There was a modicum of interest from inside the steel cage when they crossed the border into Thailand, recognisable by the change in lettering on the train stations. English, thanks to the British colonial influence in Singapore and Malaya, was replaced by Thai (Siamese) with Japanese subtitles. This put the men on edge. It registered a fear of the unknown, while at the same time creating some whispered talk about escape.
No one attempted to disabuse those contemplators of ‘freedom’. The passing parade of impenetrable jungle and skyscraper-high, thick bamboo caused such rebellious thoughts to be submerged. At least on the ocean or on Java there was a sense that escaping to Australia was not an impossible dream. Not even the sudden appearance of rice fields in the valleys of mountains, with razor-back ridges, gave hope.
The high escarpments and sheer cliff faces caused one World War I veteran to cry out: ‘Gallipoli!’ His meaning was clear. This was tough country to negotiate.
Noel, the Tasmanian over-burdened with knowledge, announced to the carriage that this was rich country, in terms of food, compared to the ones they’d been through.
‘Mangoes, apples, bananas—all kinds of fruit are here.’
‘No rice?’ Grout called out, and received a laugh.
‘There’s plenty of bamboo—’
‘Lovely to eat, mate.’
‘And maize and corn.’
‘How do you know so much?’ Grout asked.
‘I think I’m autistic,’ he told them all. Only Bolt had an idea of what he meant. ‘It’s a psychiatric condition discovered by a Swiss fellow, Eugen Bleuler.’
‘It’s akin to genius, right? You’re probably a savant.’
‘Could be, yes, but that’s not proven.’ The others were surprised by the revelation. ‘Academics are sometimes autistic, at least a little.’
The others remained silent but intrigued. They’d always found diminutive Noel with the coke-bottle glasses somewhat different.
‘Can you define it?’ Bolt asked.
‘No one can. In my case, I struggle to make friends, you know, communicate in social circumstances.’
Bolt waited.
‘Go on, Leading Seaman. We are your friends.’
‘I have repetitive behaviour.’
‘Such as?’
‘I check doors are locked over and over. I know I’m doing it but can’t stop.’
‘I’ve seen you playing with rope knots, tying them up, undoing them again,’ Grout said, his tone sympathetic.
Noel nodded, and said, ‘I’m told I often repeat myself and things I do.’
‘But you do have a huge knowledge base in that brain of yours,’ Bolt said. ‘How come?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that if I read something or see something I retain it forever.’
‘A photographic memory?’
‘Yeah, I guess. I thought it was normal for everyone as a kid. Then I realised my memory was extraordinary.’
‘A gift, I would think,’ Bolt said.
‘Not sure.’
‘It is, and you should see it that way.’
‘How does it work when you read a book?’ Bright asked. ‘You’ve always got a book in your hands.’
‘I can recall page numbers and everything on that page.’
‘Everything?’
‘Verbatim?’ Bolt asked.
Noel nodded. ‘I’m a hopeless writer, though. All that in my head and I can’t express myself on paper.’
‘Perhaps there’s just too much in there,’ Grout suggested, without attempting a joke.
‘One doctor told my mother that I had more than the average number of brain orbits.’
No one knew what he meant but they left the conversation with more understanding than before for the odd little bloke. They also admired his courage in the face of some crudely cynical characters.
When Noel was not in earshot, Bright said to Bolt, ‘He never has a bad word about anybody; he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘I’ve observed him with Red Lead. They like each other. She draws out something like “feeling” in Noel. He pats her with affection.’
They reached their destination of Bampong, 35 miles west of Bangkok, after four days. It was not yet 7 a.m. on day five and still cold. The POWs stretched their legs, and were greeted by a collection of crowing, huge black birds—vultures—which none had seen before. The birds sat on tree branches overlooking the train platform, and mesmerised the apprehensive travellers. But the sight of food stalls near the station distracted them. The men bought ducks’ eggs and wolfed them down. After the steady diet of rice, this was luxury.
There was no transport waiting for them. Farrow and Tait wandered a block and noticed a shabby temple. A few monks in saffron robes appeared and then disappeared in an eye blink. The Japanese offered the usual meal, but the men opted for bananas, if they had enough money, from another stall. Bolt was delighted when he sampled his first mango. It was fleshy and filling. He bought pumpkin for Red Lead, who was happy to slink about for a few minutes before peeing.
The Japanese, after some heated conversation about vehicles that had not arrived, broke it to the POWs that they would have to march from now on. This was not taken well by the men in general, but with rifles being waved at them and some quite vicious punches to backs and arms, they obeyed.
It took two days’ hike by road and elephant tracks to cover the 20 miles to Kanchanaburi, enduring heavy thunder and rainstorms, which slowed progress for two hours. Most of the trek was at night to avoid detection by Allied planes. In the days, Bolt and his group rested and watched the Thais at work in their rural habitat. They controlled hundreds of ducks by flicking long bamboo sticks as if they were giant conductor’s batons.
Red Lead, free and adventurous, began stalking a stray duck, only to be frightened off by a buffalo wallowing in a paddy-field bog.
Kanchanaburi village was a collection of bamboo and attap huts, and a few stores. It had a base camp on its outskirts marked by a bamboo fence perimeter. Japanese sentries manned lookout towers. They were alert. Tait guessed that there had been breakouts by members of previous POW gangs. The guards’ slow, deliberate movements, and the occasional lifting of binoculars, backed up this suggestion.
Hoto made a surprise visit to their hut on the evening of the second day there and singled out Bolt.
‘Tell all your countrymen that the guards will shoot to kill if you try to leave, or cause trouble,’ he said with a cold smile. ‘This town is in jungle. The nearest Allies are in India, about 1000 miles from here. The Thais are with us. They will inform us if any of you get out.’
‘Hear they have been stealing from you as well as our boys,’ Bolt said.
‘They steal from everyone!’ Hoto thundered, raising a threatening hand. Bolt noticed his gift from Pamela was around the sergeant’s thick wrist, but said nothing. He also did not mention that the Thais were offering the POWs food purloined from the Japanese. The thieving had a quaint symmetry about it.
On the night of day three at Kanchanaburi, eight empty trucks rolled up driven by Thais. The men piled in and were driven on a dusty track to a bamboo bridge over a river that the drivers were reluctant to attempt to cross. The men were ordered out and marched across the bridge. The trucks then followed and the men embarked again.
The bumpy ride to a camp, Tarsau, that followed did not make the POWs any happier. Those with illnesses suffered. The fit men carried their mates’ packs and aided them where they could but it was a demanding experience on top of the long train trip. Yet there was a reward of a river swim, which Red Lead enjoyed as much as any man. She refused to leave the water, from which she drank. Bolt was forced to dive in and retrieve her. She wailed in disappointment like a spoilt child, yet calmed down when offered pumpkin and a few cashew nuts. She took her time crunching through them, much to the surprise and amusement of Bolt and his group.
‘She must need the fat, carbs and protein,’ Noel said as he passed by, dripping wet. ‘That’s what cashews are.’
Red Lead enjoyed the rice and salt fish, dished out to everyone, that followed the swim. After that, the POWs slept where they dropped in makeshift bamboo huts. Bolt let the cat out and was thankful that she was not inclined to roam. It was a good sign. Perhaps she was now used to the moveable abode, even though it was not a cat’s usual way. They often fretted over leaving a home. But Red Lead seemed adaptable.
Day five saw them all pushed into the trucks again and driven along elephant tracks that ended in a steep incline that a mountain goat may have baulked at. The truck drivers, all smiling Thais now, made the effort. The POWs had to alight once more and help push the vehicles up. After a few hours of this strenuous activity, the trucks were able, with a few worrying slips and slides, to negotiate the barely discernible tracks that led into mountains up to 1500 yards high.
The next stop was Wampo, 25 miles north-west. A rocky hillside fell sharply into the Maeklaung River (later named Kwai). They were informed by the Japanese that British, Dutch, Australians, Javanese, Tamils, Chinese, Malays and Thais had constructed a 120-yard triple-tier viaduct.
‘Work of engineering art!’ a proud Little Hitler told them.
They were moved on to the dusty, large Tarsau base camp, 7 miles north-west of Wampo, the third site on the planned new railway. They were only 600 yards from the river. The camp was typically primitive, with a handful of huts and stores for the camp administration and guards. Two flimsy huts were designated ‘hospital huts’.
Bolt released Red Lead and surveyed the country beyond. It was steeper. Hills merged into mountains. The terrain was wild, rugged and covered in dense jungle. It was discouraging now for all the men, who were tired from the travel, even before they had started the heavy labour.
They were allowed to go to the river, which delighted Red Lead, Bolt and Tait, who could use the time to access the radio in his backpack. But the others hung back. They’d heard stories about the water being contaminated because of use by so many hundreds of POWs, and indigenous groups, who were not schooled in hygiene and in how to avoid diseases such as cholera. This disease was carried by faeces and transmitted by not washing hands thoroughly and drinking contaminated water.
Bolt, carrying a happily limp Red Lead, cajoled Tait and a few others into moving upstream about 500 yards from the camp for a swim. Red Lead splashed about, enjoying the chance. She ducked her head underwater for an alarmingly long time but always emerged calmly.
Tait took his radio out of his backpack and used the time to pick up anything he could.
‘The Allies are stepping up their bombing of the railway,’ he told Bolt as he towelled off. ‘But the big news is that the Yanks have killed Yamamoto, the architect of the Pearl Harbor attacks.’
‘Wow, that is big! The Japanese supreme naval commander!’
‘Yank P-38s shot him down over Bougainville.’
‘That will shake up the Nips, baby,’ Bolt said, picking up a dripping Red Lead. ‘Good news!’
A hastily built kitchen back at the camp served the usual, without the green streaks in the soup. It was after dark when the POWs bedded down, with the help of torches, for a long-awaited rest in a different and challenging topography.