NX26331 - HOLLAND, Bruce Hedley, Pte.

Nominal Roll details - NX26331 - HOLLAND, Bruce Hedley, Pte.

5) Book No. 6 - 7th February, 1942 to 11th February, 1942

Original diary written by NX26331 - Pte. Bruce Hedley HOLLAND. Transcribed by John Holland.

Covers the period from 7th February 1942, when preparations were being made for the defence of the Causeway, to shortly before the capitulation two weeks later.

Continued from Book 5

Dengate was full of brilliant ideas - he wanted us to call him "Denny", so that the Japs would not pick him out as an officer, and to post two sentries per section where one would suffice. He had a plan where we would leave our trenches and plunge into the swamp after any Japs that appeared (telling Coy H.Q. after we returned). He said: "I have studied these Japs' tactics at base, have been reading them up in the papers! " After a few days' shelling, however, he was content to stay in his dug-out, modelling in clay and sending his batman out for meal issues. I delivered Ray's note to Arnie as he passed through our position on a patrol. Norm Wilding passed us, too, on the way back from the 2/10 M.D.S. on Bukit Timah Rd. He said that Don Wilks had been asking about us several days previously. Sipper had jumped a truck into Singapore in an attempt to see Tige, but he was unsuccessful and returned early. He told me of his experience on the mainland when he fell asleep and was left behind by the Company. Jimmy Walker's predicament came in for mirth too, but both could have been serious for those concerned.

It was a very patchy platoon, as many were absent, some ill and some detached for other duties. Sgt. Dixon, Hilton Blanch, Jimmy Walker, Vern Hicks, Sailor Weir, Bill Death, Jack Dean, Bluey McDonald and Eric Gottaas were in hospital with malaria, dengue or shell-shock. Bill Smith was with an M.M.G. post in the swamp, Harry Holden and Joe Noble with Company protective platoon, and for reinforcements we had Vince Beggs, Jimmy Brown, Ray Smithson, Bert Wills, Tom Fitzgerald, Bob Watson, Sid Pike, Jack Thomas and Ernie Bray. N.C.O.'s were Tom Yates, Harold Russell, and Tom Fitzgerald. McLean came back to 12 Platoon, and I took over my old job as gunner with Frank Dyson as no. 2. The gun was still OK - I had a new box of mags, my spare barrel and tripod. I gave Frank my new 1941 rifle, and he found the extractor spring missing. Peebles fixed it in a few days.

Packs and haversacks had been brought up to Company and some of the boys had theirs, rifled of most of the contents. Mine was still missing. Sipper had his mosquito net and bivouac sheets erected in the stunted scrub back under the rubber trees. I slept under a small attap shelter with Fred and Russ for the first few nights. Our mess was served out at a rude table in the scrub. We had stocks of naval base stores - tobacco, chocolate, etc., stacked under it. Often our meals were interrupted by shellfire and we had to carry them into our pits to finish them. The reason was obvious and without remedy, as the enemy could see our ration truck during its progress along Bukit Timah Rd., and timed the shellings so they would coincide with its arrival at our position at the crossroads. Consequently, Peebles or Stan Heuston would not delay, but whipped out our issue and buzzed off. The main enemy O.P. was in the Johore Administration Building. It was marked by only one shell and we understood the Arty. had orders not to fire on it. The enemy shelling was easy to judge and I soon learnt the language of their projectiles, disregarding the whining of those destined for C (?).H.Q. or 2/15 R.A.A., but ready to bite the dust at the hissing roar of close ones. Our batteries would fire one round, Nippon would reply with several dozen in an endeavour to silence them. Nippon would cease fire, then our drop-shorts would wake him up with one more round, and so on ad infinatum.

When in Singapore, I had seen headlines that acclaimed our guns as victors in an artillery duel. They claimed to have driven the Jap back 12 miles and silenced them. It became the ironical habit to shout, as a strafe commenced, "And the guns of Johore were silenced!" We became thoughtful when told that rubber trees shed their leaves in February/March. We anticipated a lovely time when the foliage no longer sheltered us. The leaf fall was only partial, however. An anti-tank gun crew was stationed on the road at our right front. They had a Breda gun with no sights, and had never fired it to see if they could hit anything. They were well dug-in, with a covered pit to accommodate the whole team. Parcels, mail and newspapers had arrived (none for me) and Sipper and I shared a tin of Xmas pudding during one night's watch together. Athol Nagle's position had been taken by a bespectacled midget named Tryson, and Duffy had a new batman, a red haired chap named Robertson. Phil Bailey and his A.A. section passed us on patrol. They were relegated to ordinary section duties in the Battalion. A reinforcement to "A" Coy named (?) lost his block, in more ways than one, for he walked into a boong house, pulled out a grenade and held it to his head. Result: "finis" or "sudah habis" as the Malays say.

One duty that I never had time to strike was the swamp patrol, which occupied several hours if done conscientiously. Our patrol (2 men) moved up to "A" Coy on the right, then down the railway line to the M.M.G. posts in the swamp, returning through the left of the position. There were wide gaps between platoons, companies and battalions, and defences were hurried and light. We had expected to find prepared positions after falling back down the mainland, but nothing had even been attempted. Our wire was alongside the road. One night, Dengate ordered us to drag the end around and across the road, with the result that an Indian truck ran into the rusty coils of Italian concertina wire. They took hours to cut themselves free. Sipper's observation that "Dengate ought to have his head under it!" was overheard by that worthy, who, surprisingly, said that he was glad to hear a chap speak his mind, and welcomed criticism!

Our showers were down over the road. We "tonged" in a small gully, with all gear handy, often to the accompaniment of desultory shelling. I had pinched a Pommy camouflage net for my helmet while at base, but it tangled in most everything and rumour said nets helped bullets to penetrate so I discarded it. We got two hot meals a day, breakfast porridge or vita brits, steak. bread, butter and jam, and tea, bully beef stew, bread, butter, tinned fruit, etc. Dinner was a dry ration affair. We boiled the billy and made coffee or chocolate whenever possible, taking care to use dry wood only. Some of the boys had bought tinned eatables on the Island to eke out their rations. We were not as hungry as them, apparently, but could have done with more.

At any rate, after I had settled myself in on 7/2/42 we were told that a convoy of Marmions would be up that night to take a load of oil from tanks near the Causeway. They would drive in under black-out conditions, covered by an artillery barrage to blanket their engines. Sentries were allocated their jobs, 8 Sec was glad to see us back as they were very short-handed in this respect. We settled down for a well-earned sleep, but Fate willed otherwise, and we stood-to all night. The trucks went down the road, as planned, and were picking up the oil when, suddenly, the alarm was given. Our defensive fire opened and we groped our way to our trenches amid the racket of shell fire, mortar bombs and Vickers on fixed lines, guided by the glare of the still-burning oil tanks near Yew Lee. A small boat manned by volunteers (including Mick Murray) under Lieut. (Admiral) Smythe, encountered a strong Jap force at the mouth of Kranji River. Smythe threw a grenade into the nearest enemy craft, and then dived overboard. All reached te shore safely, except for the "Admiral", and it was surmised that either a shark or a crocodile accounted for him. The Japs withdrew, but our M.M.G.'s played tunes all night and we got no more sleep. The trucks "went through" very smartly, and never attempted to draw from those tanks again.

The next day (8/2/42) was Sunday, but it was certainly no day of rest. The enemy artillery swamped us all day long; we spent the whole period in our shelter trenches. Sipper and I shared one. We sat on a box, back-to-back, and talked, smoked, and read Aussie papers. When our situation palled on us, we commenced recording the nearer shell bursts. Sipper stuck a match into the clay wall for each one. Before long, his supply was exhausted and he had to halve them. Then he ran out of halves and gave it up. The shells were still just as numerous - most of them falling in the swamp, fortunately. A number straddled our defensive slit trenches. In the lull, we cautiously ventured out to see the damage, and in full view over Johore was an observation balloon, the "eyes of the enemy"! Planes flew over us, all marked with the red spot, and A.A. sometimes burst near them. A curious hissing roar and explosion down the road was thought to be a crash, but it was never confirmed, however. Our own A.A. shrapnel fell around us; one fragment pierced a sandbag only inches from Sipper's head, and another brought our attap lean-to crashing to the ground.

The strafe ceased at nightfall, and we settled down for sleep again. My sentry-go commenced at about 23:00 and was interrupted by a resumption of the shelling. The shells were not exploding and in the darkness I detected a curious smell - "gas!", I thought, and rushed for my respirator, frantically recalling to mind all that I had been told about gases and their characteristics. I put on the respirator, took it off, put it on again, then decided to take it off and take my chance. A bloke would suffocate just as quickly in the mask as in a gas cloud! There were many duds that night. I counted over 70 consecutive ones. Jack Beehan, the next relief, had dug himself a one-man shelter which I had difficulty in finding. In fact, his shift was nearly over before I located and woke him, to hand over the wrist watch and crawl into my own bivvy.

9/2/42:

Shelling ceased at dawn, and Sipper and I resolved to construct a more commodious shelter, one that we could sleep in, if necessary, and that would shelter us from the elements. Accordingly, we marked out and set to work on an excavation 7' x 5' x 3' under some handy rubber trees. The spoil we camouflaged as we dug it out, with cut bushes. Fighter planes were sporting overhead and we moved circumspectly. Russ, Pick and Tom were engaged in enlarging and roofing their pit, as were Fred and Jack McLean. Dengate had a covered shelter, as did Bunny and Bert. I cultivated quite a few blisters swinging the unaccustomed "changkol", and by mid-afternoon we were deep enough and started filling sandbags and scrounging timber for the roof. We pulled down a partially-dismantled building on the crossroads, but could not get stout enough planks, so decided to call it a day. After a shower and clothes-washing parade, we were sitting in the pit when a shell advertised its coming in no uncertain manner. It burst in a tree crotch about 10 yards away and sprayed the area with shrapnel and rubber branches. Frank received one of the latter in the small of his back and thought he was done-for, for a moment. Charlie had been sent to B.H.Q. as a runner and Frank chewed his discs alone. I was in a quandary, I was undecided which was the best end of the new pit to occupy, as the shrapnel from a shell bursting in a tree behind me would be a danger if I got under the fore bank and vice versa. Then I decided to join Fred and Mac in their roofed pit, and Sipper joined Russ, Tom and Pick. I think that our engineering operations had been observed, for the new strafe was right on us and fairly severe.

As well as the usual field artillery fire, we were subjected to mortars and A.A. shells. The last named were fired with a flat trajectory, and arrived at our end before the noise of the discharge, or the whistle of the approach. Some would bounce off the ground and burst in the air, and some cannoned their way through the trees without exploding. Dick Andrew and Don Watts passed the mouth of our shelter just prior to a sudden salvo. We thought they were hit, at first, but later they said that they did "100 yds in 5 seconds" back to their position. At dusk, the ration truck arrived and Mac was in two minds whether he would go down to draw it. He reasoned it would draw the crabs, and it did! Stan Heuston dropped off the hot meal and buzzed off, with an issue of beer for the platoon still on the truck. We were a bit wild about that - a bit of "moral support" would have gone well. The mess was doled out and I raced into my possie with a tin of bully stew, some slabs of bread, and a container full of hot, sweet tea. Very good!

Orders came for Dengate to report to C.H.Q. He was dubious and nearly jacked up on going. When he returned, he told us that an attack was expected, and issued quite silly orders about our behaviour in the event. He told me that, on the signal of 4 flares from C.H.Q., I was to fire a magazine into the swamp! No target visible, our patrols still in there, and a dead giveaway. I said nothing and resolved to do nothing so silly. In the meantime we maintained two sentries in the forward pits and stood-to in the dug-outs. Mac and Fred were out of tobacco so I brought out mine. WE smoked so many "nerve sticks" that night that I was out in a very short time, too, 5 packets and 2 oz of Havelock lasting no time. I was abused for throwing a lighted butt out into the night. The boys were jittery and reckoned that the enemy O.P.'s would see it, across a mile of water! The enemy shells and mortar bombs raked up and down our position, and I began to appreciate the feelings of a criminal under sentence of death. A heavy howitzer joined in. We jumped at the flat crashes that drew perceptibly nearer, then passed over. A small tree was blown onto the top of the pit and branches littered the ground. My afternoon's washing, shorts, shirt and socks, vanished, as did my water bottle, from outside the shelter. I was dressed in blue pyjama shorts, shirt, boots and socks, and presented a curious spectacle.

10/2/42

In the early hours we stood to, then were allowed back into the pits again. Frank and I resolved to get some sleep, so we lay down in our new pit and dozed till we were alarmed again. A raging thirst grew on me, and having no bottle, I bludged a drink from the A/Tk gunners as they pulled out. It was a petrol tin about half full of water, and having no mug I was obliged to lift the tin and drink from the ragged hole. I kept the tin and had constant recourse to it as long as we remained there. We found out later that the gunners took our beer with them as they left. About 4 a.m. we were aroused and told to be prepared to move. Frank and I consumed a tin of bully beef, the order to move was given, and away we went towards C.H.Q. I carried the gun, and had a large pack on my back as well as a bayonet and respirator. We forgot our spare barrel, but Russ burdened himself with the tripod. We had to abandon all sheets, mosquito nets, spare tucker, packs and blankets. We did not understand themove as we were loath to leave our defensive positions. We did not know that the Jap was already on the Island, and that we were in danger of encirclement. Our 25 pounders and 3" mortars were pooping out shells as fast as they could send them. The whizz of the mortar bombs overhead and the subsequent clanging explosion along the railway line were very comforting. They, and the stuttering Vickers, covered us as we moved. Ray Albury was killed at his gun post at about this time, and several 2/4 M.G.'s were wounded. A partly severed rubber branch suddenly snapped and fell as we descended into the first gully. The ground was littered with smashed limbs and the overpowering stink of H.E. assailed our nostrils afresh. In open order, we moved up the asphalt road to C.H.Q. where Captain Duffy, from a commanding position on the bank, gave us a short talk on our predicament. We had to fall back to protect our flank, as the Jap had infiltrated the Kranji defences and was on our left rear. It seemed like running away, from security in the form of trenches and wire defences, to a dangerous and yet unknown position in the rear. When he finished by telling us the distance, about 4000 yards, growls of annoyance were audible and Sipper suddenly hurled his pack into the ditch. Duffy gave a yelp of anger and shouted "Charlton! I ought to shoot you for that!" It was a bad example to set the numerous reinforcements in our ranks, still strange to the Company and lacking the comradeship that bound the old hands together. He picked it up later and carried it for the first day.

We plunged into the rubber and followed a narrow road that led out of the rear of C.H.Q. In single file, we trudged along the sandy track, stopping and starting several times in the grey haze that preceded the dawn. A 30 cwt truck lay on its side, abandoned, in the ditch. No sound came from the several native kampongs we passed en route. Only the incessant racket of the barrage behind us and the glow of oil fires around the horizon testified that men were fighting on Singapore Island.

Suddenly, we reached an asphalt road, and realised that we had been led in a huge circle back onto Bukit Timah Road. We were only a couple of hundred yards from our old section position, and could, within a few minutes, have re-occupied the defences. This cautious detour called forth more criticism from the heavily laden men. Frank was sagging under the weight of 16 mags in an Indian haversack and 12 mags in a box, as well as pack, rifle and equipment. I motioned to the swamp on the left of the road, and the box of mags described a graceful parabola, to splash and sink in the peaty ooze. Further along, we met two carriers that covered our move. Bill Smith and other Vickers personnel were on them, and they loaded a fair bit of spare ammunition to help us along. We never saw it again, or the carriers, till the blue was over.

The next change of direction was into the rubber on the left, then right to follow the pipe line that appeared. This line ran from the Gunong Putai Reservoir in Johore, across the straits to Singapore. It was about 3 ft in diameter, painted black, and supported on concrete trestles at intervals. The line ran straight as a die, uphill and down dale, and we followed its course in thecleared spaces on either side.

Dawn was breaking and the roar of enemy planes was apparent when we halted for a breather at the top of a steep pinch overlooking Mandai Rd. I unslung my pack and hurriedly diced some unnecessary gear - two books (one of them was Treasure Island), the clumsy mess gear I had acquired at base, towel, blanket, etc. went into the grass and, immensely relieved, I turned to take stock of the situation. In front, over the road, rose the shell-scarred slopes of the bare hill we had seen before only at a distance. The sun shone from a mass of rosy clouds on our left and, at intervals around the horizon rose columns of oily smoke to form one big cloud, a fitting pall for Singapore. In precise formation, squadrons of Japanese medium bombers droned over at ridiculously low altitudes (they knew they had little to fear) which made us shrink even further under our protecting canopy of rubber trees. Occasional shells whined over, but it was apparent that the storm had been severe before our arrival. There were smashed trees, shell holes and many dud shells in evidence on all sides. Craters in the asphalt road, telegraph and power lines in hopeless confusion, and abandoned transport blocked the narrow defile known as Mandai Rd.

Word came back that we were to take up positions on top of the ridge and conceal ourselves as well as possible in the tall lalang grass which grew there. This was a poser - to lie all day in the sun screened only by lalang grass was no joke, and my costume would not bear the light of day, being composed of tin helmet, bright red army boots, blue and white striped pyjama jacket, and blue silk pyjama shorts. I was relieved when Frank produced a spare pair of swamp trousers from his pack, and more relieved still when we were moved downhill to the right and into rubber again. Slit trenches had been dug in this area, and we promptly occupied them. Frank, Fred and myself found ourselves in one pit. Abandoned gear littered its floor, from whence I secured two "69" Bakelite grenades and a water bottle. The bottle lacked a cork, and I was obliged to make shift with a roughly-trimmed plug of wood.

A quarry and kampong lay about 100 yards over the road. Fred roared with laughter when a great fat sow was lifted into the air by a Japanese shell. Pigs lay dead everywhere, and those that still ran about carried their share of shrapnel. George Guan was killed here when a shell came right into the slit trench with him.

Harry Holden received our envious salutations with a smile as he ran past to the R.A.P. Dengue fever had him in its hold, and didn't we wish it would grab us, too! I did my turn as guard on the ridge behind; no one knew where the enemy was, but it paid to be cautious. Three members of "Don" Company patrolled with Tommy guns in front of me while I lay in a shallow stump hole and apprehensively sniffed the strange mixture of high explosive fumes and smashed rubber branches. Small arms fire was evident, but at some distance. When I returned to the boys I found them preparing to move to a new position. Captain Duffy emerged from the dug-out that he had pre-empted and led us down to the road-side. I sprawled awkwardly over the lip of a boong well to fill my bottle. I drank the lot, and filled it again. When the patrolling planes had momentarily passed, we doubled across in dribs and drabs to reassemble in the kampong under cover. We passed several mortar crews with their "guns" at the ready, many more dead pigs, and some dead that were not pigs, carelessly covered with coarse sacking. Those boongs would not rejoice in the Co-Prosperity Sphere. They had been unlucky, as the kampong contained some excellent dug-outs, well ballasted, and even concreted. We skirted the green, slimy ponds in the gardens, scaring fowls and ducks from amongst the tapioca, banana and papaya patches, then were dispersed and told to get shelter until dark. Russ had abandoned the tripod, so that was one less worry, and we set about digging trenches. My hands were swollen with pus from the blisters acquired during Monday, and I knocked off when my pit was deep enough to shelter me lying down. Darcy earned my admiration by the deft way in which he swung his changkol. (We all learned to swing one later!) It was mid-afternoon, and the Nippon war eagles were still droning monotonously along the axis of the road. Nerves were taut, and we all jumped when a shot rang out nearby. It was Tommy Cullinane, a QX reinforcement to Platoon, who had accidentally shot himself through the foot. We were startled shortly afterwards by a repetition of this occurrence, this time a reinforcement to 7 Sec named Ray Smithson, from Hurstville, Sydney. Apparently, he placed his hand over the muzzle to assist him in jumping down into a pit when the rifle exploded and shattered his hand. He was half carried past me in a fainting condition, the white bones of his mangled hand contrasting with the crimson flesh exposed. I started to think about wounds, then, and how severely wounded a man would have to be wounded, to be evacuated. I compromised with Fate in this manner: that I would sacrifice a couple of joints of my little finger, but no more, to get out of the show. No S.I.W. for me though, I wasn't that bad.

Bill Douglas came past me with a hat full of eggs for his boss. The boys were scrounging what they could for a meal. Tom Evans got onto some Cascade beer in an R.A.P. dump and I had a mouthful. Then Darcy brought to light a sandbag of tinned stuff, and 8 Section ate once more! We consumed the tinned fish, biscuits, apricots, shredded pineapple and milk that it contained, eating in turn out of the tins with spoons or forks. (Three years later we found the owners (?) of the sandbag, Hilton Blanch's section. Apparently they bought it to eke out rations and were carrying it in turns. Dick Henderson dumped it when in a hurry and earned the censure of his mates but our hearty thanks!)

The Chinese occupants of the dug-outs could not be coaxed out under any pretext, so pineapples and papayas "went off" unheeded. Captain Duffy closed us in and gave us the "P" for the night's move. We were to move along the road for a few miles to form a new defensive position. The Japs were to be thrown off the Island by a concerted attack. He stressed the need for silence and discipline during the dark hours. Accordingly, when it grew fairly dusky, we were assembled and moved towards the road once again. IN single file, we were cautiously descending a path beside the pipeline when suddenly a glorious pillar of flame rose into the southern sky and it became as light as day. Like criminals caught in the act, we crouched while the flame wavered then grew again, a perfect target for the Nips if they had been on the spot. Apparently the oil tanks on either Pulau Brani or Blakang Mati had been fired, adding their quota of flame and smoke to the ring around us.

We hurried onto the road to escape this blinding exposure, moving toward B.T. Road in A.A. formation. Shell craters, overhead wires, and debris of all descriptions, impeded us. We turned a corner and saw the glare of the Bukit Panjang tanks, straight ahead. The crimson glow was reflected on the wet road surface; we seemed to be marching into an enormous, fiery furnace. We turned left along B.T. Rd towards Yew Lie, then left again into a granite quarry at the base of Bukit Mandai. Up a narrow, metalled road, past the silent quarry buildings, then into the rubber and so to the summit of the hill. We were formed into a very close perimeter. Actually, each man could have touched his neighbour. We were told to get a good sleep for the projected moves tomorrow, and given 10-minute guards each. I lay on the dew-soaked ground and pulled the ground sheet over me. The rubber-covered cloth condensed more moisture onto me but I was wrapped in slumber in a matter of seconds. The gun was beside me, rusty but still efficient. My pack pillowed my head, and I even loosened my boots a trifle.

11/2/42

We were wakened before sunrise and stretched our aching bones in the cool darkness. A new position had been allotted us and we had to occupy it immediately. From the hill top, our descent was through spindly, stunted rubber trees in the general direction of Mandai, and along the axis of B.T. Rd. In freshly-dug slit trenches (dug by God-knows-who) we settled ourselves. I set up the gun in the moist red clay of the parapet, and considered the view, which was limited and disgusting. Our front was B.T. Rd, about 50 yards. It petered out on each flank behind a shoulder of the ridge. On the left was the quarry, on the right a Chinese cemetery with curious gravestones silhouetted against the dawn light. Over B.T. Rd the smothering blanket of vegetation showed no sign of life. Half right (?) we could see the straits shining placidly in the distance. Small arms fire was apparent from the right and Nippon lost no time in sending over his planes. One pilot flew several times along the road, with some definite object in view. We crouched close to the ground and hid our faces as the roar of his single engined recce plane warned us of his approach from the left. He came into view, his plane banking easily from side to side, just clearing the tree tops, actually level with our position on the ridge as he followed the winding course of the road. His helmeted head swung from side to side as he sought evidence of our presence. We remembered the plane that had spotted for the advance at Gemencheh, and suspected close cooperation with Jap infantry. When he had passed on, some of the boys poked down to the road and searched several boong huts on the edge of the cemetery. Bert Wills came running back and got a carrying party to help him with some tinned pineapple. I didn't expect him to bring back as much as he did, however. There were five cases in all and no tins. We sent a case and a half to each of the other sections and kept two for 8 Sect. Jack knives were produced and a fruit breakfast eventuated. I ate two tins, and had just lent my spoon to Russ, when 9 Section opened fire on the left. We dived for our firing possies but could see no sign of movement on our front. 9 section, under Tom Fitzgerald, had sighted some Nips on bicycles and had sent them to ground. Their small arms fire commenced to crackle on the left; on the right, the firing had grown in intensity, and our Brens could be heard in continuous automatic fire. Orders arrived to withdraw, and Dengate panicked again. He wasn't the only one, for 9 section was composed mainly of reos and they "shot through like Bondi trams". Ray Donald had trouble convincing his number two to carry his rifle. I had an eye to the future, and grabbed as many tins of pineapple as I could. I had nine altogether, shoved down the front of my shirt - I bet they would have stopped any bullet!

We moved hurriedly through a native kampong and over the ridge into comparatively clear country. The gun bounced heavily on my shoulder as I slithered down the black, muddy track, through native gardens to a narrow earth causeway across a slimy green lake. Water hyacinth and duckweed covered the surface, and ducks scattered at our approach. We clumped across a single plank bridge over an irrigation sluice, and turned to gaze apprehensively at the cemetery skyline, for another creek had appeared with no bridge in sight. There was nothing for it but to jump from the bank into the evil, smelly ooze, with a slippery climb out on the other side. I was labouring up the other side when I heard a loud burst of profanity from behind. Sipper had slipped and fallen into the creek. He ripped off his respirator and hurled it furiously away.

We filed past pig sties and fowl pens, then attap huts, till the rest of the Company came in view. I dropped down beside Bill Delaney in a pineapple patch to regain my breath, and gave him a tin of fruit. The hut behind us smelt of fowl dung and incense, so it must have been Chinese. A road led south through stunted scrub, over another ridge. Behind loomed the shell-scarred ridge that had been a landmark from the start. We felt apprehensive, but more secure with the rest of the Company to back us up. After a short interval (Here, Bruce ends his account of the events leading up to the surrender and his captivity. I think he had grown tired of remembering and writing all that had happened.)

(Source: John Holland - Diary transcript sent to 2/30 Battalion AIF Association on 6/7/2008)

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