Chapter 8
Between 15,000 and 20,000 sick coolies passed through Kanchanaburi, and from August 1943 to March 1945 total deaths were around 11,000. These figures are fairly accurate, as members of K Force and L Force were constantly associated with this hospital and were also responsible for burials.1
As it turned out, Digger had no trouble in joining the burial detail. A week or so later, Mick, Yabba, Jack and Digger were getting used to the routine. It was hard and unpleasant work and it stank, but it was outside the camp, and for the present they had a reasonable guard supervising them.
The first five or six hours of every day would be spent digging a new grave. It had to be big enough to hold fifty bodies, because they never knew how many there would be for that day. The grave had to be about 1.8 metres square and about 1.6 metres deep. It was hard pick and shovel work, but it was on the alluvial plain of the Mae Klong River and so the top soil usually went down the full depth of the grave. Each day’s grave was less than half a metre from the previous one. Digging was the hardest work but not the worst.
After the grave was dug, the bodies would start arriving from the death house at the No. 2 Coolie Hospital. They would be carried on stretchers made from two stout bamboo poles and potato sacks. The dead were so thin and light that two romusha labourers could carry two or three bodies at a time.
As the bodies arrived they would be tipped into the grave. One of the gravediggers would be inside, packing the bodies, placing them in the most suitable position so that each body took up as little room as possible. When the daily supply of bodies had been packed into the grave, the earth was piled high on top of it, to allow for settlement over time. On many days the bodies came to within a foot or so of the top of the grave. Quite often the first task the following morning was to rebury the arms and legs dug up by the dogs during the night.
At first Digger and his friends had to face some harsh realities about death in the Japanese hospital camp. But they were practical and realistic, and they got used to the tasks relatively quickly. They knew that the Japanese expected total compliance from their POW workers. Digger also knew that if they were able to provide such compliance, then any additional activities they might engage in would be less likely to be discovered.
One day, a couple of weeks after they’d begun the burial work, Mick was packing bodies into a grave. ‘What the fuck!’ he gasped, staggering back against the grave wall. The body that he had been trying to tuck into position had suddenly groaned, and a hand had moved in unison. ‘This poor bastard’s still alive,’ Mick shouted to those above him. ‘Give me a hand!’
Seeing the situation, Digger jumped into the grave to help his mate. They gently untangled an emaciated but living body from among the dead, then lifted it gently up towards Yabba and Jack at the surface.
Takeo Harada approached to see what the commotion was about. ‘No, no,’ he ordered in English, pointing to the bottom of the grave. ‘All body must bury – orders, orders!’
‘But he’s alive!’ shouted Mick.
‘Must bury all body.’ Talking in an uncharacteristically strict tone, Takeo again pointed down, this time menacingly with his rifle, at the bottom of the grave.
The Japanese army did not allow for any initiative on the part of men of the lower ranks. A private daring to countermand an order for humanitarian reasons – especially in relation to a romusha ‘work unit’ – was unthinkable. Takeo Harada knew that his life would become unbearable, as would the lives of the gravediggers, if they were to return from the burying site with a live body.
Digger and the others realised they had to bury this man, whether they wanted to or not, otherwise their own lives would be on the line. They very carefully laid him back in the grave. A kind of rationalisation went on within each member of the group. They quietly continued their work, piling more bodies on top of this unfortunate fellow.
They knew that this man, even if he was still alive now, was very close to death. Had they been allowed to return him to camp, his best bet would be the death house again anyway, and no one ever survived the death house. If they didn’t bury him today they would be burying him tomorrow. The burial ground was his only way out. There was absolutely nothing they could do. The poor bugger was as good as dead, and it wasn’t their fault.
This was all the comfort that the four gravediggers could have – that and the fact that they did not hear any sounds coming from below. Digger began filling the grave. They all had enough experience of the ways of the Japanese military to know that this was all they could do. An hour or so later, the earth was piled on top of all fifty or so bodies.
That evening nothing was said about the incident. No one was brave enough to bring up the topic for conversation. They slept that night, because hard work always made them sleep. They knew that the romusha bloke’s worries were now over.
This experience was repeated on several occasions over the next year or so.
One Korean guard – known as ‘Scummadore’ and nicknamed ‘Ted’ by the POWs, because it rhymed with ‘shithead’ – was perhaps the worst of all who regularly worked at the No. 2 Coolie Hospital. Occasionally he was in charge of the romusha burial detail, which was unfortunate for Digger because he’d already had a run-in with him. Scummadore was ugly as well as sadistic. He had obviously been involved in some accident, or perhaps it was a birth defect, but his arms were curved and came from his shoulders at a curious angle. This did not stop him using his rifle or a bamboo baton whenever he wished.
On the burial detail one morning, Digger asked Scummadore if he could ‘benjo-e’ – go to relieve himself in the nearby jungle. Scummadore had taken some delight in laughing and signalling him to carry on working. Digger had to ask again, of course, and Scummadore angrily granted the request and sent Digger on his way with a rifle-blow to his back.
Digger might have taken his time, as everyone did in that situation, but Scummadore was for none of it. He was yelling at Digger as he came back out of the jungle growth. The guard pushed a rock, about the size of a football, towards Digger and signalled for him to hold it above his head. Digger was required to stand in that position in front of Scummadore, who sat himself on a tree stump and waited ready to thump Digger on the back the moment his arms tired. This was a favourite punishment of some guards. When Digger’s arms could no longer hold the stone above his head, he had to suffer a beating about the face, and then it was back to the gravedigging.
Digger dared not retaliate against any guard, though, no matter how badly he was mistreated. Those who retaliated were sent back down the line under escort, and were mercilessly beaten at each camp along the way, no matter what their condition. Many POWs died in this way.2
There was a hierarchy at the No. 2 Coolie Hospital camp, just as there was at all camps on the line, imposed by those who sat at the top of the hierarchy, the senior Japanese officers. Young Korean men were bullied and pressed into joining the Korean Prison Guard Corps. The rank of guard was below that of army private and they could never aspire to be soldiers, so all members of the IJA looked down on the Koreans. But they were still a rung higher than the POWs and the romusha.
Japanese army culture maintained discipline through informal means: the more senior meted out harsh physical punishment to those below them. The training of the Korean guards was basically three months of bullying by their Japanese masters, and they were encouraged to treat those inferior to them – the POWs – in a similar manner. Even food was allocated in accordance with the hierarchy. The higher you were, the better you ate.
But it was not all death and beatings at the gravesite. Occasionally, a small group of Japanese would march to a special timber shrine that was built right next to the gravesites. The Japanese party would then stand to attention as an officer ceremoniously placed an offering of food in the shrine. There was a short religious ceremony or incantation or prayer of some sort, and the party saluted, about turned and marched off again.
During this procedure, the four gravediggers were ordered into the grave so that they were mostly out of sight; Takeo Harada was required to stand to attention. At these times, the Australians generally talked quietly amongst themselves about what was happening, enjoying the short rest.
Five minutes after the ceremony, Digger would ask Takeo if it was okay to eat the sweet rice cakes that had been left for the gods or the romusha spirits or whoever. Takeo would signal assent, and he and the gravediggers would then share the sweet treats.
On another occasion a very scrawny dog, so scrawny that no one had bothered about claiming it for the pot, wandered too close to the gravediggers. They promptly bumped it on the head and threw it into the pit with the bodies. They hated reburying bodies that dogs had dug up in the night. Unfortunately, two Japanese officers arrived and went mad when they saw the body of the dog in with the romusha.
‘Demi dana, gura gura!’ they yelled at Digger, who was in the grave, packing the bodies. Digger knew immediately that they wanted the dog’s body out of the grave, so he threw it up to the others.
The actions of the Japanese – making offerings at the shrine and worrying about the dog in with the bodies – were difficult to reconcile with the way that they treated the romusha in life. But the gravediggers gave it little thought. Gruesome as the burial process was, like all routines it got easier as their skills increased.
Rations at the No. 2 Coolie Hospital were particularly poor. Breakfast consisted of rice pap – a sloppy porridge consistency. Lunch brought more rice and the day’s vegetable ration in a watery stew. Dinner was rice alone.3
If the food had been adequate to keep the men in reasonable health, they might have survived without resorting to trading or stealing. As it was, Digger knew that they had to have additional medicines and nourishment. Everyone was always ravenously hungry. Rice and vegetables were in very short supply, and meat or fish were almost unheard of.
The pap that they ate in the mornings invariably had weevils and even maggots in it, but the consistency was such that they could not be easily picked out. But so great was the men’s hunger that it all went down the same way. Knowing the benefits of protein, they never complained.
All the POWs were also subject to bouts of diarrhoea and, at times, to what they suspected was amoebic dysentery. They all suffered from malaria, and they all got the occasional tropical ulcer. In general, the Filthy Seven managed to escape the worst of the nutritional diseases – such as beriberi – because they were aware of how to avoid it. They chewed on grasses, ate specific leaves and fruits, such as the wild passionfruit that grew in many places.
Above all, they never reported sick. If one member of their group was sick, the others took on most of the workload until he recovered. Officially reporting as sick was always regarded as a last resort, because camp policy was that the sick were only entitled to half their usual rations, making recovery all the harder.
Digger still had his own small supplies of M&B 693, quinine and iodiform, but he and his mates were gradually using them up. They were always asking questions, listening to the talk around the camp, getting useful information from some of the guards – anything that might help them acquire extra food and drugs. Trading with the locals was strictly forbidden. A severe beating would be the minimum punishment, and it could even cost you your life. If somehow the POWs did have money, they could buy food at the store camp, which was owned by Major Buto, one of the Japanese commanders.
After being at the No. 2 Coolie Hospital for about a month, Digger heard about Boon Pong, a Siamese trader who traded at camps along the railway. Boon Pong was apparently eager to do business with those at the No. 2 Coolie Hospital.
I can’t remember exactly how I first met Boon Pong, but he likely knew or made himself aware of our routine of burying the romusha. What I do know is that in no time at all he and I were great mates. It’s no exaggeration to say that my meeting that man probably saved the lives of the Filthy Seven and many more in our camp. He and I would meet at least once a week. We always arranged our next meeting but he knew that if I didn’t turn up then it wouldn’t be my fault.
Boon Pong could get just about anything we asked for – quinine, M&B 693 and iodoform. I used watches, fountain pens and cigarette cases to trade with him. Boon Pong would also exchange money for us – Australian pounds, Dutch guilders or American dollars for the local Thai tical – so that we could buy food from other locals.
This was very risky work. It was dangerous for Boon Pong and very dangerous for me also, so both of us made money from it. I charged a commission on the trades I did for everyone in the camp, except for those in my own group.
I needed the help of my gravedigging mates to organise the meetings. We would be busy digging the graves but also listening for a special bird call from the nearby jungle – the signal that Boon Pong was there waiting for me. I would then ask permission from Takeo to go to relieve myself: ‘Benjo-e?’ Takeo would always just say, ‘Benjo-ka?’, and I would take off into the jungle.
The other workers would carry on digging but would be ready to signal with a special noise if the coast was no longer clear – if an officer or more guards arrived, for example. I was pretty sure that Takeo knew what I was up to but I never took it for granted.
One morning, when Boon Pong brought a cup of coffee to their meeting, Digger decided to test Takeo’s attitude. Coffee was completely unknown in the camp, and this coffee also had sugar in it. On returning to the gravesite, Digger asked Takeo whether it would be all right if, by some strange power, he was able to drink some coffee. Takeo signalled okay, and Digger bent down and recovered the coffee from behind a nearby rock.
‘Ah, magic!’ said Takeo, smiling as Digger shared his coffee with his mates.
Over the months, this unspoken agreement developed into a reliable business. On many occasions Takeo was not the only guard in the vicinity, and there were sometimes even Japanese officers, but Digger and his mates believed that these risks had to be taken if they were to survive.
Despite all the hardships, life was still very much worth living. Trading enabled the Filthy Seven to acquire supplies of food and medicine that allowed a standard of living that was just a notch above survival. They could treat their malaria, arrest the growth of tropical ulcers and eat the occasional duck egg.
‘What more could one ask for?’ Vic Kearns would say, as they added a little extra tow gay (mung beans) to their evening rice.
Yabba and Digger were also involved in other food-stealing ventures. Digger knew that if there was one thing they could rely on the Japanese for, it was that they abided by a strict routine. The morning parade was held at exactly the same time each day, and the sequence of events during the parade never changed. The POWs lined up in front of their huts and the storage area and faced the Japanese flag. The guards would initially face the POWs, with their backs to the flag.
The first activity was for the POWs to number off in Japanese – ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku and so on. Woe betide the man who failed to learn his number and shout it out at the right time. This might be followed by an announcement from the IJA. Generally it would be about how badly the war was going for the Allies or some such nonsense.
For the final part of the parade, the Japanese turned to face the flag. With their backs to the POWs, they said their morning prayers and incantations to the Emperor. Yabba and Digger worked out that this took exactly five and a half minutes. At the end of this ceremony, the soldiers and POWs alike would be dismissed. The Japanese would usually move away from the area, and the POWs would have about fifteen minutes to gather their tools and assemble in their work groups.
And so, after very careful preparation, Yabba and Digger and their mates went into action. They determined to steal what they could during the five and a half minutes in which the guards were making their prayers to the Emperor. First, they made sure they were in the right position within the ranks of POWs. They learned the proper rank numbers, as did those who had volunteered to swap places with them, and then spent at least two mornings conducting dry runs.
Once they decided to act for real, Yabba and Digger stole food such as tow gay and cooking oil from the storage rooms. They would return to the ranks with their haul, and on dismissal others would crowd around as they carried the food into their hut. They were very careful to steal amounts that were likely to go unnoticed. They continued stealing during the rest of their stay at Kanchanaburi, and to their knowledge they were never even suspected.
Another enterprise organised by Yabba and Digger did not go so well. Major Buto owned the camp canteen. The POWs had long suspected that he kept their rations short so that he could be sure of selling food from his canteen. The officer POWs earned up to fifty ticals a month but the privates received just five ticals, of which a certain proportion was deducted for accommodation and rations. No wages were paid if a man was sick.4
Major Buto sold the same goods that were supposed to be available as regular rations: rice, vegetables, tow gay, dried fish, tobacco, eggs and so on. Yabba, Digger and the rest of the Filthy Seven had no qualms about stealing from his canteen. As with the store, they figured that taking small amounts would be the way to go.
They knew they could get into the canteen easily enough. There were no locks on any of the buildings because none of the buildings were built to be secure. Whether it was intentional or not, the lack of food, the overwork and the disease combined to have a debilitating effect on most prisoners. This, together with the fear of the consequences, was more than enough to protect the canteen.
While many POWs took no risks if they could avoid it, Digger and the Filthy Seven did. They knew that life was miserable if you gave in and toed the line, so they devoted themselves to beating the system. They talked about this all the time, and they fantasised about the forms that their revenge would take. Stealing was just part of the survival plan. It kept them busy and alive, and it was one more way they could get one over on the Japanese.
On a very dark night, they went ahead with the raid on the canteen. They knew what they would steal – a small amount of dried fish and a small parcel of local tobacco – and they were familiar with the layout of the canteen. They believed they could be in and out within a minute.
It was easy getting to the canteen in the dark. We had practised walking there during the day with our eyes shut. And getting into the canteen was no bother either – we just opened the door, very quietly. But then we got the fright of our lives. All I heard was a quiet ‘Fuck!’ from Yabba, immediately followed by grunting and a struggle – but not loud. Then I heard what I later found out was the Korean guard’s rubber boot drumming on the hard earthen floor as he died with Yabba’s hands around his throat. Yabba had walked straight into him sleeping in a chair. He was probably strangling the poor bugger before he was even awake.
We knew immediately that the only way out of this predicament was to burn down the canteen. I hated this because it was not what we had planned. I had failed in the planning and should have known about the guard.
We quickly helped ourselves to a bit of tobacco. I knew where the lamp usually hung and used its kerosene to soak a pile of dry bamboo leaves taken from the roof, which I set against the bamboo wall. I lit it and we quickly got out of the building. I also checked that the guard was dead. If he had suddenly come to life then we’d be dead, of course.
By the time Digger and Yabba reached their hut, the building was well alight. No one had yet raised the alarm.
‘How did it go?’ asked Mick when he heard them returning.
‘Not good – tell you tomorrow,’ Digger replied. ‘Just shut up and sleep.’
Mick knew to say no more and they all pretended to sleep. Digger could now hear the alarm being raised.
Luckily, the Japanese believed that the guard had fallen asleep while smoking. The canteen was rebuilt and operating again within two days, but Digger and Yabba decided that they would not steal from it again.
The Filthy Seven also did what they could to get additional protein. They soon learned that an excellent source of this were the local rats. But there was competition for them, of course, so – like the snakes in the Changi swamp – they became quite scarce.
Rats were very easy to cook. You simply threw the dead rat into the dying embers of the evening fire for a few minutes; being small, they would be cooked in no time at all. They could then be opened up along the belly, and the gut would come out in one piece, leaving the tender white flesh intact. This was shared out between members of the group.
One-seventh of a rat was not a large portion but it was always appreciated. As Vic Kearns never tired of saying, ‘it all goes to make a turd’. Food and eating was such an important part of their lives that there was a spate of turd jokes that went around the No. 2 Coolie Hospital, such as:
Officer: ‘What’s your most important job today soldier?’
Soldier: ‘To build a turd, sir!’
Officer: ‘Correct! And remember, soldier, a turd a day is the healthy way.’
Vic Kearns created these jokes mostly because he was a natural comedian, but they also boosted the men’s morale and delivered an important health message.
There were so few opportunities to get any meat that when two Japanese officers came and asked a small group, including Digger, whether there was anyone who knew how to butcher a pig, Digger immediately saw the possibilities. No one said anything initially so Digger volunteered for the job, even though he had never butchered anything bigger than a rabbit.
That night, all the talk amongst the Filthy Seven was about butchering pigs. Mick, who was a country boy from Queensland, actually knew a bit about it and taught Digger the theory. Dave Powrie, the camp cook, was also brought in on the discussion.
A few Japanese arrived the next day with a pig that weighed around seventy kilograms. Digger, Mick, Dave and a few others were ready. With great difficulty, they hung the pig from a roof strut and cut its throat. They tried to catch the blood in a large kwali – a very large cast-iron cooking pot – knowing how nutritious it would be, and soon they were covered in it. Under Mick’s supervision, the carcase was then lowered down and plunged into a large kwali of very hot water, before it was slung up again and all the hair was scraped off.
They gutted the pig, and Digger persuaded the officers, who were watching closely, to allow him to keep the offal. Before the officers realised it, Dave and a couple of helpers whisked the liver, kidneys, lungs and all the other bits and pieces to the POWs’ kitchen. They then laid the carcase on clean banana leaves and the proper butchery began.
Digger persuaded the officers that they would not require the trotters or the head, and Mick quickly cut them off and handed them to Dave, who took them away quickly. Digger and Mick had earlier agreed where the trotter ended and the shoulder leg meat began, and they made sure that they would have the best of the bargain.
The pig was then cut up into reasonably sized joints of pork, and the Japanese officers left with about twenty banana-leaf parcels. Yet their basket looked very small, given that the pig had originally been all of seventy kilograms. All the POWs enjoyed pork that night, and brawn made from the head the following night. Each man had very little each, of course, but it was the tastiest their evening rice had been for a long time.
On some occasions, Digger managed to acquire the duty of going to the IJA command post in Kanchanaburi village to collect supplies for the camp. He rode in the back of the truck with another POW while two Japanese officers and the driver rode in the front.
There was a permanent arrangement between the POWs on this duty and Dave Powrie that, if possible, anything that could be stolen would be thrown from the truck at a particular spot. Few were prepared to steal, however, because of the risks involved. Digger was always up for such activity. The goods brought back to camp were checked on arrival; for example, the number of sacks of jointed meat had to be the same at the delivery point as they were at the loading point. Any discrepancy would cost all those concerned very dearly indeed. However, it was known that only very rarely were the sacks weighed or the joints of meat counted.
Once, on the return journey from Kanchanaburi, conditions were very favourable for the acquisition of at least one large joint of meat. The Japanese had picked up a young Tamil girl in the village, and she was riding back to camp – in the cab, of course. The officers and even the driver spent the entire journey flirting with her. This allowed Digger time to get into one of the sacks containing the meat and select a reasonably sized joint.
When the truck approached the arranged spot, he could see Dave Powrie waiting for the delivery. With a quick check to see that the girl still had the full attention of those in the cab, he heaved the lump of meat towards Dave. He caught it full in the chest, and the impetus knocked him backwards. Digger’s impression, as the truck flew past, was of Dave on his back – but he was still holding fast to the meat.
Mostly, the relationships between the POWs at the No. 2 Coolie Hospital were good. But just occasionally an individual would get up someone’s nose and an argument would result or a few punches would be thrown. Some of the British officers in L Force were a constant source of annoyance to the Australian ORs.
One in particular, Captain W. B. Young, tried very hard to get the Australian ORs to behave towards him as the British ORs did, saluting and standing to attention when addressing him and so on. The Australian ORs called this ‘Pommy officer idiocy’. Most of the British officers had the sense to accept the attitude of the Australian ORs and so relationships were generally reasonable, but Captain Young just would not or could not.
The situation got so annoying that, one evening, the Filthy Seven drew straws over who should take Captain Young aside to teach him some manners. Yabba drew the short straw. The next day, Yabba was able to get Captain Young on his own. No one found out exactly what happened, but Captain Young had a black eye the next time he was seen. As Vic Kearns remarked, it was like he’d been born again.
The Japanese were the only authority that had to be obeyed and it became difficult for the British and Australian officers to retain their authority over their men. It was doubly difficult for the British officers because of their authoritarian approach. Generally, Australian ORs were happy to take orders from Australian officers because their normal relationships were always more relaxed.
Digger was annoyed by Colonel Benson, who used the very British custom of referring to privates by their surname only. He ordered Digger around and always called him ‘Barrett’. Digger could stand it no longer.
One day, he just stopped what he was doing and approached Colonel Benson. ‘Look, mate,’ he said, looking the officer in the eye, ‘my name is David, my nickname is Digger and my rank is private. You can call me David, Digger or Private Barrett, but no more “Barrett”. Understand?’
Finding himself a little out of his depth with this Australian private, Colonel Benson hummed and hawed a bit before saying, ‘Well, that seems perfectly reasonable.’
Arguments sometimes occurred even among the closest of mates. Occasionally violence erupted. On one occasion Digger even threw a punch at Yabba. They were digging a grave at the time, and he’d just had enough of Yabba’s constant chatter about women that he had known. It was only one punch. Yabba, who was bigger and heavier than Digger, got such a surprise that he didn’t even retaliate.
Yabba suffered a broken tooth, and Digger immediately regretted what he had done. Ever afterwards, Yabba’s broken tooth was visible when he smiled, and it was a permanent reminder to Digger that he should not have lost his temper. But like all good mates, Yabba just accepted what had happened and never even mentioned it again.
As the months went past, Digger and his mates got used to their life. Hard as it was, Digger always looked forward to the next day and thought about what opportunities it might bring. His optimism rubbed off on his six closest mates. Together, they regarded their lot as temporary, not as bad as it might be, and they looked forward to the small rewards they could scrounge.
No L Force POWs were ever given new clothes or boots, not to mention soap or toothpaste or anything like that. Despite even their minimal pay, most men had no footwear and were reduced to wearing only loincloths.5
Nevertheless, Digger took as much care with his appearance as possible. He was always clean, smart and polite, particularly to the Japanese guards. He went out of his way to present an unafraid and confident persona, even though the Japanese officers were always trying to bully and intimidate the POWs. Although Digger was dressed in rags, the guards who knew some English called him ‘Dandy’.
The Japanese officers came to the work sites quite often. They talked with the POWs but the conversations were always one-sided. While the Japanese were contemptuous of the prisoners and the Allies in general, the POWs could not retaliate at all.
During one such encounter, Digger and his mates were reminded, as they frequently were, that one Japanese soldier was worth ten Australians. The goading continued for so long that some were brave enough to mutter some words of dissent. This is what the Japanese had counted on. They asked whether the Australians were brave enough to put up their champion against a Japanese wrestler.
The officers kept looking at Digger, expecting a reply. Digger knew they would not let up until they received a reply, so he looked across at Mick, more or less dobbing him in for the job, which he immediately regretted.
Mick stared daggers at Digger as a makeshift circle was marked off in the bare earth. One of the older Japanese officers threw Mick a loincloth, and another fixed it around his waist like a Sumo wrestler would. The older officer seemed to be generally in charge of the event. He stated the rules of the fight, all in Japanese, and then simply signalled for it to begin.
The Japanese fighter was shorter than Mick. No one at Kanchanaburi was fat, not even the Japanese, but he clearly weighed more than Mick, who was pure muscle and bone, courtesy of the very poor diet and the daily gravedigging.
The two men circled each other and then locked together, each struggling to get an advantage. The Japanese fighter, having a lower centre of gravity, began to push Mick towards the edge of the ring. The Japs were shouting to their man, while the Australians were encouraging Mick.
Although he was being pushed back, Mick had a firm hold of his opponent’s cloth belt. He heard the advice being shouted out by his close mates, who did not care if the Japanese understood them or not: ‘Lift the bastard off the ground . . . Throw him out of the fucking ring!’ Mick hoisted the Japanese wrestler up and threw him out of the ring.
A huge cheer went up from the POWs. In the confusion of that moment, Mick was whisked off by the Japanese. Digger doubted very much that it was to award him a prize.
When Mick finally came back to the hut, his face was badly bruised. He clearly felt murder in his heart for Digger. But Digger was not in his usual place, having decided that it was better not to see Mick that night. He spent the night regretting his part in the arrangements.
The next day at the romusha gravesite, Digger tried to apologise to Mick. All he got in return was: ‘Just shut up and keep fucking digging.’ That was good enough for Digger. He assumed that eventually he might be forgiven.