Any notions some prisoners might have had of any early rescue were dispelled a week after arrival at Manila when a small contingent of British survivors, including myself, was added to a party of 1,000 Americans, veteran troops of Bataan and Corregidor, put aboard another transport ship.

Into the two holds were packed 500 men. The fifty Britons were among those crammed into the after hold. It was covered in fine coal dust. Five hundred pairs of feet tramping about the hold soon stirred up the choking dust, making us cough and splutter as it settled in the mouth and throat. When we had sorted ourselves out and the dust had settled, we found it was impossible for anyone to stretch out. We all had to squat on our haunches in rows along the hold.

These vile conditions were the worst we had yet encountered. It was no surprise when dysentery became rampant. The only way to ease ourselves was to grab the latrine buckets suspended by rope from the deck.

Buckets filled to overflowing were hauled jerkily to the deck by a fatigue party. When the ship lurched the contents spilled on those below. All day long shouts of "careful you bastards up there!" echoed through the hold from the complaining sufferers below. The stench became intolerable; we had no alternative but to inure ourselves to it.

Twice daily buckets of cooked rice were lowered into the holds. At first the distribution was chaotic and many had to go without a ration, but the organisation soon improved and everybody began to get a fair share, such as it was.

The atrocious conditions and the strain preyed increasingly on the nerves. Bickering turned to fighting, particularly among the Americans, some of whom flared up at theslightest provocation. Once a tall American private and a well-built Major settled their differences of opinion, started after some trifling comment, with a stand-up in one corner of the hold. They battered into each other with their fists. On the rations we had the energy they displayed was astonishing. As there was hardly enough room to crouch, let along fight, in the hold, they inevitably rolled about on top of other prisoners as they locked themselves together in the struggle. They were pushed to their feet to an accompaniment of oaths from those crushed underneath and set about each other again. The fight went on for so long that many onlookers became bored and ignored it. The fighters were built of sterner stuff. They continued until they were completely exhausted, and then, slumping to their knees, resumed the old squatting position. They never lost their tempers again for the rest of the journey, perhaps the fight helped them to dispel the rage and frustration they felt over their plight, and took the sharp edge off the despair which we all must have felt to some extent.

Regretfully, I had been forced to leave "Hockie" behind in Thailand. My closest companion now was Chris, also an Ordnance man, from Liverpool. His dry wit and Mersey Twang helped to cheer me up no end. We discussed every subject we could think of, but always finished on the same one; food. I had begun to hate the very word, but the topic had an inexhaustible fascination for us.

The Americans were in the war with a vengeance now and after we had been four days at sea U.S. submarines attacked the convoy. Battened down in the deep hold, we held our breath, listening with quivering intensity to the sound of torpedoes ripping through the water towards their targets. A fatigue party on the deck kept us below informed of what was happening. Many vessels in the convoy were sunk. They include two tankers. Under the onslaught, the tension became almost insufferable. The atmosphere in our holds was sepulchral. In ominous silence you would sense the tautening of every man when the curious ringing and pinging noises heralding the approach of a torpedo echoed round the hold. At one stage, the noises became excruciatingly louder. We seemed to be in the direct path of an oncoming "fish". This was it! There was not a movement in the hold as we all braced ourselves for the inevitable. I could feel the beads of sweat running down the clammy flesh of my back. Nearer, nearer, louder and louder; then a voice above yelling "it's missed us!", a sudden relaxing of the aching muscles and a feeling of bathing in waves of ineffable relief. A moment later the ship lurched and fear clutched the heart again as we felt the hidden power of an explosion. The yell from the deck again; "It's a tanker - direct hit. We're O.K.". the attack was over.

Chris and I look at each other in silent thankfulness. We knew without the help of words what any direct hit on this hell-ship, with men jammed like sardines in the hold, would mean. There could be no escape. I shuddered at the thought of the beckoning waters. We managed to get up and pick a way among the men; just a few steps to stretch the legs and give the numbed mind the chance to work again.

Two days later we dropped anchor in the harbour of Hong Kong, and began a long and wearisome wait for the next move. There we lay day after day, with no indication of when the journey was to be continued. A few fresh vegetables were taken aboard and we received a small allotment. It was so hot that we could get little sleep in the overcrowded hold. We became increasingly subdued, the talk petered out, and for long periods we could only gaze abstractedly at the bulkheads. Home seemed farther away than ever and I began to wonder if I should ever get back now. I had moments of hope when I reflected on the American attacks I had survived with others in the last few weeks, and tried to persuade myself that the Yanks must be preparing a great all-out attack for victory. I continued my nightly prayers.

To break the monotony and to stretch aching limbs, several of us volunteered to go on deck and help to take on coal supplies. It was invigorating to leave the stinking depths of the ship, get into the sun and breath in air. We willingly picked up the shovels and set about the coal bunkers. When this work was done we could enjoy the luxury of a sluicing under a spouting hosepipe. It was the first time I had had a real wash since the day of the sinking off the Philippine coast. I found it exhilarating. There was fresh water to drink, too. This was even more welcome. All told, we were 39 days in Hong Kong harbour. I marked off the days with a pencil stub on a small piece of cardboard. When we resumed our journey most of us had reached the point of not caring where we went as long as it was somewhere far from that hole. Not far out of Hong Kong the convoy split and ships sped in all directions after U.S. aircraft had been sighted, but there was no attack this time and we reached Formosa safely early in October, 1944. Prisoners were detailed off to working sections and allotted to various camps on the island, which was known as the Garden of the East because of its agricultural fertility.

Our small British party was sent to a country district and billeted in a former school. We were put to work tilling the land and tending the vegetable plots. It was a steady job and easy enough to do - though somewhat disconcerting to the English sensibility. Every day we splashed between the rows of growing plants supplies of human excreta taken from the camp latrines. I must admit that I have never seen healthier-looking vegetables. Before we left the camp some of the cabbages had grown to a terrific size, and would have won the Special Merit award in their class at any horticultural or vegetable show in Yorkshire.

The camp was quiet and peaceful; there were few guards and they seldom made their presence felt. The food consisted of cooked rice and vegetable soup much more palatable than any we had been given up to now. We had our share of fresh vegetables, without worrying too much about how they had been cultivated.

Inevitably, this comparatively pleasant way of life had to end and one day, after about eight weeks, we got our orders to move again. We picked up our pathetically few belongings and were taken by rail to a busy port, whose name I do not know. There we went aboard the Melbourne Maru, a spruce and shining modern ship in astonishing contrast to the old tramp we had travelled in earlier. The accommodation was comparatively spacious, and there was plenty of room in which to stretch out in the holds. Before we sailed, many large Japanese transport ships steamed into port. They were jammed with Jap fighting men in drab grey uniform. Even the rigging swarmed with men watching their own and other ships sailing into port.We sailed eastwards, and soon decided we must be on the final stage of the journey to Japan. We steamed through the China Sea, a vast expense of water the colour of mud. There were plane and submarine scares as before, but luckily we did not undergo any direct attack. I remember that trip vividly, if only for the incident of the vegetables. I was on cookhouse fatigue duty for the crew and guards. Each day a small group of us went to the aft deck to prepare vegetables for the soup. We heard that some parties who had done the job before us had managed to secrete small vegetables in their clothing to augment their rations. We chose what we thought was a suitable moment and then did the same. Our hopes of getting away with the plunder were soon dashed. One of the party was walking along innocently when there was a yell from a guard followed by a stream of what was undoubtedly abuse. Eventually he followed the direction of the quivering finger of accusation, and realised that he must be the cause of the trouble. Looking down at his trouser pocket, he saw what was unmistakably a piece of vegetable hanging limply from its lip.

That was the sign for a general assault by the guards on the lot of us. They tore into us, beat us about the head and body with their fists, and added a few well-directed kicks at the lower parts for good measure. After the thrashing we were made to stand to attention and ordered to turn out our pockets. Sheepishly we handed over the spoils, and under further threats were marched back to the hold. That ended all attempts by fatigue parties to steal rations. All of my unfortunate party had bruises which lasted for days to remind us that honesty is still the best policy.

We had left Singapore in July 1944, but it was not until early in the New Year of 1945 that we arrived in Japan. We disembarked at the port of Moji at the southern tip of the main island of Honshu. The next part of our journey was by rail - in passenger coaches, with the blinds drawn. This to us was luxury travel. If one stole a glimpse through the corner gaps of the blinds on the first part of the journey north it was possible to see luscious orange groves from time to time. Later on, I saw towering snow-capped, cloud-covered Fujima, the great mountain volcano.

The temperature began to fall as we journeyed on, and when we arrived at Tokyo we realised for the first time that we were in the depths of winter. It was really cold. We stood in small groups at the end of a long open platform, waiting for another train. Why do so many railway stations, the world over, seem cold, cheerless spots? This was no exception. We stood shivering as the sharp, biting wind penetrated to the bone. The tropical kit we were now wearing gave little protection against the cold. We were in luck's way, however. Before we restarted the journey, the Japs gave each one of us a greatcoat. They were allied clothing; welcome war loot indeed.

We snuggled into the cloth, revelling in the warmth of upturned collars, and left Tokyo, having seen nothing of the city but what a brief glimpse of buildings from the railway platform could convey. A few hours later the train halted at a small station surrounded by snow. We got out, marched to a smaller platform at the back of the station and entered a small train, which I noticed ran over a narrow gauge track. When this short ride ended, we stumbled off knee-deep in snow through the cold, crisp night.

Along a narrow cleft cut in the tightly-packed snow, we made our way from the little station to a nearby village, and out again at the far side. It was early morning, and the atmosphere was clear as we climbed the final hillside to a camp shielded by a wooden palisade. This was our destination.

It was a newly constructed camp. The huts were sound, with double-tiered bunks down two sides. There were Japanese mattresses. There were four blankets for each man. There were tables and forms in the centre of each hut. There was an iron stove. And there was electric lighting. This looked something like real comfort.

Jock, a dour Scottish regular soldier, who was a Corporal, rubbed his hands, and so far forgot himself as to suggest that we couldn't have done better in Scotland. We chose our bunks and then two of our party were told to report to the cookhouse. They returned with steaming containers of meaty soup and cooked rice. Bowls were at the ready. We lined up for generous helpings. The hot soup was delicious. And so to bed. We were well pleased. Next day brought news that three huts in the camp were occupied by American prisoners from the Philippines. They had been there a few weeks and were working in a nearby lead-and-zinc mine. It looked as if this was to be our next labour.