‘That’s better. Now fall in with my men and you can march with us.’
For days Tom lay there in the hospital hut, racked with pain and fever, ministered to patiently by the two orderlies, George and Alan, who had picked him up when he had been dragged out of the pit. They were both Plymouth Argylls and spoke with a soft West Country lilt, which often made him long for the gentle rain and emerald green hills of Devon that he remembered from his childhood holidays.
There were other medical orderlies working in the hospital hut under the supervision of Colonel Bell and Captain Strang, and amongst them was Jim Leech. Tom remembered the rumours about Leech’s ruthless entrepreneurial activities at camp, robbing the bodies of dead patients and selling their possessions, trading goods from the locals to the prisoners at inflated prices and bribing men to give him food in return for cigarettes.
When Tom was conscious and well enough to bother about what was going on around him, he watched Jim Leech out of the corner of his eye. He noticed that Leech never came near him. He seemed to make every effort to avoid ever being allocated work that involved being in Tom’s area of the hut. Tom thought back to the times when Leech had tried to trade with him and Ian and Harry, and the bitter arguments that had broken out when they had refused to go along with him. Perhaps that was the reason Leech was avoiding him now. In any case, Tom was happy with the arrangement; Leech’s presence made Tom uneasy. He found the stealthy way that the man went about his tasks unnerving. Also, the fact that he was always dressed in a clean shirt and pair of shorts, when everyone else went round in rags and even the doctors had only Jap Happys to cover their loins, made Tom all the more suspicious of Leech, made him dislike the man all the more.
Gradually, when the worst of his fever had passed, men from Tom’s hut began to pay him visits. They stood staring silently at him, seeming to wonder at his survival against the odds. One of the first to visit was Roddy, the man who had slept next to Tom in their hut. He was a Volunteer from another unit who had survived the battle and ended up in Changi. He had been a mining engineer in Malaya. He was hardy and strong, and usually full of witticisms. But even he appeared humbled by Tom’s appearance.
‘Are you OK, Tom lad? You sure look a sight … How on earth did you stay alive?’
Tom could only mumble feeble responses, but tried to show in his eyes that he was glad Roddy had come to visit him.
‘You were lucky to get out, lad. You know why they let you go free, don’t you? Some big shot colonel’s arriving to inspect the progress on the railway. The interpreter got wind of it, and it’s been all round the camp for days. The Japs have been preparing for it. They’re even more brutal than usual, making everyone work longer hours, beating up sick men who can’t work fast. The Ripper’s been running around like a headless chicken, shouting his head off. Yes, that’s why they let you out, my lad. They didn’t want to get any stick from this colonel fellow for cruelty to prisoners.’
Tom nodded. That was probably why the Ripper had come and prodded him a couple of days before he was set free.
‘Anyway, I’d best be going for my chow now. There’s been a bit more space on the bunk since you were away, lad. I was kinda hoping you might not make it.’
Tom’s face cracked into a smile.
‘You should be so lucky …’ he managed to croak.
Before he went Roddy put his hand on Tom’s arm and said, ‘I’m so sorry about your pals, Tom. We all are. They said they’d been shot.’
Tom nodded, his eyes filling with tears.
‘They were brave men. The best,’ said Roddy.
It was the first time anyone had mentioned the loss of his friends to Tom. But after Roddy’s visit many men came to his bedside to wish him well and express sadness for his loss. Although each conversation brought back painful memories for Tom, he was touched by the concern, and this provided him with at least some comfort from his grief.
The padre came to see him after a few days. By this time Tom was beginning to recover. His wounds were healing and his bouts of fever subsiding.
‘Ellis, I’m so pleased to see you on the mend,’ he said. ‘I wanted to come and offer my condolences for your poor friends.’
‘Thank you, padre.’
‘We held a service for them, you know, whilst you were … you were away. We wanted to thank God for their lives. And for their bravery.’
Tom looked away bitterly. What difference would a service make? They were still gone.
‘Everyone in the camp turned out, you know, to pray for them.’
‘Thank you, padre,’ he repeated mechanically.
‘Now, I know that you are not a churchgoer, Ellis, and that you generally don’t come to our little services here in the camp, but if you should ever change your mind, or if you would ever like to pray alone with me, you only have to say the word.’
‘Of course, padre. It’s very … thoughtful of you. Thank you.’
The padre left. Tom thought of all the times he had lain on his bunk while other prisoners had trooped to the corner of the camp where the padre had a makeshift altar and listened to his sermon and sang a hymn and prayed. Tom had been disgusted at their foolishness. If there was a God, where was he? What was he doing when men were beaten and starved
