While men toiled, suffered and died in the Far East, wives and relatives waited. Agony cannot be measured, and it is impossible to know who really suffered most. Thousands in war have their harrowing stories to tell; but for the wives of many Britons swallowed up in that theatre of war there was the additional gall of doubt and uncertainty. The Jap curtain on personal news hung down for years, grim, often almost impenetrable, and families' reserves of strength and hope and faith were drawn on to the limit and beyond. When the toll of war, horrible enough in these circumstances, is summed up, this ought not to be forgotten. It needs little imagination to appreciate their plight.

After the fall of Singapore my wife attended the local P.O.W. meetings week by week in Bradford in the hope of picking up any information, no matter how slight, about me and my whereabouts. For a long time she was unlucky. Officials strove manfully to help, but it was often a bitter, joyless job, for so little was known that could be of personal value to her.

My wife tells me that speakers from other areas sometimes attended to address meetings. Their work was greatly appreciated; but for the women it was a private ordeal of waiting, terrible in its effect. My wife still did not know whether I was alive or dead. There were, eventually however, to be rays of hope for her. She was to learn that, by one of the odd coincidences of war, our family doctor's brother, a captain in an artillery regiment, was in the Jap merchantman in which I was travelling when she sank.

Late in 1944 the doctor visited my wife to ask if by any chance she had received news either from me or the War office. She had heard nothing. Some time later the doctor called again to let her know that his brother had been among those who had survived the sinking and had now arrived home in Britain. Neither the doctor nor my wife knew at that time that I had been in the same ship. It was, however, a matter of considerable interest to my wife, for the possibility that I had been there could not be ignored. Perhaps, I too, had survived - or what? She refused to dwell on the grimmer possibility. More news filtered through about the doctor's brother; he had been one of those picked up by Philippino guerillas and eventually smuggled out to Australia before being brought home. For her, the screw of torture tightened just a little more; but blessedly, it was to relax.

Soon afterwards, the postman called with a letter. It was addressed in handwriting she did not recognise, but its contents were the brightest news she had had for years and set her hopes soaring. The letter was from George B. - not my companion of the raft, but another George who had been shipwrecked at the same time.

Dear George B., a slip of a lad, who looked far too young to be involved in the horrors of war and who had always encouraged a sort of protective instinct in me. For this letter alone I owe him a debt of gratitude I can never discharge. In it he wrote that he had been picked up from the ill-fated merchantman in which we had both been "passengers". He wrote that he had seen me and spoken to me and said I had helped to grab several wood spars and push them under him to keep him up.

My wife and one of my sisters set of the next day for Liverpool, where George B. lived, to see him and get all the news they could.

They tell me that in Liverpool they were going by taxi to the address given in the letter when suddenly, in her suppressed excitement, my wife exclaimed with a look of horror "suppose there isn't a No. 23?". They looked blankly at each other and for the rest of the journey fear clutched at their hearts. They were by that time, branded, as it were, by the experience of successive disappointments. But there was a No. 23 and George B. indeed lived there. He had, however, little more to tell them than what he had told in the letter. He had been rescued in Manila and eventually taken to Australia. His letter had been the result of a pact we had made. Before I left Manila we had agreed that whoever got home first should write telling what he knew to the relatives of the other. And George B. had remembered. In December 1944, my wife was to get a fuller picture of the experiences of some of our men who had served in a camp in Thailand. Details were given in a circular she obtained through the local P.O.W. branch. It told of life as a prisoner of war and the facts had been obtained from two soldiers "recently returned".

How they returned was interesting. They left Thailand at the end of August 1944. They were being transferred with a number of labour units to work in Japan, as the work of road-making they had been doing in Thailand was completed. They arrived in Singapore to find the island stripped of food and all articles of value and comfort by the Japanese troops. Nothing seemed to have been left unspoiled.

The men sailed from Singapore on September 6th that year. At 4 am on September 12th their ship was torpedoed by U.S. submarines. One of the men, unable to swim, was in the water until 6 pm on September 15th. Some men were picked up even on the fifth day.

After the torpedoing the Jap crew and guards had taken to the lifeboats and Britons had to improvise a number of rafts by lashing some of the hatches together. Most had life-belts of a sort but many were ineffective. No food or water was available until they were rescued and many were unable to survive the terrible ordeal.

They were landed at Saipan and taken to hospital. On October 1st they sailed for the States by way of the Marshall Islands and Hawaii, reaching San Francisco on October 23rd. They crossed America to New York and arrived home on November 15th. "Their welcome in America and the wonderful help and hospitality they received impressed them greatly." There, in a nutshell, is one of the war's innumerable stories of endurance and survival.

Let us see what their earlier experiences were. Three months after the fall of Singapore the troops were moved to Thailand. The two men were in No. 4 camp, which consisted of four parts and housed several thousand men. The groups were moved about frequently according to the work they were required to do. At first the Japs put great pressure on both men and officers to make roads through the jungle. This, it was recalled, was when most of the "savage" treatment referred to in the Press was inflicted. As the work got under way the officers ceased work - "much to the relief of the other ranks who did not like to see them under the disciplines of the Japanese guards". Some stayed in the jungle to look after the men, including a number of R.A.M.C. Officers; others were moved to rest camps. No. 4 camp was established around the Bangkok area and men were sent there for hospital treatment and to rest and recuperate. The camp was moved several times. When the men left Thailand it was near Bangpong. Punishment? This was meted out to workers for three main offences - not working hard enough (often through effects of malaria) or for talking or smoking while working, and took the form of beating with stout bamboo rods. As the pressure of work decreased, so did the punishment, and so long as a man did his best he was left unmolested.

Some men resented the discipline for showing their independence or by insulting the guards; but most adapted themselves to circumstance and "comforted themselves by only inwardly despising their captors". In effect, the men "only knew intimately those who were in their individual labour group and although they knew many others by sight could not remember them by name".

On the climate the information was laconic - "very hot indeed. Rain at certain seasons, when flooding occurred. Nights were sometimes cold, but it was always hot in daytime".

There was mention of health, too. Malaria was very general, chiefly the type know as B2 .... which recurred every three or four weeks. Most men went down regularly with attacks. For a short while at the beginning quinine was not available in sufficient quantity, the situation was serious and a number of patients died. Dysentery was also common "and some cholera". Hospital arrangements were admirably run by the R.A.M.C. and endless trouble taken to ensure patients the maximum attention and comfort. The attitude of doctors who went into the jungle with the working parties was much admired. Many did not hesitate to insist on sending sick men down to the rest camps in spite of Japanese guards who tried to prevent them. Morale? At first the Japs tried to prevent the men from singing at work. The Commandant asked a Colonel how it was the "men who were prisoners and who were certain to be defeated could possibly wish to sing". The Colonel told him that no one would be able to make them believe they would be defeated and nothing could stop them singing. After this, all attempts to prevent them were given up and the men said they found singing a great help in keeping up their spirits.

The men described the wages paid as "miserable". Ten days' pay would buy ten cigarettes. The officers, therefore, put aside almost the whole of their pay to buy supplementary food for the whole camp and drugs for the hospital. Had it not been for this money the men could not have survived. No intoxicating liquors could be had, although some men tried to brew their own from rice, without any very successful results. Occasionally supplies could be got by bribing the guards.

The men's main food was rice, and each got a pint per meal. This amount was barely sufficient while the men were working. They collected various edible roots and leaves from the jungle, too. The cooks became adapt at making dishes out of the few available ingredients. A form of pastry made from crushed rice and yam flour became popular.

Clothing, they said, was a problem. It was not replaced - only material suitable for pants or loin cloths. For a year or more they were obliged to work without boots. Their feet became hardened. Officers were "necessarily more able to look after their clothes, but nearly all wore either a pair of pants or a loin cloth". Some of the officers had blankets, but few of the men. They were provided with sacks which they tied together. They slept on beds made from split bamboo poles.

They said the Japs had tried all kinds of propaganda about the defeat of the Allies, but were not believed. While in Singapore two radio sets had been hidden and news was heard, but after they reached Thailand this was impossible. Men relied on news from civilians whom they met while working, but this practice was dangerous and punishable if discovered by the guards. The names and addresses of the survivors were not published as they could "only give particulars of the general conditions in the Camp".

This, then we the background picture that my wife eventually got. It had some value to her, of course, but also it had acutely disturbing aspects. I have given the details as a general indication of this sort of news thousands of wives had to rely on before the whole truth was available. They were deeply grateful, of course, but there was more to come later on - much more.