Bolt awoke before everyone else at 7 a.m., put a towel over his shoulder and carried Red Lead several hundred yards to the river, well upstream from the camp. It was cold. Red Lead watched, reluctant to go in as Bolt eased himself under the water. He fought to breathe normally as he swam about 50 yards, and then back to Red Lead. She meowed as if she needed encouragement to join him. He splashed her. She jumped back, annoyed. Then she ran to the edge and fell in.
Bolt went for another quick sprint. When he returned Red Lead was already out of the water, shaking herself. He towelled her down and carried her back towards the camp. About 100 yards from it, she wriggled to be free. Bolt watched as she stalked something he could not see. He followed her. There was a green tree-snake curled up on the ground. The cat’s belly was touching the grass as she prepared to pounce.
‘Red Lead, no!’ Bolt growled. Her pinned-back ears flicked. Then she sat up. The snake, sensing danger, uncurled and slithered up the nearest thick bamboo tree. Bolt dropped to his haunches and patted Red Lead softly. He waited for her to come down from the pre-attack tension, which included what could be construed as a ‘dirty’ look at him. Bolt scooped her up and carried her back to the camp.
At 8 a.m., after the most meagre rice serving on the ‘trip’ so far, the men were unhappy as they began the day’s hard work under supervision from a dozen guards, including the strutting Little Hitler, who was the corporal in charge.
He delighted in slamming his rifle into Bolt and his mates, with whom he exhibited a strange sadistic attitude. Wallis was in no mood for the solid blow he received in the ribs. Before other guards could react, he had wrenched the rifle from Little Hitler and had thrown it over his head. In a tense moment, the other guards ran over and surrounded Wallis. Little Hitler, red-faced and hissing something vile, picked up his rifle and came close to Wallis. He ordered the guards to lay into him with rifles, fists and boots. The hundred or so POWs stopped their work and stood in disbelief.
‘Hey, Corporal!’ Bolt said, stepping near the brutality. ‘That’s enough!’
Little Hitler marched up to Bolt and swung the rifle at his chest. It brought him down. The action signalled the end of Wallis’s bashing, but Bolt was kicked and hit as he curled into a fetal position.
The POWs were yelled at, and belted more with rifle butts.
‘Work! Speedo! Speedo!’
Four guards carried the semi-conscious Wallis and helped Bolt to the open-roofed hospital. Wallis had a broken cheekbone and a fractured right forearm, as well as many marks on his body, including his genitals. Bolt had a six-inch welt across his chest that was already purple, and about ten bruises to the head, arms, legs and back.
Both men lay there dozing for about four hours, looking up at a multicoloured, mainly purple and green, jungle ridge. It had a yellow face, which reminded them of the Australian bush in winter. They were made alert by tropical rain crashing into the open hut. Bolt sat up gingerly. Wallis tried but could not do so without searing pain shooting through his big frame.
‘I’ll get a doctor, mate,’ Bolt said. ‘One of our blokes in the new batch from Changi that came in today.’
Bolt argued with the stubborn Little Hitler, saying he had to get a doctor. The corporal was adamant that Wallis should be left alone.
‘You’ll have a murder on your hands, Corporal, if he dies,’ Bolt said.
‘You don’t go!’ Little Hitler shouted, drawing a revolver from his belt.
‘I have to go,’ Bolt said, keeping his tone conciliatory. ‘Otherwise that man will die.’
The POWs had stopped work again to watch the confrontation. Even the guards waited to see the outcome.
Bolt saluted, turned and began to walk towards the new camp about 200 yards down the track. The corporal took a few paces after him. He cocked his gun. Bolt froze at the sound and shut his eyes. After a few seconds, he moved on, leaving Little Hitler standing with the gun still aimed at Bolt’s head. He then holstered the gun, turned and, to save face, began shouting orders at his guards and the POWs.
The 6 feet 4 inches tall, moustachioed Australian doctor examined Wallis for ten minutes. Looking on were Bolt, with a bandage across his chest, and Little Hitler. Red Lead wandered into the hut and jumped onto a stool. She looked around the room as if interested in everything.
‘Sticky nose,’ Bolt said, cuffing her gently under the chin.
‘What a beautiful animal!’ the doctor said, taking off his stethoscope. ‘Such luxurious fur! A fellow surgeon in London had one just like that.’
The doctor scribbled a note and handed it to Little Hitler. ‘I need those drugs,’ the doctor said quietly to the corporal.
‘No!’ Little Hitler said. He stood defiantly in front of the doctor, who repeated the request.
‘You know Commander Hiroshiga?’ the doctor said with a respectful smile.
The corporal nodded.
‘I treated him for an ulcer on his knee this morning,’ the doctor added. ‘He came to our camp as soon as I arrived. It was a very painful operation. Your commander is very brave. We used that drug.’ He pointed to the paper in Little Hitler’s hand. ‘It’s in store now. I brought it with me.’
The corporal still looked defiant. ‘No!’
‘Get it, or I shall report you to the commander,’ the doctor said, his manner changing.
‘No.’
‘I need it now.’
Little Hitler had half-mouthed ‘no’ again, when the doctor struck him hard with a clenched fist to the chest, then a round arm smack to the head. The big Japanese man went down. The doctor stood over him. A startled Red Lead scampered out of the hut.
‘Get that drug!’
Little Hitler got to his feet and scrambled out, holding his head.
‘There may be repercussions for that,’ Bolt warned.
‘No there won’t,’ the doctor said, resuming his understated, ultra-calm demeanour. ‘They beat me up a couple of times, but not out here in the wilderness. All their officers come to us, rather than their own medicos.’
The doctor returned to his camp, telling Bolt to send for him when the drugs arrived. Bolt reported the stunning scenario to the rest of his group and Noel, who had insinuated himself into their midst. They were the only ones who would tolerate his interminable, encyclopaedic outbursts.
‘Do you know who that was?’ Noel asked in awe.
‘No.’
‘That was the CO of 7th Division, Weary Dunlop!’
‘I had no idea,’ Bolt said. ‘I’d heard about him but never laid eyes on him. Played rugby for Australia, didn’t he? How did he become CO as a medico?’
‘Not sure,’ Noel said. ‘But I do know that every digger in the gunners swears by him. Oh, and he has a reputation as a boxer as well.’
‘It makes sense that he’s in charge, when you think of it,’ Bolt said. ‘There is no fighting here, except against disease, and who better than a man like Dunlop to command.’ He paused and added, ‘He just belted Little Hitler as if he was in the ring. Put him hard on his derrière. Wonderful, but perhaps too gutsy.’
‘Good thing!’ Bright said.
Bolt shook his head and said, ‘Wonder how that will go down with the Jap officers.’