It was an agonising march, the north bound road was crammed with prisoners, filing slowly onwards. Exhaustion and distress through lack of food and water forced many of us to fall by the wayside. They were afterwards picked up by some of the British Red Cross, and R.A.M.C. vehicles and taken on to Changi. The Japs surprisingly allowed the few vehicles to do this humanitarian act. The island's native population left their humble shacks, and, standing alongside the dusty road, watched in awe and bewilderment as we went by. The kindness in providing a little water from their wells helped many to counter the torturous journey in the heat and dust. By nightfall many were flagging under the strain of the long march. But eventually in total darkness we reached the camp in Changi. We flung our belongings onto the tennis courts. Troops sank down beside them and slept soundly until the morning. Our men were messed there for two days, occasionally receiving a little food and half a mug of tea. The sorting out of the respective units eventually led to our particular section being billeted in bare hutments in the former Indian lines. We slept on the wooden floor. The days were sunny but torrential rains fell in the evenings. The rain had its compensations. With no water available for bathing, it was exhilarating to strip off and stand outside the huts in pouring rain for a shower. We used any type of recepticals that we could find to catch the overflow from the roof of the huts. Water we got in this way was useful for storing to wash clothes with. The food was restricted , a meagre ration of rice and soup of the English variety out of a tin. Tinned food stocks were low and in a few days the strength of the soup weakened, as more and more water was added to eke out supplies.

Some weeks after the capitulation I attended a lecture on the Malayan campaign given by a senior Army Officer who had seen it start and also its agonising conclusion. To us comparatively newcomers on the scene, it gave a complete picture of activities down the mainland. It was obvious after hearing the talk that one of the major reasons for the defeat was lack of aircraft support for the ground forces. On the other hand, the Japanese had a large force at their command and the first two or three weeks of their campaign reduced the Allied air force by at least 50%. I remembered that when I worked on the dock side soon after the 18th Divisions arrived, there were large packing cases stored for R.A.F. usage. They were labelled "Spitfire and Hurricane engines". They were never opened and were eventually dumped in the harbour, I often thought later how useful they could have been had they been assembled in time for use. During the summer months I learned that various batches of troops, from one thousand to one thousand four hundred strong, were moved from the island for transportation by sea to Korea, Formosa, and Japan. About the time I was travelling towards the Thailand border, the Fuki Maru departed from Singapore on a long and despairing journey for the prisoners to Korea. Two years later I had similar experience of travelling when we were herded like cattle in a similar ship bound for Japan. Twice-daily food rations of limited quantity were identical There was a small bucket of rice and unpalatable watery soup concocted from dry seaweed. Twenty five men formed a queue each meal time to collect a small ladle from each bucket.

A working party returned from a day at the docks in Singapore and one of the lads produced a newspaper in English. It had been printed under the direction of the Japanese. Blazoned across the front page was a sketch depicting the sinking of two of Britain's mighty battleships before off the Malayan coast. The sketch showed Japanese suicide pilots diving on the ships; the pilots were sticking their heads out of the cockpit cowl and brandishing huge swords.

There was a comment that the Japanese air force and navy would clear the eastern seas of British ships. The newspaper also produced under banner headlines some "glowing accounts" of the defeat of Java and Sumatra. It was inevitable after reading such accounts that many of us should wonder about the continued rapid progress of the Jap assault. Loath as we were to face the probability, it seemed we were in for a lengthy stay. Mercifully, none of us had any notion then of how long captivity would last - or of the appalling conditions we should have to live in. But we were all dismayed. The newspaper account, true or false, did nothing to reassure us. That night I lay on the floorboards in the pitch dark hut. Sleep was far away. I thought of my wife and child back home in Bradford, the place I had left behind not so many months before. I had a crystal clear memory of them both; the outline of features, the characteristic gestures, the clothes. I saw my wife slender and laughing by the dining room window, with the blue craggy line of Yorkshire moors visible on the horizon behind her.

Then the harder I tried to recollect, the less exact the picture became. Then there was nothing but a vague dissolving of form and figure in my heated mind. I tossed and turned as the hours dragged on and felt utterly miserable. In the end I was thankful when the first light of the new day came to dispel the tortured nostalgia of the night. Soon I should be doing camp fatigues.

"Hockie" was a wonderful raconteur. Sitting around him in the evening we listened to his endless stories told with a Welsh twang. Often he spoke of the trawler firm for which he worked back home; how the ships victualled and fuelled for their long sea trips; how the catches were handled at the docks; the quality of the fish, and its despatch to places far away.

"Hockie" decided to take up Spanish studies in his spare time. His firm, I gathered had Spanish interests. He stuck his head into a Spanish manual for weeks on end and in two or three months taught himself a smattering of the language.

Sometimes a number of our ordnance section climbed a hillside near the camp and sat down at the top, looking out across the Johore Straits. Home was always the favourite topic.

Cyril and Johnny used to tell of their life in London, of their families, and interests. We passed around photographs of our wives and children, sweethearts and members of the family. These photographs in the next few years became dog-eared; so often were they handled as we thought of those back home.

About the middle of the summer of 1942, after representations had been made to the Japanese, stereotyped P.O.W. cards were issued to each man to be sent home to next-of-kin. That was the forerunner of several others, all of the same type. Under the heading, on the postal side, "Service Des Prisonniers De Guerre", there were Japanese words. On that side of the card was space for full name, nationality, rank, and No. of the P.O.W. Camp, and the address for forwarding. On the reverse side were the following remarks under the heading:

     Yours ever,

Each prisoner had to cross out the words not applicable to him. The first prisoner of war card I sent reached my wife two years later. I learned later that at the time she was recovering from whooping cough, and the doctor had ordered her away for a few days rest. She went with a friend, whose husband was serving in Burma, to York. The first night there he was restless and could not sleep. She had a premonition that something was calling her back home. The next morning she told her friend that the premonition was so strong that she must return home. She caught the first train back to Bradford. When she reached home and opened the door the first thing she caught sight of was my P.O.W. card - written in 1942. It was the first news she received that I was a prisoner.

In the early P.O.W. days "Hockie"often talked about the chances of escaping. He had ideas about making across the Johore Straights to the mainland and heading for Burma. It was a long journey. He had a compass, which would have helped him on his travels, but the more he thought about the odds against him, the less inviting the prospect became. Food and water would be hard to find, he knew. He became obsessed as he coyed with a hundred and one ideas of escape, but gradually the eagerness dissipated and eventually he made no further reference to it. He realised the odds against success were phenomenal.

Food was a daily topic, as it continued to be right to the end of P.O.W. life. We often talked of what kind of meal each of us would order if we could have the chance entering a restaurant and sitting down with a menu card in front of us. Some of the dishes that many would have ordered for themselves alone would have fed a whole family: Incredible pacts were made among friends that if or when they were freed they would have mighty celebrations, with mountains of delicious food. The surprising thing is that when the end did come years ahead no one seemed to give a thought to those early eating pacts. Or if they did, I certainly never heard of them.

Yet sometimes I have a pleasant fancy. I picture myself walking into a restaurant and seeing a group of middle-aged men ploughing through a gargantuan meal, plates piled a foot high with juicy steaks or mounds of crackling pork. I see other diners looking on in speechless wonder. I walk up to the trencherman, and say "Japanese P.O.W.?" They smile and say nothing. With greasy lips, and without saying a word, they beckon me to sit down. I join them in silent understanding. Then I pick up a spare knife and fork and help myself.

In my youth I had attended Sunday school and church services, but afterwards I had been out-of-touch with church worship. When we were established in the camp at Changi the Services padre began Sunday and midweek services. Church of England padre set up his church in a small mosque-like white building. Craftsmen among the prisoners built a very fine altar rail, from odd bits of wood. The padre had managed to salvage his candlesticks and altar cloths and at each service he brought them into use. I found them strangely comforting. I attended the services regularly; they had a spiritual warmth which gave me strength. I began to revive my old, long-forgotten habit of saying my prayers.

There were times when the gentle voice of the six foot padre filled me with a kind of elation as he gave his sermons. No matter how depressed I had been during the week I always felt new hope surging through when the padre began to talk. He was a Christian gentleman. When finally I moved off to Thailand it was with real regret that I left behind that makeshift place of worship.