Introduction to an old Liverpudlian

[Royal Navy Medic]

Greetings one and all.

I have just realized that whilst I have been jumping around making a few comments and contributions on the site, I should have come here first and introduced myself - so here I am!

I have much to tell about my life in Liverpool and later further afield and have written a three part Trilogy of my very busy life now sadly entering the twilight phase.

You may find my life stroy at times to be beyond belief, that is if you can take the time to check it out so as a starter I thought I would present the first chapter of my Trilogy and how my journey through life began - I hope you find it interesting and I trust not boring.

Here we go!

CHAPTER ONE

Carbide, Crabs and Ferry Boats


My story really begins on the 21st November 1923 in the front bedroom of a neat two storey council house in West Derby, an outer suburb of Liverpool in the north of England. Those present at the imminent event were Mercedes Katrina Williams (nee De Lan) and her husband William Francis Williams a stern religious man born of good Welsh stock in North Wales and, as devout a Chapel man as you could find. The last participant was a rosy cheeked buxom midwife by the name of nurse Drury who was to start me on my life of adventure and learning. I somehow knew from the moment that I drew my first gasping breath of wintry Liverpool air that I was predestined to enjoy a life full of adventure and excitement. However I would never ever reach the dizzying heights of financial fame and success...and **** it, I never did!

My Mother was a wonderful generous woman who, although beset throughout her life with severe heart and kidney problems always tried to give her children, Mercedes (Babs), Gwendolyn and myself the very best that she could, even it meant going short herself.

Her main passions in life as I recall were, the trips with my father to the ballroom in the Blackpool tower for their occasional dance. Cold cooked mud crabs from the Mersey that she would have killed for. A chocolate delicacy made by Rowntree's called whipped cream walnuts and her now and then visits to local repertory theatres to see a good play. On special days she would take me with her to get my first taste of the arts.

My Father was the son of a sergeant of police in the Anglesey (North Wales) constabulary who, when he retired after a lifetime of service was presented with a large and imposing marble and onyx mantel clock. I can still see this grand clock in the style of the Parthenon ticking and chiming away reassuringly on the mantelpiece of our living room. I can still hear the solid and comforting sound of my Dad winding the clock with a large brass key every Sunday night before going up to bed. When my Grandfather, William Hugh died, he was buried in the little cemetery at the foot of the Menai Bridge that joins Anglesey to the mainland. I have always wanted to go and see his grave and visit the many places I remember from my childhood around Anglesey, such as Bangor and Newborough where we used to visit a long standing half cousin of the family, Uncle John and his wife Auntie Catherine.

They lived in an old stone and slate two-storey cottage. Uncle John kept ferrets to catch rabbits for the pot, and I often used to tease them in their little wire cages and endured many a sharp fang buried in my fingers.

I also remember that he had a very simple wooden model of a sailing boat hanging from a hook on the high ceiling of the living room.

The model was very basic and was encrusted with grime and pipe tobacco smoke residue but I loved it as it stirred my seafaring passions. I always hoped that one day he would take it down and give it to me... he never did, so I guess it must have meant a great deal to him.

My Dad joined the Liverpool Police Force as his second choice; he really wanted to be part of the London Metropolitan Police Force but was apparently just under the minimum height requirements of the day.

He became a mobile beat policeman and rode around on a black enamelled Raleigh 3-speed bike. It had a headlamp that used crude lumps of Carbide placed in an airtight canister that when water was introduced, caused a chemical reaction that produced a gas.

My inseparable (until World War II) mates Albert Sharkey and Gordon Cassey and I called our trio “The Three Musketeers”. We did all of the things young boys of that age and era did. Such as “acquiring” some of my Dads carbide and sealing it into an empty golden syrup or treacle tin with some water then retiring to a safe distance to watch the inevitable loud bang as the lid either blew off or the tin ruptured.

Dad’s police bike was later fitted with a “state of the art” one way radio system that comprised an ear trumpet style loud speaker mounted on the handlebars. An acid accumulator battery and a valve radio resided inside a triangular leather saddlebag mounted under the crossbar.

He showed it to me one day and I guess it had a range of about 1000 yards from the police station, leaked acid from the accumulator (that ruined the saddle bag) and required him to find a police telephone box to report back that he had received the message. By this time the miscreants had no doubt moved on to greener pastures. I guess that the later fitting of a dynamo lighting system driven by the bikes front wheel at least helped him find the nearest police telephone box.

To be fair though, I must point out that all this technology emerged whilst our gas street lamps were still being lit every night by the council lamp lighter who came around on a bicycle carrying a short ladder on his shoulder.

My Dad, as I have already pointed out, was very religious and as a consequence rather strict in our upbringing forcing us all to go to Sunday school and later, me to go to our local Anglican Church, St. Andrews. I hated this weekly drudge and dozed through most (for me at least) of the dreary sermons. I believe that this part of my upbringing set the scene for a later revolt against the inflexibility of religion and the church as I experienced it. This led me to a more scientific approach to the origins and meaning of life and thence to my somewhat Agnostic leanings.

My first recollection of school was at an Anglican Church infant’s school in West Derby, a village that was part on the then Lord Derby’s estate. The village and church date back to the 1600’s and was, I suppose, a sort of an anachronism.

Such beauty and history only a 25 minute tram ride from the centre of Liverpool, but I of course must not forget that Liverpool itself has a fairly impressive history and was presented with its charter by King John and had its first Lord Mayor in about 1351.

I can recall very little of my days at this small church school other than for time when we had to bring a Union Jack for the Empire day celebrations to be held at the school.

When I got home from school I told my Mum that I needed a flag for Empire day. She gave me a pound note (about a third of my Dad’s weekly income at the time) and sent me over to the local newsagent at our shopping centre at Larkhill to buy what she probably thought would be a penny flag.

When I got to the shop they had flags of all shapes and sizes including a simply stunning flag about 5’ x 2’ on a huge varnished pole about 6 feet high and topped by a carved British lion.

It was exactly one pound so I took it and proudly struggled home with this magnificent emblem of the great British Empire. My Mum saw me coming across the road with it and I am sure suffered a minor heart attack when she realised that I most certainly was not carrying a simple penny flag. My face must have been a picture I as struggled up the front path and showed her my splendid trophy. I think in retrospect she knew that she was not going to get any change from her pound note and showing the courage and understanding that she had in abundance, said “My God, you are going to be the envy of the school tomorrow.”

The next day I was chosen of course to lead the parade of the children around the playground and village and felt so proud with my huge flag that I could barely carry. Whilst watching the parade my Mum was probably wondering what she was going to give us to eat for the rest of the week.

Having made my mark at the church school, I was then enrolled at our local council elementary school only a couple of minutes walk from home.

The days at the elementary school were for me, slow and often boring. I always seemed to finish my assignments ahead of the rest of my class and so became restless and wanted to get on with something else.

At an annual school concert I got my first “role” in a school production of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” I suggested that I could hide inside the mock up of a grandfather clock used in the play and, on cue, strike a little gong 12 times to signify the midnight hour.

This was a resounding success and I even took a bow at the end of the play with gong in hand. My face not only beaming but, like the rest of the cast, pock marked with Impetigo that had struck the school during a common epidemic of the times.

My days at this school dragged on and I used to take small model aeroplanes to school (made in Japan out of recycled jam tins that cost four for a penny) and when I had finished my assignments, would play with these until it became something of a problem.

I was eventually given a note from the headmistress to my parents. A few days later my Mum and Dad came to school with me and spent some time with the headmistress discussing the situation. Later I was called into her office, in fear and trepidation of my fate. To my amazement I was not given “a talking to” but was asked if I would like to leave this school and go on to the more advanced secondary school as I seemed to be ready for the move.

And so I embarked on the final stages of my formal education and left the school of my theatrical triumph for bigger and better things.

The Roscoe Boys Secondary School was a ten-minute walk from home and was an extremely advanced school for the period (1930’s). Each classroom had a large concertina like folding glass windowed partition that could fully open in the summer to allow fresh air to circulate.

The central assembly hall was very well set up with folding chairs, gymnasium equipment and a raised stage for performance and addresses. All in all the school was pretty much state of the art and I felt more at home in this new and exciting environment.

I seemed to be constantly in trouble though, and painted numerous red trousered and a bright green shirted figures in the art classes. My art teacher was of the school of thought that such clashes of colour were deplorable and totally unacceptable. As a consequence, my taste in colour has always since that day been somewhat subdued and even tending to be conservative.

Our English teacher was an utter bore and his lessons stultifying in the extreme. He was aware of my lack of interest in his style of teaching and when it came time for the class to take a book from the library to study and later discuss, I always had last choice and invariably ended up with “Kenilworth” that was for me, deadly boring reading.

The one area that I really excelled in was woodwork and joinery. I was top of the class on a couple of occasions and this prompted the headmaster to note on my final school leaving report that “Kenneth should do well in a manual occupation.”

During the summers of my early childhood, we used to take the ferry from the Pier Head in Liverpool up and across the Mersey to New Brighton a river cum seaside resort with a dubious beach but lots of fun. New Brighton boasted the legendary one-legged diver, naughty postcards, ice cream, buckets and spades, and paddling in the brown water of the Mersey. I think it was the ferries that first started to get into my blood, the “Royal Daffodil” and the “Royal Iris” magnificent ferries with black and white funnels. They made lots of smoke whilst plying back and forth to the other side of the river to Birkenhead, Wallasey and of course the long trip to New Brighton and, in my imagination...Africa.

The Mersey was a hive of industry in the 30’s with ships coming and going to and from mysterious and exotic destinations. Banana boats bringing in cargoes of luscious Fyffe’s bananas with their familiar little oval blue and white labels.

The Blue Funnel line cargo ships, the Ellerman Line and of course the great Cunard White Star Ocean liners such as the “Franconia” with her white painted hull, and the “Laconia”, both ships working the Atlantic run to Canada and the United States.

The sounds of the ship foghorns at night used to reach all the way to West Derby and like mythical sirens gradually invaded my senses. I knew instinctively that I would one day succumb to their calls and set off on a remarkable adventure on one of the many beautiful ships that called into Liverpool...but, not just yet.

[shytalk]

Great story, welcome to the forum, Looking forward to the next chapter.

[Royal Navy Medic]

Thank you Shytalk for your nice words about part one of my convoluted life!

If you would like to read some more, just Google Winston Churchills Shoe and that should take you there.

I hope you are making headway with your untrainable dog, but you should consider yourself lucky, have you ever tried to train a cat?!!!

Best wishes

Ken

[robbo176]

loved reading the first chapter

a Warm welcome to Yo, Ken ,I sure you'll enjoy it here

Mandy

[Steven]

Hi Ken, Welcome. I am ex-Andrews, so we can have a few good 'natters.'

[phredd]

What a great read. Looking forward to part 2.
Welcome back home.

From an Ex Army Medic but not quite as long in the tooth.

Phredd (In Arduis Fidelis)

[Kev]

A warm welcome aboard

[iain]

Blimey we're getting some good storytellers on here lately!

Welcome aboard, Ken

Thank you, Ken.

I don't know if you're the oldest person on yo!, but you're certainly the one whose memory goes back the farthest, and like Brian, you certainly can write.
Looking forward to Chapter 2 like everybody else.
I see you would have been 15 when War broke out.

[ChrisGeorge]

Originally Posted by Steven

Hi Ken, Welcome. I am ex-Andrews, so we can have a few good 'natters.'

Hello Steven and Ken

Perhaps you can explain to such landlubbers as myself how the term "The Andrews and the Onions" refers to the Royal Navy. Perhaps it comes of being at sea too long, I don't know -- but it appears to me that the RN uses some decidedly odd and quaint language. I have visited my friends Geoff and Rena in Portsmouth a number of times over the last few years and realise that places that are called "HMS Dartmouth" and so on are actually not ships but locations of RN facilities ashore. Any help you can provide in understanding how these designations have come about would be greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance!!!!

Chris

{Perplexed in Baltimore}

[shytalk]

ChrisG,
Check this out.
http://www.nmm.ac.uk/server/show/conWebDoc.17840

[ChrisGeorge]

Originally Posted by shytalk

ChrisG,
Check this out.
http://www.nmm.ac.uk/server/show/conWebDoc.17840

Thanks, Shy! Useful information although I have to say it leaves me as perplexed as ever!

Below, a fibreglass figurehead based on an older original that I photographed at Gunwharf Quay, Portsmouth, this past May.

[Royal Navy Medic]

Originally Posted by ChrisGeorge

Hello Steven and Ken

Perhaps you can explain to such landlubbers as myself how the term "The Andrews and the Onions" refers to the Royal Navy. Perhaps it comes of being at sea too long, I don't know -- but it appears to me that the RN uses some decidedly odd and quaint language. I have visited my friends Geoff and Rena in Portsmouth a number of times over the last few years and realise that places that are called "HMS Dartmouth" and so on are actually not ships but locations of RN facilities ashore. Any help you can provide in understanding how these designations have come about would be greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance!!!!

Chris


{Perplexed in Baltimore}

Hi Chris,

The Royal Navy is/was commonly called "The Andrew" by most RN types. I have no idea why, other than it is probably a form of Cockney slang such as Titfer Tat meaning hat but it has just occured to me that it could be associated with ANDREWS SALTS!

When I joined the navy in November 1942 I was sent to a Butlins Holiday Camp at Pwhelli in North Wales for my induction procedures. The camp had been taken over by the navy and was named HMS Glendower as was the Navy's tradition to name all shore establishments as though they were ships.

I read a story after the war that told of the infamous "Lord Haw Haw" who broadcast (as a traitor) propaganda and "news" from Germany. He reported that a German U-Boat had torpedoed and sunk HMS Glendower with a the loss of all the crew- Oh! they were the days.

[ChrisGeorge]

Originally Posted by Royal Navy Medic

Hi Chris,

The Royal Navy is/was commonly called "The Andrew" by most RN types. I have no idea why, other than it is probably a form of Cockney slang such as Titfer Tat meaning hat but it has just occured to me that it could be associated with ANDREWS SALTS!

When I joined the navy in November 1942 I was sent to a Butlins Holiday Camp at Pwhelli in North Wales for my induction procedures. The camp had been taken over by the navy and was named HMS Glendower as was the Navy's tradition to name all shore establishments as though they were ships.

I read a story after the war that told of the infamous "Lord Haw Haw" who broadcast (as a traitor) propaganda and "news" from Germany. He reported that a German U-Boat had torpedoed and sunk HMS Glendower with a the loss of all the crew- Oh! they were the days.

Ha ha. Many thanks, Ken.

Chris

[Royal Navy Medic]

Originally Posted by PhilipG

Thank you, Ken.

I don't know if you're the oldest person on yo!, but you're certainly the one whose memory goes back the farthest, and like Brian, you certainly can write.
Looking forward to Chapter 2 like everybody else.
I see you would have been 15 when War broke out.

Hi Phillip,

Thank you for your kind words. As for my memory, I luckily have amazing recall for things that happened in the past but ask me what I had for dinner last night and I am hopeless!

My stories are available to read on the Internet and a link is available from my profile, however, I will be more than happy to post a couple more chapters here so that members can get an idea of my whole experience and then decide if they want to read the complete story.

Perhaps the moderators can advise if it would be OK for me to post a chapter from the 2nd and 3rd part of my Trilogy that willi show the diversity of my episodic life and times?

Best Wishes

Ken

[Kev]

Be my guest Ken

[Royal Navy Medic]

Many thanks Kev for the all clear to post some more of my Trilogy that I hope the members will find enjoyable.

This second narrative is from the seond part of my Trilogy that covers my service in the Royal Navy in WWII.

I should point out that sections of my Trilogy tell the events like they were and by that I mean, a lot of bad language was used at certain times during the war and this has been included in my narrative. It has been used not as a gimmick but as I said, that's the way it was.

I am sure that your censors will however remove any or all that they do not like!

This episode will give many people an insight into some of the worst aspects of the Pacific War that the historians somehow seem to have neglected.

Over a Mountain to Hell, Dying Prisoners and Samurai Swords

The sight at Subic Bay was extraordinary. What appeared to be the whole of the US and Royal Navy Pacific fleets were anchored in the bay. Lighters and launches scurried back and forth with all manner of cargo and personnel giving the overall impression that some gigantic plot was about to be hatched.

We boarded a small boat with our baggage and started to wend our way through the dozens of ships in the bay, like a lost lamb looking for its mother. We eventually pulled up alongside a frigate that bore the name HMS HELFORD. We tied up and quickly transferred ourselves and baggage then stood around awkwardly contemplating what to do next. Our two MO’s and the marine officer moved off in the direction of the wardroom. We were then allocated to various crew messes for our trip as non-working passengers and carried our bags down below and settled in.

It was but a short time before HELFORD hoisted her anchor and started to edge her way out of the bay and into the South China sea all the while dipping her ensign as we passed other ships of the fleet who returned the mark of respect.
Soon we started to wallow around in the swell and as the breeze freshened, I knew that we were on our way. We watched as Subic Bay and the Philippines slowly disappearing from view.

After our evening meal our MO’s called us together to brief us regarding our destination that was two or three days sailing away. We would be going to Formosa into the port of Keelung that was still under the control of the Japanese army. Our objective was to get there as quickly as feasible and get our POW out. Other ships would arrive later to attend to the surrender and move out all the remaining POW that were “fit” enough to move under their own steam.

It was planned that hospital ships would arrive soon after us to take the very sick men and any others needing attention back to a less hostile environment for repatriation to their home countries.

The weather on route was very rough as it was now the typhoon season. HELFORD often buried her bows into the heavy seas caused by the worst typhoon for 50 years or more as we steamed post haste towards the northern end of the island of Formosa and Keelung with a crew that was seasick for most of the journey.

We arrived off the coast early in the morning with all hands on deck to view the landscape as we slowly made our way towards the harbour entrance and then stopped. We noticed a small Japanese patrol boat making its way out towards us with an Aldis lamp flashing a message and learned that the harbour entrance had been heavily mined. The patrol boat was bringing out a pilot to guide us through the minefield. “Hope the little ******* hasn’t got any suicidal ideas,” someone chirped up, “you know, he could easily steer us into the middle of the minefield and commit Harry Carry or whatever it’s called and die an honourable death for the Emperor.” “Bull ****, he’s not going to die now that the bloody war is over, is he?” another volunteered, “Hope not.” we all said together and went back to watching the little Japanese army officer as he climbed aboard HELFORD and was bundled up to the bridge. The ship was now brought to full alert as we very slowly and circuitously moved into the harbour.

As we got closer I noticed very many Japanese rising sun ensigns flying from various buildings. It then came home to me that they had indeed, not formally surrendered as yet.

As we edged our way slowly alongside a long wooden wharf, many Japanese soldiers with rifles could be seen standing alongside the wharf buildings. A number of officers complete with Samurai swords stood silently, sullenly watching as we manoeuvred alongside.
Some ropes were thrown onto the wharf and a few soldiers moved forward and fastened them to bollards.

We made fast and prepared to put a gangway across to the wooden planked wharf. With the gangway in place, the HELFORD’s captain who had been watching the proceedings from the bridge switched on the Tannoy. He said very loudly and clearly, “Nobody is to set foot on the wharf until it has been hosed down then scrubbed and cleaned for the length of the ship.”
He then ordered a working party to man hoses and the wharf was washed down with high-pressure seawater that caused the Japanese contingent to make a hasty retreat. About twenty men then went ashore in Wellington boots with stiff brooms and buckets of soapy water and did indeed scrub a large part of the wharf. When they had finished this obvious insult to the Japanese, he advised that the POW team could now go ashore as the wharf was fit and clean.

Some of ships officers now came ashore and had animated discussions with the Japanese army officers who apparently arranged for an army truck and a Japanese army driver to be provided to take the team to the so called POW “Hospital” somewhere outside Keelung.

As we climbed aboard the truck with our baggage we all felt very apprehensive about being left at the mercy of a Japanese driver who also seemed very agitated that he had drawn the short straw so to speak and had to take us to our destination. So everyone set off with mixed feelings. Eventually we started to climb a mountain road with the driver frequently clashing the gearbox as he changed gears to cope with the steep inclines.

As we climbed higher and higher on the winding road we all kept looking at each other, no doubt having the same thoughts, supposing this bloke decides to become a hero and drives us off the road and down the mountain.
After what seemed an eternity, but probably a couple of hours or so, we arrived at our destination. The truck pulled into a large grassed area in front of a low and dilapidated wooden building with steps leading up to a veranda and entrance. Many Japanese soldiers carrying their rifles stood around and watched as we got off the truck.

Japanese officers came and stood watching the proceedings. Our two marines loaded magazines into their Sten guns and the marine officer checked that his pistol was free in its holster, however if the Japanese had decided to attack us, we wouldn’t have stood a chance with only three of our team carrying arms.
We paramedics sometimes wore a Red Cross on our arms and according to the Geneva Convention must not be armed and as a consequence should theoretically be inviolate. The Japanese had little regard for the Geneva Convention however, and had a history of killing nurses in other Pacific theatres of war.

Today I think they realised that the recent devastation in Hiroshima and Nagasaki could be repeated and they just watched sullenly as we unloaded our truck and gave them icy stares in return.
We quickly climbed the steps to the veranda and were assailed by one of the most disgusting odours I have ever experienced. The smell of dysenteric faeces and urine together with putrefying and suppurating wounds was overwhelming.
A few short steps along a corridor, whilst pushing Japanese out of our way, brought us to the main “ward” of this abomination of a “hospital”. Inside there were about twenty or so bamboo “beds” with filthy worn out rags of sheets partly covering the pitiful souls lying on the beds. When they saw us enter they tried to lift themselves up to welcome us and all cried tears of relief and joy to see the end of their personal Hell.

I went over to one man who was so emaciated that his bones were visible under his parchment like skin. He put his arms out to me and I gently lifted him into a sitting position out of the mire of dysenteric faeces that he was lying in. “Thank God you’ve come.” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t worry old chum,” I said, “we’re going to get you out of here very soon and back home again. Where are you from?”
Then as I looked into his deeply sunken eyes, they glazed and he died in my arms. I was both stunned and wildly angry that this poor ******* had endured a living Hell only to die on the day of his liberation.

I got up in a blind rage and said to the others in the team, “This poor sod has gone.” and stormed out into the corridor bumping into a young Japanese nurse. I grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her and asked “WHY? WHY? Have you left these poor men to rot in their own ****, don’t you have any feelings?” She started to cry and sob then looked at me and said in broken English “It is not me, I am a nurse, I wanted to look after the prisoners but the officers would not allow us to do very much to help. I am so sorry, please believe me.”

I took her by the arm and steered her into the stinking ward and told her to start helping to clean the prisoners up and put dressings on their ulcers and wounds. I moved to the next prisoner and got him cleaned up and out of his disgusting bed.
I went down the corridor to see if there were any showers or baths that we could use to clean up some of the patients and walked into another disgusting display of inhumanity and neglect. A row of door less latrines totally blocked and overflowing onto the floor faced me. The stench was unbelievable with the strong acidic odour of stale urine adding to the foul smell. There was a bath that was stained ugly brown whilst dirty water oozed from the taps.

I was incensed with what I was confronted with and as I went out into the corridor came face to face with a short stocky well-fed looking Japanese officer. I have no idea what his rank was but I turned him around and pushed him into the stinking toilet block. “Have a look at that lot you rotten *******.” I literally screamed at him. He looked around the toilets then turned to me and shrugged his shoulders arrogantly. “Right, you bloody well get in there and start cleaning it up, OK?” “No, I am an officer in the Imperial Japanese Army and according to the Geneva Convention must be shown respect for my rank, and I will not do this.” he replied in good English. “Stuff the Geneva Convention, you mongrels didn’t treat these prisoners according to the convention so get in there now and clean it up.” I bellowed at him.

He shook his head and stood there with his hands on his hips in defiance. “Jock,” I yelled to one of our marines, “come over here I’ve got a problem and need your help.” I explained to Jock what I wanted done. He left and came back with a bucket, mop and a load of filthy rags, threw them into the toilet block then jabbing the end of his Sten gun into the officers ribs said “Now, you’re no goin’ to give me any trouble mate, are you?”

I left to continue cleaning up our patients and later passed by the toilet block and was delighted to see the arrogant officer on his hands and knees swabbing around the toilets whilst heaving his guts up at the same time. “He’s doing a champion job!” Jock laughingly said as I went back to the ward.
The next day the Americans dropped by parachute enormous quantities of medical supplies, K-Rations and clothing including magnificent US army boots. They dropped enough supplies in large wooden crates to equip a small army and most of it we left behind.

We kitted out our patients with new American khaki trousers, shirts and boots (for those that could wear them), and discarded our own now soiled and filthy clothing and also put on the American clothing and fabulous boots. In the crates we found hundreds of large glass jars of the wonder drug of the day, M&B 693 or SULPHANILAMIDE. We started all our patients on courses of the drug to quell any infections they had until they could get proper treatment in a hospital
We raided the Japanese officer’s kitchen and were able to gather enough eggs, milk, cooked chickens and fresh vegetables to give our patients the first decent food they had tasted in years.

After they had eaten we moved the very sick ones into the Japanese officer’s quarters and the balance on to fresh beds and bedding outside under the veranda. I still can’t recall how many days we were there, 2 or 3 perhaps and have no recollection of sleeping or eating during this time except for the American K-Rations. These contained chocolate and cigarettes so our patients had chocolate and a good smoke for the first time in years also.

A civilian who said that he was a Formosan and had been forced to work in the hospital approached me. He tugged my sleeve and pointed to the land at the back of the hospital and indicated that I should go with him.
I beckoned to my pal Lucky and we both went down to the area at the back that had recently been turned over. It was very muddy with the rain that fell for a great deal of the time. He pointed to the ground and by means of gestures and facial expressions indicated that there were a lot of allied prisoners buried here in a mass grave and indicated that they may have had operations before they died.
I asked Lucky to go and find the Japanese nurse and bring her out to the back. She arrived and I asked her if there were men buried here in a mass grave. She went ashen and looked away so I asked her again if there were bodies here. Finally she broke down and told us that she would probably be killed when we left for telling us about the grave.

“The doctors did many experiments on the prisoners to try out new methods of surgery such as amputations. They couldn’t really care if the patients didn’t recover and when they died, they were buried in the mass grave here.” I then said “You must come with me now and repeat this information to my commanding officer as this will be regarded as a war crime, do you realise that?” “I know it was terrible things that they did but I had no say and did only what I was told to do. I am worried what will happen to me when you leave.” she said with tears rolling down her cheeks.

I took the girl to our SMO and recounted the story and told of her fears of retribution after we left. He took a long statement from her that included the names of the officers involved in the experiments and said she c