmed if he attacked anyone. He glared or looked away. He became angry and threatened to close the door. The guard seemed apprehensive, as if he could be rushed and thrown out of the moving train.
The heat made most of the POWs listless and they slept fitfully, only to be bundled out for two more pit stops, and then, at 9.30 p.m., they were offered the inevitable rice meal, at Ipoh. There was another scramble for the water tower. Bolt wandered away from it to let Red Lead stretch. He was concerned she would disappear in the dark.
The dispiriting travel became a serious grind for the ill, and even the fit men. Finding water became the main concern and Bolt and his group made sure they filled their bottles at each stop. Another night, followed by breakfast, took them deeper into Malaya and closer to their destination, the promised Thailand.
Rice fields, duller and more monochrome than even the rubber plantations, took over. The terrain became more rugged, but the men were too bored, listless and disgruntled to take much of it in. The days were suffocating; the nights cold, and the men were glad of even their thin blankets.
The only relief came from Bolt reciting every stanza of Banjo Paterson’s ‘The Man from Snowy River’, with the same spirit he’d delivered ‘Clancy’ earlier. That encouraged singing and football songs, along with howls of protest. The guard looked on, perplexed at these very strange, rugged humans from Australia who’d rather endure this hardship than die for their king. Yet the guard smiled for the first time at a stirring rendition of ‘Waltzing Matilda’, followed by ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ and ‘Where the Dog Sits on the Tuckerbox’. Not all of them knew the words for each, yet they sang along. It brightened them for an hour, and even the guard received a cheer when urged to join in with words he didn’t understand or couldn’t pronounce.