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PROPERTY OF

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ARIES SCIENTIA VERITAS








j£) COPYRIGHT, 1943, SMITH & DURRELL, INC.
805
B88
FIRST PRINTING JUNE, 1943
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
AMERICAN BOOK-STRATFORD PRESS, INC., NEW YORK


Vet, SU .
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Dedicated to the 2700 people who wait today
behind the barbed wires of Stanley Prison
Camp, Hong Kong, for liberation or death
and to those who work and pray for their
release.


Introduction
Men went down to the beaches to fight.
Some of them had no guns and they fought with knives
or bayonets or clubs or their bare hands.
Many of them died in the defense of Hong Kong.
And when the Japs came in, they herded together every
British, American, Dutch and Panamanian man, woman
and child and thrust them behind barbed wire entangle-
ments in Stanley Prison internment camp.
There are 2700 of them-left there today.
Many have died. Those who live receive two small bowls
of rice a day, a spoonful of meat or fish, often rotten, and
an ounce and a half of Chinese greens, grown in gardens
watered by sewage, which means they give dysentery if
eaten.
They scuffle along the roadways in torn soleless shoes.
They are sick and hungry, but they are not beaten—for
they believe in you, and they have sent out a message to
you.
I was imprisoned with them for six months in Stanley
Prison and I have brought out that message—it is one of
hope and eventual triumph. Men looked upward when
they thought of you. They forgot hunger and sickness and
pain and looked to the future and to Victory.
"See what has happened here—and fight the men who
have done it. Strike before they reach your shores. If you
lose, you must share our fate. That must not happen. Fight
in our name, do one single act in our name that brings
the war nearer its successful end. Then our suffering will
not be in vain. We will have played our part in the final
victory. What more can we ask?"


Chapter I
Hong Kong was peaceful. Ricksha coolies padded through
the hot streets.
A group of child beggars followed a Canadian soldier
whining their sing-song mendicant chant: "No poppy—no
mommy—no whiskey soda."
It was Sunday, December 7, 1941. A listless calm hung
over the city. Sweltering heat pressed damp fingers on the
backs of laboring coolies, on the white helmets of British
taipans, on the wealthy Chinese who idled about the lobby
of the Hong Kong Hotel.
Outside, in Queen's Road, a funeral was passing. Sweat-
ing Chinese bowed under the weight of large soiled ban-
ners. Women in black rags carried tables, strung upon
bamboo poles and loaded with artificial flowers. Hired
mourners staggered along the roadway. Large dirty white
cotton balls flapped across their cheeks to represent the
tears of the bereaved* Each mourner was supported by
two other hirelings, who dabbed solicitously at the cotton
tears. Four bands created a tuneless discord. The first
band was dressed in faded, pale blue uniforms with shreds
of gold braid; most of the men were barefoot. All of the
instruments were brass; the players stopped to spit and
jest. The other bands followed at uneven intervals. Each
strove to outdo the other in volume.
Jaded Englishmen looked on with bored eyes. A few
sat in Mac's caf£ or the Hong Kong Hotel lobby and drank
pale green gimlets, whiskey and soda, or tea. A white-
haired woman complained bitterly to the Chinese boy that
her milk was mixed with water. Her pink, spoiled face


s HONG KONG AFTERMATH
was petulant; her voice a soft whine. Yet nerves were tense
behind all this apparent boredom. The rangy man in the
corner was a British Intelligence officer, and he was near
enough to a little group of richly dressed Chinese to hear
every word they said. The young man a few tables away
was going home to put on the uniform of the Hong Kong
Volunteers and report within a few hours for all-night
duty.
That night there was a blackout in Hong Kong and a
heavy fog blanketed the city. The soft padding of ricksha
coolies sounded ghost-like in the complete darkness. Now
and then trucks loaded with British soldiers rumbled
through the almost deserted streets. Searchlights sprang
into sudden life, showed the slight form of an airplane far
above, and then faded out.
The Russian community was my refuge during the
blackouts. The Russian Club and the small Russian res-
taurants and cabarets were always crowded by those who
sought escape from the loneliness that the blackout im-
posed. Here behind closed windows covered with black
cloth, in stifling heat, there was a strained gayety.
Dmitri Dugojbovsky was my host tonight. Dugojbovsky
was a rounded-faced police sergeant on the Hong Kong
force. When I had been in Hong Kong for only a few
days, I wandered alone into Goriev's Restaurant and or-
dered shashlik. Two tremendous Russians sat at the table
opposite. They smiled when I gave my order and listened
attentively to my attempt to speak Russian to the waiter.
Then Dugojbovsky leaned over and asked, "You will
have glass of vodka with us?"
I accepted the goblet of colorless fluid, said "Russki
sdorovie—Long live Russia!" We touched glasses and
drank and laughed and, as simply as this, friendship was


4 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
ory of Havana, I had asked him to play this Spanish piece
and he had never forgotten. Whenever I came into the
restaurant, the strains of "Adios Muchachos" always
greeted me.
Pete, the little Czech Manager of the Yar, had prepared
a special treat for us—rabbit, cooked in sour cream with
mushrooms and paprika. Marinated herrings preceded the
main course. Pete brought out zabruski Vodka too and sat
down with us, and we drank a toast to the Russian suc-
cesses announced over the radio.
The room was very gay and very hot. Friends drifted
by the table and stopped to talk and laugh. This was to
be our last real dinner for many months and though we
had no means of knowing this, we enjoyed it to the full.
The rabbit was delicious and Dugojbovsky and I finished
up the great platter Pete had set before us.
The boy brought us kissel and coffee and a fine old
Benedictine. Dugojbovsky stretched back in his chair; his
booming laughter filled the room.
"Life is wonderful, is it not, Professor? Vat more could
ve ask?" He sought reflectively for an answer and found
it. "A voman, that is all, then life would be perfect."
He sighed contentedly and looked at me with twinkling
eyes.
Pete came up with the news that Dugojbovsky was
wanted on the phone. The little Czech sat down with me
as the Russian walked away to answer the call.
"That is one fine fellow, Dugojbovsky," he said, "per-
haps he likes a little too much the vodka and the women,
but he is what you call a grand guy."
"That's right," I assured him, "he's what I call a grand
guy"


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 5
Dugojbovsky was back in a few minutes. His face was
flushed with excitement.
"Something there is wrong. The police captain he call
me up. He say there is murder. He wants me come im-
mediately. I do not understand. You come with me, Pro-
fessor. Maybe I drink a little too much vodka. You come
help me."
We caught rickshas outside the Yar. The coolies pulled
us though the night, and we could see nothing save loom-
ing walls of blackness on every side. The ricksha pullers
trotted along steadily, apparently undisturbed by the com-
plete darkness. Occasionally we heard the sounds of other
rickshas or caught fragments of Cantonese, but we could
see nothing, not even the men who pulled us.
There was a feeble blue light before the police station
and, as the rickshas drew up to the doorway, Captain
McAndrew of the Hong Kong police stepped out to
meet us.
"I'm glad you're here, Dugojbovsky. We got a Russian
boy inside. He says he committed a murder. He's told us
a crazy story and then shut up and now he pretends not
to understand anything we say. Perhaps you can get some-
thing out of him in Russian."
"Murder! Whom did he kill?"
"We don't know for sure he killed anyone. I tell you
it's all crazy. Late this afternoon we picked up an old beg-
gar on Nathan Road. He'd been hit by a car, but we don't
know whether that killed him or only stunned him. Any-
way this kid came running along like mad. He tripped
and fell over the beggar. When he got up, he began to
kick the old fellow. When our men reached the scene, the
old man's face was all kicked in and the kid was sitting on
the curb crying."


6 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
"But that don't make sense. What's he want to kick
an old beggar for?"
"I don't know. You ask him."
We went into the station and found a young man sitting
in the corner. He was very pale and thin. His skin was
sallow and his lips bloodless, yet in spite of this he was a
handsome youngster. A nerve on the side of his face was
twitching spasmodically. He sat, crouched forward, as
though about to fall. His long, slender fingers twisted
about each other. He was wearing a heavy silver ring on
which was carved in beautiful detail the turbaned head of
Mohammed. The sharp edge of the ring had cut his hand
and a fine trickle of blood oozed slowly across his fingers.
Dugojbovsky spoke to him in Russian but the boy shook
his head, apparently not understanding.
"Aren't you Russian?" asked Dugojbovsky.
"Yes, but I don't speak Russian. I've forgotten it."
"Forgotten it? Where have you lived?"
"In America (since I was eight. I've forgotten—forgot-
ten—" the boy's voice trailed off.
McAndrew shouted, "Why did you pretend to speak
Russian?"
"I didn't. I've forgotten"
"Let me talk to him," Dugojbovsky said quietly.
I plucked at Dugojbovsky's sleeve and told him I was
going to leave. "After all, this isn't my affair."
"That's right. I'm sorry I get you into all this." He
walked to the door with me, smiled and gripped my hand.
"I see you tomorrow, Professor. Shall I get ricksha?"
"No, thanks, I think I'll walk."
I stepped out into the black night and started to de-
scend the sharp slope to the street below. I walked to the


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 7
waterfront and looked across to the dimly seen island of
Victoria on which the center of the Imperial city of Hong
Kong was located. It seemed impossible that that patch of
blackness could shelter a million and a half people. My
whole life seemed fantastic tonight, the hot crowded room
of the Yar, my life in the Hong Kong Russian colony, the
ride through the streets drawn by an unseen man, the pale
nervous boy accused of murder and now—a great city
lying before me in total darkness.
At a few minutes past seven the next morning the first
Japanese planes came over Hong Kong. There were dull
detonations as the first bombs landed on Kai Tak air-
drome. The wail of the sirens filled the crisp morning air,
rising, falling, rising again. Airplanes zoomed low across
the harbor. Then sudden silence.
The city was paralyzed. No sound cut the morning still-
ness. Slowly I went to my window. I looked up into the
bright blue sky and across the pleasant harbor to Victoria.
Still there was no sound.
Then there was the beating of heavy feet against the
vacated street. A man came running full tilt down the
road. It was Dugojbovsky. His coat was open, and he held
on to the brim of his brown felt hat.
I shouted but he paid no attention. He rounded the
corner toward the entrance of the Y.M.C.A. where I was
living at the moment. A few seconds later I heard him
clumping down the hall.
"Professor, Professor. You know there is a war?"
"No, it's just practice. There was a blackout last night.
Today they're trying the air raid sirens."
"No, no. You must believe it's war. Pearl Harbor has


8 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
been attacked. The Repulse and the Prince of Wales have
been sunk in Singapore. Wake, Guam, everywhere—they
attack. You must believe me, Professor."
"Well, what can we do?"
"I don't know. I don't know. I must report for duty.
Here's the key to my house. If you want to, go there. Take
anything you want." He threw the key down and shook
hands. "Good luck, Professor."
When he left, I lay down and tried to think what to do.
I was in Kowloon, on the mainland just across from the
city of Hong Kong, of which it was a part. The Japanese
formed a half circle about us. The rest of the circle was
cut off by the open ocean. Many times I had gone to the
barriers of "New Territories" and seen the Japanese
troops separated from the colony by only a barbed-wire
barricade. Escape from the city seemed impossible. There
was nothing to do but wait.
Outside, there was the shrill babble of voices. It rose
higher and higher. I went to the window. The street be-
low was crowded with Chinese. Every moment new people
joined the throng. The police were blocking the passage
at the end of the road. The Chinese milled about asking
questions, seeking advice. They all wanted to cross on the
ferry to Hong Kong proper. The police would not per-
mit it.
I rang the bell for my boy and ordered tea and toast
and omelet. The boy was shaking.
"Master, no know Japanese come."
"Yes, I know, but bring me breakfast."
I went back to bed and waited. I tried to pretend that
there was no cause for alarm. I read a book very carefully.
When my breakfast tray came, I ate slowly, dressed, shaved,
bathed. I got out my collection of jade and carefully


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 9
stored the pieces in one of the little carved camphor-wood
boxes I had bought a few days before.
Nearly two hours had passed since the first raid and
there had been no further sound of planes. Maybe it was
a false alarm after all.
I started down the stairs. On the mezzanine floor a tiny
balcony hung over the street. Three Englishmen were
drinking tea there. One man lifted his hand to point.
There was the deafening roar of a powerful engine. A
Japanese plane power-dived over the building. The Eng-
lishmen rushed inside and slid to the floor. They knocked
me down with them and one of them spilled a cup of tea
across my vest. A terrific explosion followed. The bomb
had missed the docks nearby and fallen in the water.
The man who had spilled tea on me helped me up.
"So sorry, don't you know. Hope you'll forgive me, old
chap."
"Sure. No damage done. What's happened out there?"
He ignored me and walked to the balcony again.
The Peninsula Hotel was already stripped for action
when I went in. The carpets and chairs and tables had
been taken from one half of the big room and Red Cross
nurses had laid down cots to care for any wounded who
might be brought there. The tables in the other half were
completely filled. Already they were laden with drinks.
The shops within the hotels were stripped of goods. Heavy
strips of paper criss-crossed the plate-glass windows to
bolster them against concussions. The corridors were filled
with coolies from the streets. They were prepared to sit
here for long, long hours squatting on the cold concrete,
for the very doubtful protection that the hotel provided.
People crowded to the window. A dog fight was in ses-
sion. Two planes weaved in and out, desperately jockeying


io HONG KONG AFTERMATH
for position. The faint staccato of machine-guns could be
heard. One plane dipped sharply downward. A thin stream
of black smoke spread out behind. Then bright flames
enveloped the plane. It came down faster and faster, drop-
ping out of our sight beyond Kowloon Tong.
The other plane circled above us, flying low. We caught
the British markings on her wings and cheered.
That afternoon I made several attempts to cross to the
island of Hong Kong, but each time I was turned back by
the guards at the ferry. There was nothing to do but wait.
I went back to the Peninsula Hotel and found a friend,
Herbert Hewlett, the secretary of Manuel Fox who was
head of the Stabilization Board of China. We sat together
on the balcony throughout that long, hot afternoon. Occa-
sionally a plane zoomed over our heads and dumped
bombs on the nearby docks. We sat in rattan lounge chairs
and sipped warm coca-colas and talked.
Occasionally we took brief walks. There was no sign
of panic in the streets. The crowd of Chinese about the
ferry were orderly. They sat down amid their bags and
cases and waited. Many of them had come in from terri-
tory in which the battle was already raging. Some walked
up and down the lines searching for members of their
families" or friends. An old Chinese woman, dressed in
soiled black pajamas, her feet tightly bound, sat upon a
battered suitcase and wept.
The most noticeable change was the complete break-
down of all reserve. Englishmen whom I had seen a few
times before raised their hands in greeting and laughed
as they passed or stopped to ask if I was all right and if
there was anything they could do for me. Men who I had
no idea knew me called me by name and sometimes
stopped to chat. The comradeship which a common dan-


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 11
ger engenders sprang up and never abated during the
siege.
Late that afternoon, Hewlett got word that Manuel Fox
had arranged for him to leave that night by the Clipper
which, miraculously, had escaped serious damage. He left
his possessions in my very precarious custody. Hewlett bid
me good-bye and set out on a journey which would either
bring him safety or death. It was not until almost a year
later that the good news came to me. He had got through
to Chungking safely.
In our last few moments together we talked of an inci-
dent we had witnessed at the Japanese border in New
Territories several days previously.
A group of Chinese were waiting to be inspected by the
Jap gendarmes before passing through the barricades. A
passing Chinese had shouted out an insult at the Japs. A
gendarme walked down the line, picked out a completely
innocent Chinese and began to beat him. He struck him
over the head and shoulders and back with his heavy
stick. The Chinese crowd watched silently, but when the
gendarme turned away they laughed loudly. The beaten
man wiped the blood away from his face and laughed with
them.
"Monkey man," he called gleefully, "very, very stupid.
He beat wrong man." •
"And how," asked Hewlett, just before he left me, "can
the Japanese win against a people like that?"
The first night of the war was quiet. Fog still hung
over the city. The streets were deserted. Even the ricksha
coolies had vacated their posts. I prowled along Nathan
Road, too restless to go to bed. I climbed a hill by the
observatory and was challenged by a sentry and nearly
shot before I could make my stammering explanation. The


12 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
sentry was a volunteer guard whom I knew. When he recog-
nized me, he let me come to the top of the rise. We could
look deep into New Territories. Red flares shot up behind
where we believed the Japanese lines to be located. A
fire was gutting a storehouse on the Castle Peak Road.
Lorries rumbled in the distance. Occasionally there was a
rifle shot, but no sound of heavy guns.
Each day the fighting crept nearer the waterfront. The
sound of gun-fire was almost constant during the day. At
night shells whistled into the nearby godowns. A terrific
stench filled the air. The bodies of the dead were rotting
in the bright sun. Sewage seeped into the streets from
broken mains. The refrigeration system had broken down
in the godowns, and the goods■ stored there began to rot.
Putrid fish and salted cabbage added their odors to that
of death. Exhausted soldiers slept in the lobby of the "Y"
and buried their faces in their arms in order to keep out
the stench of death, excreta and putrification.
Each night I walked the streets of the dead city. The
thin, monotonous wail of Chinese musical instruments
could be heard through darkened, barred doors of Chinese
shops. Excited voices rose sharply in the night, then faded
as shells whistled shrilly and crashed with shuddering de-
tonations along the waterfront.


Chapter II
On the morning of the fifth day, I fell into the deep sleep
of exhaustion. It was late afternoon when I awoke. The
silence alarmed me. I looked into the streets and saw
they were nearly empty. I ran out into the corridor, down
the stairs into the lobby. Not a soul was there. Windows
were broken. A few ragged Chinese peered into the build-
ing fearfully. A bare, yellow leg swung across the window
sill. A shot rang out and a bullet buried itself in the wall
a few feet from the leg. The voice of an English policeman
roared in Chinese from the doorway. A single man was
keeping the crowd of looters at bay.
He stiffened with surprise when he saw me. "What the
bloody hell are you doing here?"
"I've been asleep. I just woke up. What's happening?
Where's everybody?"
"Don't you know this building was ordered deserted
two hours ago? The Japs are less than a dozen blocks away.
In Christ's name get out."
I went back to my room, trying to fight back the panic
that changed my stomach to water. I stopped at each floor
and shouted to see if anyone else was left behind but got
no answer.
I stood in the center of my room in confusion trying to
judge what I should carry with me. First I slipped the
camphor-wood box filled with jade into my pocket. I
rolled up blankets and slung them across my shoulder.
I dragged out a suitcase and put in a heavy suit, three
shirts. Then a volley of shots came from Nathan Road,
very close. Panic got the best of me. I slammed the suit-
13


14 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
case shut and began to run down the steps, across the
lobby and into the streets. Looters were in the building
now. I heard the tinkle of glass as they smashed in win-
dows, saw chairs being hurled out into the streets to be
broken up for fire wood.
I did not stop running until I got to the barrier by the
ferry. A stiff guard said, "Pass, please."
"For God's sake let me through, the Japs are two blocks
up on Nathan Road."
"You can't get through without a pass."
I brought out my American passport. His manner
changed swiftly. He smiled. He patted me on the shoul-
der. He said, "America's with us now. Everything will be
all right. Go on through and God bless you."
The ferry was not in its usual place but half a mile
down the concrete docks. I rushed headlong along the
waterfront, my half-empty suitcase banging hard against
my knees.
Smoke swirled out of the godown windows. Chinese
coolies swarmed in and out of doorways, looting before
the Japanese could come in. Occasionally there was the
crash of a pistol as English guards shot into the air in
order to keep the looters from wild rioting. There were
other shots, too, for fifth columnists mixed in the crowd,
shooting, stabbing, starting fires, doing everything in their
power to create disorder. A coolie fell almost in front of
me. Blood gushed from a bullet wound in his forehead.
The crate which he carried teetered on the edge of the
concrete siding, toppled into the water.
Another coolie rushed from the godown carrying a
great wooden box. He smiled triumphantly as he passed
me. Printed in large red letters across the front of the box


16 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
man named Thorpe came and stood beside me. He had
lived at the "Y" too and could not get back. He was a
large-headed, sober man of sixty. We had known each
other casually. Now in a doorway in Hong Kong with
Japanese shells bursting about us, we agreed to throw in
our lot together.
Together we walked along the streets to the Hong Kong
Hotel. It was packed with men and women and children.
We fought our way in. Dugojbovsky was there; so was
another Russian friend, Tsacharoff who offered us the use
of his house halfway up the Peak. Night was closing in, and
it was urgent that we start. The tramway had been
knocked out of commission, and we had to climb the steep
slope.
Tsacharoff had to join the First Battery in Stanley.
Dugojbovsky, Thorpe and I started out. Above the city
it was still bright. The heavy bombardment had ceased.
China's red flowers and green grass were gay in the early
evening sunlight. A single bird trilled in a tree.
That night Dugojbovsky told us about "La Filipina."
Thorpe was shocked but concealed his disapproval.
Dugojbovsky had met La Filipina in front of the Yar.
She was big, very big. He spread his hands to show us
how big. He made big loops with his hands to show us
the size of her breasts. She wore a pale blue silk dress like
a little girl's. "It came only to here," explained Dugojbov-
sky designating a point a foot above his knee. And she had
hips, wide, soft hips. Dugojbovsky had been delighted.
He had had no money, but he had borrowed five dollars
from Pete, the proprietor of the Yar. He took La Filipina
to his room, presented her with the money and proceeded
to take a bath. When he came from the bathroom, La


18 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
against the rough concrete of the balustrade. I heard the
soft mumble of words as I went.
At midnight Dugojbovsky was still asleep. Thorpe had
to report at the cable office at two, and I volunteered to
go down to the city with him. We armed ourselves with
golf clubs. Fog had again covered the city and blanketed
out the stars. First there was a sharp descent down the
mountainside, then a mile of narrow, uneven stairs. We
felt our way along, using the clubs to guide us. Several
times we nearly fell and grasped at each other for support.
British sentries hailed us from time to time, and we
shouted loudly before approaching. Finally we decided
that the steps were too dangerous and found a twisted
roadway. Black figures loomed up ahead of us, and we
heard the sound of a wailing infant. Five women, two
men, and three children, one a baby of two months, were
clustered in the middle of the roadway. They were mis-
sionaries from Cheng Tu who had been caught in Kow-
loon by the invasion. They had come down for a holiday.
They had been forced to evacuate the missionary hostel
in Hong Kong and had wandered helplessly about the
island all night. The young mother was in a state of near
collapse. We wished to help them but knew of no shelter.
Finally after a prolonged search, we found a tiny chapel
part way up the Peak. Silent figures slept on the pews and
in the aisles. A single candle gave some slight illumina-
tion. The exhausted missionaries slipped to the floor. The
infant stopped crying and slept against its mother's breast.
I left Thorpe at the Cable Office and went to the Hong
Kong Hotel. Men slept in every corner of the lobby, sol-
diers, police, and civilians mixed. Every chair was filled.
Some slept; others continued to drink. The air was foul
with the fumes of alcohol and the breathing of the crowd.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 19
A drunken brawl had started in the center of the lobby.
Two soldiers swung at each other in drunken futility.
Police separated them and led them off in opposite direc-
tions. One soldier began to cry softly, repeating over and
over, "I'm a drunk sonofabitch."
The mezzanine was crowded with women and children.
A few had mattresses and others had blankets. Most of
them slept in their clothing on the carpeted floor.
Again I walked out into the night and along the black,
deserted streets. I found the twisted roadway that led up
to the Peak and began the hard climb upward. Across the
bay, in Kowloon, oil tanks were burning. Rich, red velvet
flames leapt into the air. Dark fog formed curtains about
the roaring flames and made the night seem even more
black.
The road narrowed and after a time became only a
footpath. Casuarina trees cast deep shadows on the pebbly
surface and only a flickering, spectral light came from the
fire raging in Kowloon.
Behind me I heard footsteps. I stopped; they stopped.
I started again; the footsteps followed. Again and again I
tried the experiment. Each time the heavy footsteps were
right behind. Cold fear seized me. I stepped behind a
casuarina and shouted.
"Who are you? Come on, let me see who you are."
No answer.
"Who are you? Who are you?"
A dim figure blurred the path. I raised my golf club
above my shoulder and started down the hill.
"If you don't answer, I'll strike. Who are you?"
Words tumbled forth in a mixture of English and Rus-
sian. Sudden recognition of the voice filled me with relief
and joy.


20 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
"Petrov. What are you doing here?"
It was Petrov, the slow-witted Russian mechanic with
whom Dugojbovsky and I had so often dined at the Yar.
He was drunk now, and his voice was slurred and broken.
Finally I patched together his story. He had seen me leave
the hotel and was afraid that I might encounter looters.
He had followed to protect me. He wrung my hand,
patted me on the shoulder, pawed me like a great affec-
tionate dog. His round, red face beamed with pleasure
at sharing the intimacy of danger with me. It was only
after long discussion that he was persuaded to return to
the city.
A few minutes later, I heard the sharp warning cry of
a sentry a few hundred feet below. There was no answer.
The sentry called a second time, his voice edged with fear.
There was a reply in Russian, the sharp crack of a rifle,
a cry that turned to a groan of pain. I went leaping down
the path. In a clearing stood a young English Tommy.
His bayonet pressed against Petrov's body.
"Stop where you are!" The gun came up and was aimed
at me.
"I'm an American. This man is my friend."
The rifle was lowered slowly. "Why didn't he answer?
What else could I do? He was coming toward me; I had
to stop him."
I knelt down beside Petrov. He was still able to smile.
He repeated the joke that we had shared so often. "You
remember your promise. When you go to America you
take me with you. You put me in pocket."
The young sentry was standing by the side of the road
mumbling, "I didn't know. What else could I do? I didn't
know."


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 21
"Forget that," I said, "and see if you can get help."
Hours later an ambulance came up the road a half mile
away, and two men picked their way over the path with a
stretcher.
But it was too late for Petrov. He died there on the
lonely mountainside with his hand clasped tight in mine.
The next morning I reported to British headquarters
to be assigned to some duty.
"Can you drive a lorry?"
"No."
"Can you shoot a rifle?"
"No."
"What can you do?"
"I don't know."
The telephone rang. A garbled conversation followed.
The officer put down the phone and smiled.
"They want men to tend food queues at Central Mar-
ket. You can do that."
Thousands of Chinese milled about the market. They
pressed against the iron gratings that blocked the doors.
They pulled, tugged, pushed. Women clung to the grat-
ings with both hands in desperate efforts to keep their
places'. Three men sat at each grating selling rice—only
ten cents' worth to a person. Hands snatched at the rice,
trying to secure a few grains. Hundreds blocked each door-
way. When a purchase had been completed, the purchaser
could not get away.
A little girl was caught against the grating. The mob
pressed closer. The girl's body was broken against the
metal. We beat our way through the mob, using sticks.
The little girl was dead when we reached her.


22 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
A half-dozen men had been sent here to force the Chi-
nese to form lines. We could not make them understand.
Women clung madly to the grating and could not be torn
away. For hours we battled with them trying not to use
our sticks, sometimes being forced to. University students
came to our help. They explained carefully in Cantonese.
The crowd understood. Slowly the line was formed.
These were the derelicts of China, the wanderers, the
homeless ones. Many of them had been driven from their
houses in the interiors or along the coast by the Japanese.
For years they had wandered, always near starvation, al-
ways seeking shelter. Many of them slept on the open
streets of Hong Kong, using the few pennies they man-
aged to beg to bribe constables to leave them alone. They
had forgotten the horrors of war in the frantic search for
food.
After the first few days the lines were orderly. Never
was any line less than a block long. Women were told to
go to the front entrance; men to the back. Here again the
lines were separated. One line was able to purchase ten
cents' worth of rice; to the other line, free cooked rice
mixed with beans was distributed. Into this line came all
the beggars of Hong Kong, the blind led by small boys,
the diseased showing their open sores, the insane denounc-
ing the enemies with loud speeches. They were dressed in
tattered rags, nearly all were barefoot. They took away the
hot rice in rusted tin cans, in battered hats, in newspapers
or old pieces of crockery that had been picked up from
garbage cans.
Women with children on their backs forced themselves
into the head of the line. We had to push them back.
Among the starving there could be no favoritism. Japa-
nese airplanes zoomed overhead. Shrapnel from British


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 23
anti-aircraft guns pattered on the streets, but the lines still
held. Heavy bombs fell in the city; the streets quaked.
The lines held closer to the walls, but did not break.
One day an American came into the line. He was a tall,
emaciated fellow who had often hung about the Star Ferry
wharf asking all comers for money. Now he stood docilely
in line among the Chinese. He was toothless and had a
growth of straggly black beard. His clothing was covered
with filth. He told me he had slept on the streets for many
nights. I got him out of the line and gave him a few dol-
lars. I did not dream how closely our fates were to be con-
nected in the months to come.
Sirens screamed in the hot sunlight. A single plane
crawled high over the harbor. Anti-aircraft shells ex-
ploded futilely far below the plane. Smoke ballooned out-
ward and slowly descended, looking like parachutes in the
hot, blue sky. Nearer and nearer the plane came, down
low now—right above the market. The food lines were
broken for the first time. Women screamed. The earth
opened. Bright lights rolled against us like waves of flame.
We tried to drop to the earth, but the earth rose to meet
us faster than we could fall. Repercussion after repercus-
sion shook the building. Walls spread outward, shuddered
back into place. Central Market had been hit. The Japa-
nese had sent down propaganda leaflets the day before
urging the Chinese to rebel against the British and join
their natural blood brothers, the Japanese. Now they had
bombed the principal food station of the impoverished.
Beneath the piled debris of stone and concrete lay over a
hundred dead women and children. They had waited pa-
tiently in line for rice and beans, and death had been
delivered to them.
During the following days the lines did not diminish.


26 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
i
came the heavy detonations of bombs landing in Happy
Valley. His dark, weak face was filled with fear. He was
sobbing, gasping for breath. When I approached him, he
shrank away. One arm covered his face as if with terror.
"You better come along with me and have a drink."
"No, no. Leave me alone."
"You don't remember me. I'm Wenzell Brown, Dugoj-
bovsky's friend."
"Go away. Leave me alone. Go away."
I left him and went to the hotel. I got whiskey served
with tepid soda water and then went to find Dugojbovsky,
to tell him about Mike. When we came back to the Arcade
he was gone.
Each evening I climbed the Peak Tram stairs and
walked along the winding roadway to Tsacharoff's house.
The days were long and bright. At six the sun still shone.
Brightly colored butterflies moved about the red Chinese
flowers. Birds sang a plaintive, patterned song. Each day
new havoc showed along the path. A great round hole sev-
enty feet in diameter broke the roadway in front of the
tram station. The Saint Patrick's Boys' Club had been hit
and set afire. One wall had crumpled into the roadway.
The station at Macdonell Street had been blown across
the tracks by a bomb. Shells had spread the tracks at a
half-dozen points. I had selected two places for protection
should I be caught in a heavy raid. One was beneath a
bridge, the other beneath the heavy foundations of the
Saint Patrick's Club. Now both of these spots were filled
with great stones and fragments of cement. The climb
grew harder every day. I had to pick my way through piles
of stones and metal. Dead bodies lay in the roadway.
There was no time to find all the dead.
The houses near TsacharofFs had long ago been de-


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 27
serted. With Dugojbovsky's departure only Thorpe, the
amah, two dogs and myself remained in the district.
Thorpe and I carried tinned goods up the steep slope.
Thorpe insisted on the meal being served in style. We
had soup, tinned meat and vegetables and tinned fruit
each day for dinner. Thorpe said grace, intoning the
words with solemn care. Amah served us. The windows
were shuttered; a single candle burned upon the table.
The little dog, Nicky, sniffed at my toes. Surreptitiously I
gave him bits of salmon or bully beef. Thorpe disap-
proved. Little dogs should be disciplined and should not
eat at the same table with humans. Thorpe was very fond
of Nicky and took him for a long walk each day, but I was
not to spoil him.
It was the Christmas season. At night sometimes we
heard Christmas carols over the radio. We went to the bal-
cony and looked down on the dark, noisy city. Instead of
Christmas trees, oil tanks blazed in Kowloon. Night after
night rich, red flames lapped the heavy skies. Smoke
swirled in uneven circles forming fantastic designs of
black and still deeper black. Zigzag flares of red and green
leapt across the harbor from the waterfront. Fifth col-
umnists were at work along the Wanchai bund.
Thorpe pointed out across the murky waters. A vague
blur took shape. A rifle cracked sharply from the shore.
Dazzling light swept the harbor. The whole island seemed
to rise up, to shake itself in horror. Screams ripped through
the city. Glass tumbled close behind us.
A barge loaded with dynamite had left Green Island in
mid-harbor. Thousands of tons were being evacuated to
avoid seizure by the Japanese. The British sentries had
been warned. A crew of volunteer business men from the
city had helped with the loading and accompanied the


28 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
barge. The sentries were relieved, and one of them forgot
to tell the man who supplanted him about the munition
transfer. This sentry, seeing the darkened barge, slipping
across the harbor, thought the Japanese were trying to
land. His single bullet exploded the entire supply of dy-
namite. Fragments of wood from the barge were scattered
for miles along the bund. Waterfront buildings collapsed.
Windows were broken throughout the entire business dis-
trict. Not a man of the volunteer crew survived.
The Japs raided early each morning and followed their
aerial attack with heavy shelling. Behind Tsacharoff's
house rose the gaunt structures of the Indian barracks.
Shells dropped directly below us; then the barrage crept
up the hills to the barracks. Thorpe and I watched with
the horrified realization that we were directly in the path
of the shells. "Quick!" Thorpe grasped my arm and to-
gether we ran to the back of the house and threw ourselves
against the stone wall. The shuddering impact of a shell
against the foundation of the house came a second after-
ward. The next shell went over the house and landed in
the garden beyond. Slowly the shells crept upward to the
barracks, then shell after shell went home. The building
tottered, crumbled, fell, like an exhausted old man.
Thorpe got up and brushed his clothes irritably. He
said, "I won't stay here any longer. I'm going to sleep
down town." He went into the house and gathered to-
gether the pitifully small supply of articles he had col-
lected—a razor, shaving cream, a shirt, two pairs of socks
and a cake of soap. He did them up in a package with
brown paper. "It is such a lovely house and such a lovely
view," he said plaintively. "I hate to leave it."
The amah had disappeared before the shelling. We
found her under the bed.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 29
"I flaid," she explained simply.
"Well, I'm afraid too," said Thorpe, "and I'm going to
leave."
I weighed fear against my desire for privacy, and pri-
vacy won. The next morning I was sorry. The planes were
directly overhead before the sirens woke me. The little
dog had crept into bed beside me. The doors had been
knocked askew by the impact of previous bombs, and
there was no way of keeping the tiny, smelly fellow out.
Now he shook and trembled and whined piteously. I kept
a heavy comforter stuffed with cotton by the side of my
bed. I had just time to draw it over me when the bomb
struck. Bright lights beat against me, bursting waves of
fire. Shutters broke loose from their fastenings and were
hurled across the room. The walls spread. Plaster show-
ered down across the bed. Glass buried itself in the com-
forter.
I was thrown against the wall with terrific force. My
face struck against the wall but was protected somewhat
by the comforter. The dog cushioned my chest. The full
weight of my body was thrown against his. His blood was
thick across my pajama front.
Slowly the lights and the trembling ceased. Nicky was
still alive, but his little body was horribly mangled. He
must be suffering terribly. I got the golf club. I drew it
back and struck as hard as I could. The blow almost sev-
ered the head.
I called the amah but she was gone. I was alone, and
quick fear plucked at my heart. I dressed hastily and went
out into the deserted roadway. No sound came up from
the city. A few hundred feet away a torrent of water
rushed across the road. The Japs had got another reser-
voir. The bridge was gone too. Frantically I scrambled up


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 31
not happen, and he was ordered to shoot if necessary to
protect the food.
Fred shot one day and killed a man. The following day
he killed another. The next day when the empty truck
was returning to the depot, he saw a warehouse being
looted and he shot into the crowd. Burris pleaded with
him to use the butt of his gun first. Fred would not lis-
ten. The lust for power which killing brings had burned
deep into Fred's soul.
Burris weighed fifteen pounds less than Fred, and he
was afraid of him. When Fred had fired needlessly on one
of the Chinese carriers, Burris stopped the car. When
Fred jumped off to see what the trouble was, Burris
struck him with a spanner. He dumped him in the hospi-
tal and returned to the depot and explained that there'd
been an accident.
The food queues were in order, and it was suggested
that I take Fred's place. The Japanese were on the Island
now. Little groups of them were on the mountainside,
sniping at the trucks. It was our job to find food distrib-
uting centers for the Canadian troops, and no one could
tell us where they were. A half-dozen times we nearly ran
into the hands of the enemy and we knew that they were
taking no prisoners. Little brown men shot at us from the
trees on the slopes. Bullets buried themselves in the food
sacks. One shattered the mirror by Burris' side.
In broad daylight we saw a boat-load of Japanese ferried
from the mainland to the Island. Not a single shot was
fired. The gun placements had been knocked out by
bombs. Japanese snipers had killed the nearby sentries.
Two days before Christmas I found all roads leading
toward Tsacharoff's house blocked off by British soldiers


32 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
who would not let me pass through the lines. In despera-
tion I sought out a young associate of mine who also
taught at the University. Larry Clyron and I had fre-
quently quarreled. His slow supercilious manner drove
me to despair. He was a handsome, slender, blond chap
who insisted that nothing should ever be done on time.
He met his classes late and dismissed them late. His smile
was thin and vacuous. His handshake was limp. I detested
him. In a few weeks I was to realize that he was one of the
finest men I had ever met.
His house was in a state of complete confusion. A bomb
had struck in the garden. Earth and shattered glass filled
the back rooms. The front rooms had been taken over by
one of the numerous government agencies and were filled
with typewriters and papers which were now scattered
about the floor. Anti-aircraft batteries were located about
a thousand feet from the house. Japanese planes were try-
ing to knock them out of commission.
Clyron's servants—there were eight of them—were in
revolt. They would no longer stay in the house nor would
they permit the master to do so. Ah Yung, Ah Huang,
Ah Bing, Ah Hing, Ah Hun, Ah Bau, Ah Ling, and Ah
Yuk all talked at the same time. The theme was the same.
"No, no, no, no, Master must not stay."
Larry smiled vacuously, offered me a limp hand and sat
down. Slowly he told us that he had managed to secure
two rooms in the China Building and that we would all
go there after dinner. There was no hurry. Casually he
instructed Ah Hing to open a can of bully beef and a can
of berries for dinner. Then there started one of those long
conversations between master and servant to which I was
to listen often during the next few days.
"Master, no can."


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 33
"No can what?"
"No can open can."
"Why no can open can?"
"No can opener no can open."
"Why no can opener?"
"No can open can cause no can opener."
By this time I had gone out into the kitchen, found a
can opener and opened the bully beef.
That night Clyron and I slept in a doctor's office, in
the China Building. We found two narrow operating
tables and slept on them. The seven servants occupied the
waiting room outside. They were joined by another Chi-
nese, a student at Pearl University, whose position at the
time was not clear to me. His name was Leung Sik Ling
and I was soon to know his value as a trusted friend.
Clyron and I sat on the balcony and smoked during the
early hours of the evening. The servants squatted near us,
smoking and talking loudly. Clyron was the center of his
little universe, and he was happy. In the midst of war he
talked about Spinoza and Berkeley and Kant. The serv-
ants talked at the same time in shrill Cantonese.
Finally we retired. Clyron locked the door and slipped
the key in his pocket. The single candle was extinguished
and the noisy night enfolded us.
I was awakened from heavy slumber. Bright red lights
flooded the room. An incendiary bomb had been dropped
on Queen's Theater across the street. The fire hissed and
crackled and shot flames within inches of our balcony.
Outside in the corridor there was furious shouting. Hun-
dreds and hundreds of Chinese had been sleeping in those
corridors. Now they were trampling on each other, striv-
ing madly to get to the exits. The servants were pounding
at the door, screaming in frantic Cantonese. Clyron clad


34 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
in his underwear was fumbling at the door, banging it
with his fists.
"Where's the key?" I shouted.
"I don't know. I can't find it."
He scurried about the room, opening drawers, search-
ing clothing. Sparks flew into the room from the burning
building. I encased my hand in a pillow, went to the door
and smashed the glass. At that moment, Clyron gave a
whoop of victory and brought out the key from his trou-
sers pocket. The hall was bedlam. Chinese shoved and
pushed and cursed. Guards stood at the locked, metal
gates and would let no one on the street. We fought our
way back to the rooms and again sought slumber on our
operating tables.
We were the only non-Chinese in the building. Every
inch of space was used day and night by recumbent Chi-
nese. The hallways and stairs were coated with a thin
slime. The toilets made one want to retch. For two weeks
there had been no water. A half inch of urine lay on the
floor. It was the same in every public toilet.
On Christmas Eve thousands upon thousands of Japa-
nese had landed on the island. They had ferried across
from a score of points. Christmas morning Burris Jackson
and I were sent out with a truck full of supplies to Cana-
dian headquarters. We rumbled up the Peak along nar-
row, rutted paths. Soon we met Canadian boys running
pell-mell down the mountainside. They tried to stop the
truck. "Good God. Don't go up there. The Peak is alive
with Japs. They're swarming across the fields like ants."
The boys were ragged and dishevelled. Many of those
with whom we talked were American boys who had
crossed the border and enlisted with the Canadians so that


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 37
not let us in and out of the buildings. Soon too, we felt,
the Japanese would take over. We held a hasty conference
and decided to go to the University. We gathered together
our few possessions and the group of seven servants,
Leung, Clyron and myself set out.
Little gangs of looters roamed the otherwise deserted
streets. They held up and robbed any single pedestrians
who passed. Several times gangs eyed our group question-
ingly but apparently felt we were too strong to attack.
We picked up a deserted ricksha in Queen's Road and
bundled Clyron's baggage into it. We took turns pushing
and pulling up the steep ascent. Evening was setting in.
Smoke from many fires darkened the city. The looters
grew bolder, and we saw some of them enter houses and
come out carrying furniture.
Professor George Dobson, Dean of Pearl University, had
an apartment on the top floor of San Ying Terrace. The
rest of the building was taken over by University offices.
Hundreds of students had used the building during the
siege for protection.
We saw Dobson at a window and shouted out to him
the news of the surrender. He signalled us to be quiet and
to come up. Three Chinese girl students came out of the
far entrance of the terrace. Looters sprang upon them,
knocked them down and seized their bags. The girls fled
back into the Terrace, screaming.
It was soon obvious that Dobson did not want us. We
were mystified to know why, as we felt our number would
add to the security of the entire group. Dobson told us
that the Chinese landlord did not want Americans in the
building for fear of reprisals by the Japanese. He had
wanted our protection during the siege, but did not wish
us after defeat.


38 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Darkness had come and screams and shots could be
heard nearby. Finally the landlord agreed we could stay
if we would not go near the windows. Clyron and I put
down our blankets in the little Chinese library on the top
floor, and determined to leave in the morning.
All night long we heard strange cries, the stamp of
horses, guttural shouting, screams of pain, the sound of
heavy footsteps, the breaking of glass, rifle fire. In the
morning, we peered out through the shuttered windows.
The University grounds were being used as a pasture for
shaggy Japanese ponies. The two tiny shops across from
the University had been broken into and looted. Tinned
goods were scattered about the street. One of the boys who
tended the shop was lying a few feet from the doorway.
He had often served me with coca-cola between classes.
"Hol-Hola," he would shout when he saw me coming,
"Hola-Hola, very cole for Master." He had taught me a
few words of Cantonese too, trotting about the store,
pointing and giving me the Chinese name for each ar-
ticle. The whole family used to come to laugh at my pro-
nunciation. The children jumped up and down with glee
and tried to imitate my voice.
The morning was bitterly cold. Half-naked, bare-footed
Japanese grooms squatted about little fires made of wood
ripped from the stores. About ten o'clock, we heard the
rumble of trucks. Dozens of them came down from the
barracks, bringing soldiers to the parade grounds to sur-
render. Indian guards, Canadians, Royal Scots and Mid-
dlesex regiments passed by. They were singing loudly and
jerked their thumbs upward as they caught sight of the
students. Blank-faced Japanese sentries looked on. The
strains of "Pack up your Troubles," and "Roll out the
Barrel" faded in the distance.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 39
Professor Dobson gave us a lecture that morning on
how to deal with the Japs. Rule number one was never to
say "Jap," talways say "Japanese." Then we should always
bow, take off our hats and not smoke in the presence of
Jap soldiers. We must remember that they were our con-
querors and our equals. We should treat them with elabo-
rate courtesy. He laid out cigarettes and brandy to offer
them if they entered the house. Their culture, Dobson
told us, was deeper and older than ours. They would re-
spond to kindness with kindness. He smiled benignly and
gave a practice bow.
Clyron and I turned away in disgust and determined to
leave as soon as possible. Two other Pearl University pro-
fessors were in Dobson's apartment. Martin Pearson had
a Chinese wife and a four-year-old boy. Hugh Murphy was
a fussy, velvet-voiced bachelor. The landlord would not
let us leave the apartment during the first few days after
the surrender, so we sat for hours listening to Dobson's
loud-voiced assertions concerning Japanese superiority.
Servants came in and brought us the first stories of the
horrors we were soon to experience. Happy Valley had
been declared an open brothel, and any woman in the dis-
trict was considered to be a prostitute. Europeans were
picked up on the street and put to work carrying the
bodies of the dead to a place of disposal. Chinese were
seized and forced to do manual labor. Japanese soldiers
stole and raped as they wished.
Ah Jing, Pearson's servant, arrived with a curious story.
Five Japanese officers had entered the Pearson's apart-
ment in the Happy Valley district. One of them had taken
a fancy to Ah Bau, a fifteen-year-old girl who worked for
Pearson. He had ordered her into the bedroom. Ah Jung
had followed and told tales of a wonderful brothel a few


40 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
doors away. The officer had become interested, abandoned
Ah Bau and had ordered Ah Jing to take the whole group
to the brothel. On the way out, they had stopped to make
a selection from Pearson's shirts and to take a razor, a
picture of a dog, Mrs. Pearson's bracelets and some jade.
Malakov, a young Russian friend of mine, found where
I was staying and came to bring me news of other Russian
friends. He also brought me Russian papers and advised
me to carry them in the streets, as Russians were being
treated as non-belligerents, with some degree of courtesy.
Tsacharoff was reported killed in action at Stanley. Pet-
rov's home in Kowloon had been entered. His wife and
daughter had been raped and bayoneted to death. Sori-
akov had hired a junk and tried to get to Macao. No one
knew if he had succeeded. Malakov himself had fought
with the British troops but had stripped off his uniform,
and, by displaying his Russian papers, had gone through
the Japanese lines. He advised us to keep off the streets.
Dobson talked to him at the doorway, suggesting rather
bluntly that he would prefer not to have Malakov return
as it advertised the fact that Europeans were in the
building.
Clyron was sick and could not leave. We stayed on for
four days. Tension between the five men grew stronger
and stronger. We could not tell what was going on out-
side. Rumors came in through the servants. The Japanese
were preparing to evacuate before General Yu's army ar-
rived. Tokyo had been bombed. Italy had surrendered.
Other rumors told of overwhelming Japanese victories.
We did not know what to believe.
Quarrels sprang up. Joe Pearson, the four-year-old boy,
was never quiet. Murphy was driven to desperation. He
lay for hours with a handkerchief over his eyes. Dr. Pear-


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 41
son sat in the corner taking his own pulse, or silently
wringing his hands. There was plenty of food, but Dobson
was afraid to use it and did not want the servants to go
out to make purchases. Murphy quarrelled with Dobson's
amah because she served pink instead of green gelatin.
A crisis came when the Chinese landlord told us that
Japanese officers were in the apartment below. Dobson
busied himself with the cigarettes. He produced an old
fountain pen he intended to give as a gift to the Japanese.
We were all ordered not to make a sound. Mrs. Pearson
tried to hold Joe who was not old enough to understand.
She talked to him softly in Cantonese. Joe squirmed and
banged and tried to free himself. Murphy glowered at
him. I had to sneeze and knew that to do so would be to
antagonize the group. I swallowed hard, rubbed my nose,
and nearly strangled in my attempt to remain quiet. The
minutes crept by, and the landlord did not reappear. Fif-
teen minutes passed, twenty, half an hour. Finally the
landlord tiptoed in. The Japanese officers had found a
ping-pong table in the downstairs apartment and were
playing a game.
Clyron and I prepared to leave immediately. Clyron
had agreed to go on the first day but, as always, he'd pro-
crastinated. One day he was sick, the next his servants did
not appear, on the third it rained. At last he got his things
together and we started out. We sneaked down the back
stairs in order that we might not be seen leaving the ter-
race. Chinese guards stood watch on the gates. These
"guards" were relatives of the landlord who had exacted a
toll of one hundred dollars from each of the tenants of
the terrace. The alternative to paying the "guards" was to
be robbed by them.
Japanese sentries stood behind piled sandbags at inter-


48 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
vals along the road. They grunted at us and motioned us
with their bayonets to approach. While they searched,
bayonets were never far from our stomachs. They seemed
more frightened of us than we of them. Most of them were
boys of eighteen or nineteen. They took nothing from us
and let us proceed.
In order to avoid these frequent searches we sought out
the back roads. Here furtive Chinese padded along the
streets carrying loot on their backs. The days had become
bitterly cold, and firewood was the coveted prize of the
poor. We saw men with doors roped to their backs scurry-
ing through the narrow streets; others had broken up fine
old lacquered furniture or hand-carved camphor-wood
trunks and carried the pieces in roughly tied bundles. Old
wells had been opened up, and women and children
fought for the dull brown water.
Clyron's house was in a mess. One British official had
remained behind. He was belligerently drunk. He wanted
all the front rooms for himself and insisted that we occupy
the servants' quarters. Dozens of broken whiskey bottles
cluttered the rooms. I slept in Ah Huang's bed that night,
and he slept on the tiled floor. Bassett and his lady friend
celebrated noisily.
In the morning Bassett came to the kitchen and de-
manded that the servants cook his breakfast. He shouted
ugly names at them and when Ah Huang protested, he
kicked him. At this point, Clyron and I interceded and
demanded that Bassett leave the house. He threatened,
shouted and bullied. Finally we came to an agreement.
He was to have the large front room and leave the rest of
the house to us.


Chapter HI
That afternoon I set out for Tsacharoff's house to see if
I could reclaim the few possessions which I had left there.
I left instructions with Clyron and Leung that I would
return by five o'clock. If I had not shown up by that time,
they would know that something was wrong. Again I
started up the shell-torn road. Straggling groups of Chi-
nese coolies eyed me doubtfully. I made a show of swing-
ing my golf stick, and they did not molest me.
An ominous quiet hung over the hill-side. A dead Chi-
nese lay in the grass by the path. Scarlet poinsettias
touched his outstretched hand. Outside Tsacharoff's gate,
another Chinese lay. He was Ah Kwok who had tended
Tsacharoff's gardens. Tsacharoff's big police dog bounded
through the broken gate, snarling fiercely. Then he recog-
nized me and fawned affectionately about my legs.
The front door of the house was open. Its lock, broken
by the bombing, hung uselessly from its frame. Inside was
incredible filth. Blankets and mats were strewn about the
floor. Trunks had been smashed open. Drawers had been
yanked from tables and desks and their contents scattered
about the room. All the glassware and crockery had been
lined against the wall and systematically broken. Appar-
ently the Japanese had amused themselves by taking pot
shots at it. The aquarium was broken, and the dead fish
lay on the floor. Wooden strips had been torn from the
radio. The typewriter was a mangled mass of metal. Every
room had been fouled, and the odor of human excretion
was sickening. For some strange reason the Japanese de-
lighted in thus fouling every house which they occupied.
43


44 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Upstairs the rooms were in the same condition. I went
to the bathroom and reached behind the tub where I had
hidden my little box of jade. I drew it out triumphantly,
but my joy was short-lived. When I opened it, I found it
was filled with my evening dress ties. In my haste to leave,
I had taken the wrong box.
I heard movements in the rooms below and the sound
of coarse, guttural voices. I shouted and an answer came
back in an unknown tongue. I started down the stairs.
When I reached the bend in the stairway, I saw two offi-
cers. Cocked revolvers pointed directly at me. I dropped
my golf stick and it clattered down the stairs. I spread my
arms outward and walked slowly toward them. When I
reached them, one of the officers seized me roughly and
spun me around. The revolver bored into my spine.
He led me back up the stairs and into the bedroom.
He forced me down on my knees on the floor. He twisted
my arms in back of me and made me sit bolt upright so
that the full weight of my body was on my toes. One offi-
cer stood guard over me while the other searched the
house. My position became one of acute torture within a
few minutes. I attempted to shift my weight; the officer's
revolver threatened me.
The second officer returned to the room. He had found
an old dress uniform belonging to Tsacharoff in a trunk.
They talked in staccato Japanese, gesturing toward me.
Finally they jerked me to my feet. They ordered me to
put on the uniform. I had heard that every man caught in
uniform who had not surrendered was being shot on sight.
I pretended not to understand. They slapped the hat on
my head and forced me to put on the uniform jacket. The
hat sat high on the crown of my head. The sleeves of the
coat dangled a foot beyond my finger tips. The officers


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 45
stood off and surveyed me. They burst into laughter,
doubled over with joy.
Then while I still knelt they began to ask me questions.
Was I British? Was I American? Was I a soldier? Why
was I not a soldier? I got out the Russian papers that
Malakov had given me and explained in the few words of
Russian that I knew that I was Russian. I saw they did
not understand. I began to talk very rapidly in a mixture
of Russian, Spanish and nonsense language. I waved the
Russian pass before them. "Ah, Russki" one of them said.
"Russki" repeated the other. They helped me to my feet;
they escorted me to the door. They smiled and bowed
and I was free.
It was past five o'clock, and sudden panic seized me as
I realized that Clyron and Leung might walk into the
trap. That uniform would just fit Clyron. I began to run
along the path. I had just passed the bend when I sighted
my friends. I hailed them and shouted for them to stay
back. When I joined them I still was clutching the little
carved box which held my dress ties. They were all I saved
from Tsacharoff's house.
The next morning, despite the pleas of the seven serv-
ants, Clyron and I determined to go to the town to buy
food. We walked along the back streets to avoid sentries.
We met Chinese friends who told stories of robbery and
violence. They warned us to hide jewelry, fountain pens
and particularly watches. Japanese soldiers were asking
people the time on the streets. When a watch was pro-
duced, they would say, "Thank you so much," take the
watch and walk away.
All the shops were closed, but everywhere, even in the
small back streets, there were gambling tables. Hundreds
and hundreds of them lined the roadway. Japanese sol-


48 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
load of books and dishes. He tried to explain to them that
he was taking them to his master who was now sleeping in
the city. The guards did not listen. One of them, in offi-
cer's uniform, knocked the boy to the ground and as the
boy lay there, too frightened to move, he kicked him on
the side of the head. The poor boy tried to rise and an-
other of the soldiers raised his heavy boot and kicked him
in the crotch. The boy screamed in agony and fell again.
The officer kicked at him, and the boy tried to rise a sec-
ond time. Again the soldier's heavy boot landed in his
crotch. The two soldiers picked up the writhing body and
threw it down the flight of stone steps. They turned lei-
surely to examine another coolie whom one of them had
stopped.
As we went higher on the Peak there were fewer sen-
tries and we caught only occasional glimpses of coolies.
The fantastic beauty of the scene took possession of us.
Nowhere in the world is there a more beautiful harbor
than that of Hong Kong. Now in its devastated condition,
it seemed incredibly old. Kowloon shimmered in the
bright sunlight. Rich green and orange brown formed
rough blocks of color. Tiny khaki figures moved in little
groups along the road. The godowns and wharves had
been gutted by fire; they lay black and dead along the
waterfront. Over a dozen scuttled ships pocked the har-
bor. Each ship had met its end differently. In some cases
only the sterns remained above the waterline; others had
turned on their sides. At the water's edge the black fun-
nel of a ferry cut the water; we could see the massed out-
line of the boat below.
Around us lay smashed pill-boxes and hastily erected
earth breastworks. The great, mutilated houses of the
Peak looked long deserted. Scarcely a pane of glass re-


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 49
mained and doors and woodwork had been stripped from
them.
All passage to the house where the Camerons were bil-
leted seemed to be blocked. Sentries held out their bayo-
nets as we attempted to pass, grunted heavily and mo-
tioned us away. We sought a back path, dipping down
along Stubbs Road. Soon we were lost. We talked to a
Chinese coolie whom we met on the path. We pointed
out a house and asked him in Cantonese if he knew who
lived there. He said he did not, but started cautiously up
the drive. We watched him, saw him carefully dismantle
the door, tie it on his back and start off again along the
road at a loping run.
Darkness settled in, and we were still lost. Hurriedly we
made our way downward, fearful lest we be shot by some
nervous sentry. At last we arrived at Clyron's house. The
frightened servants cheered our coming.
The next day we made a second attempt and managed
to penetrate the ring of Japanese sentries. To do so we
walked for many miles along the road to Repulse Bay and
then climbed a steep, ragged path up the mountainside.
Once a Japanese sentry shouted at us and we stood stock-
still. He came forward carrying a small, sharp kitchen
knife in his hand. He pressed it hard against my shirt and
talked in rapid, guttural Japanese. I gestured toward the
path leading to Black Slink. He waved me away. I pre-
tended not to understand and moved toward the path en-
trance. He shouted a few words, then shrugged his shoul-
ders, grunted and let us past.
Never will Clyron and I forget that journey along Black
Slink. The path was too narrow for cars but had been
used as a saddle-path before the siege. Pill-boxes and
heavy guns had been set up at intervals. A hundred feet


50 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
up the road an Indian guard lay flat on his back. The face
was massed black with flies. The putrefying flesh gave
forth an odor that sickened us. We held handkerchiefs
to our faces as we passed. I felt my stomach contract and
fought down the spasm of retching that seized me. Around
the bend there were two more bodies. Clyron and I looked
at each other in despair. We dared not return past that
sentry with his glittering little knife. We went on and on.
We spent hours among the rotting dead. We climbed
across their fly-covered bodies. We crossed a foot-bridge
where a dead sentry still stood in slovenly watch against
the rail. We passed unexploded munitions dumps, the
carcasses of mules and horses, pill-boxes that were blown
to bits.
Far below us we could see Japanese soldiers and were
afraid they might shoot up at us. Machine-gun placements
showed black against the green mountain-side. Newly
erected sentry towers shone in the bright sunlight. I
stopped several times in spots protected by the heavy casu-
arina trees and made sketches of the Japanese positions
thinking sometime they might be of use if an attempt was
made to retake Hong Kong. Clyron stood guard as I
worked.
We did not reach the Camerons* house until late that
afternoon. Mrs. Cameron was deathly ill. She had come
down from the agricultural college in the interior just a
few days before the siege to undergo a serious operation.
She had been removed from the hospital and taken to this
home on the Peak almost immediately after the operation.
They had a tale of horror to tell. Canadian troops had
made a last stand in the gardens outside their house. The
building was riddled with machine-gun and rifle fire. The
Canadians had withdrawn, and the Japanese had entered


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 51
the house while the fighting still raged. They had ordered
all the occupants to lie on the floor. Mrs. Cameron had
been unable to move. Japanese privates stood over the
cowering women and children on the floor; bayonets were
poised for action. A squat Japanese had stripped the
blanket from the sick woman.
Fortunately an officer had come in and intervened. Mrs.
Cameron had produced some chocolates that had been
sent to her. She offered them to the soldiers who began to
eat them greedily. Cigarettes were also produced. Bayo-
nets were lowered. The soldiers began to walk about the
rooms, looking curiously at toilet articles, furniture and
pictures. They even returned some of the watches and
fountain pens they had taken. When they were about to
depart, the officer noticed the gold-covered thermometer
that Mrs. Cameron had by her bedside. He examined it
and slipped it into his pocket before leaving.
Mrs. Cameron smiled softly as she told us the story.
Thin, blue-veined hands plucked at the blanket she had
almost lost. "My, my," she ended, "I was almost frightened
at first."
They were only able to give us a few dollars and again
we set out to break through the encircling ring of guards.
We arrived early that evening at Clyron's home. Bassett
had gone. That night we slept in beds.
During the night, the man next door was shot by Japa-
nese gendarmes. He had been in the Volunteer Guards,
but had stripped off his uniform and returned home. The
gendarmes had forced their way into his flat and shot him
in bed. We heard the shouts, the shot, a woman crying. In
the morning the servants brought us the news. At noon
we helped to bury him in the back yard. A tiny wooden
cross marked his grave.


•52 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Neighbors brought us a mimeographed notice during
the afternoon. All British, Dutch, American and Pana-
manian citizens were ordered to report to Murray Parade
Ground before five o'clock carrying with them such pos-
sessions as they could. Clyron and I stared at each other in
bewilderment. Did this mean arrest? Certainly, all civil-
ians could not be placed under arrest, we argued. The no-
tice said that civilians not reporting would be shot. Clyron
made the decision. We would report, but in accordance
with his code, we would not do so until late.
The task of collecting my possessions was negligible. I
had nothing but the blanket roll which I had carried from
place to place with me. Clyron gathered together the
strangest assortment of goods imaginable. Shoe-trees, sleep-
ing tablets, polo shirts, white and tan shoes, books, hair
tonic and gay neckties protruded from the tops of his bags.
The bewildered expression never quite left his face. He
squeezed and prodded and finally closed the bags, after
depositing a litter of articles on the floor.
We staggered down the hill together. We stopped be-
fore a sentry box. Clyron got hold of the end of a tie
which still protruded from a suitcase. He pulled. The tie
stuck halfway out. He pulled harder. We heard the sound
of ripping cloth and half the tie came away in his hand.
Sudden laughter seized us. We stood before the sentry box
and roared with laughter. Solemn-faced Japanese soldiers
turned expressionless eyes upon us. We picked up the bags
and started on.
A little group of Europeans clustered together on Mur-
ray Parade Grounds. A thin drizzle began to soak our
clothing. I recognized a few of the people. Professor Ban-
croft, the only American professor at British University,
was there. A great, good-natured Irish nurse was standing


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 53
near him. I had often noticed her about Hong Kong, for
her great, booming laughter was a pleasantly incongruous
note in Hong Kong's solemn pre-war life. Mrs. Malley was
the largest woman I have ever seen, and I was soon to
learn the largeness of her heart. Her two gay, pretty
daughters stood beside her, chatting and laughing as
though they were about to set out for a picnic. A tubercu-
lar little Eurasian stood shivering in the rain. Despite the
growing cold of the days, he wore a dirty, white palm
beach suit. He chewed on his seedy mustache and his
hands gave nervous little jerks as he twisted them about
the narrow belt that he wore. This poor chap, whose name
incongruously enough was Rex, had no possessions with
him. He had frequently begged small sums from me on
the street, and I had been warned not to give to him as he
was alleged to be an opium addict.
A group of missionaries sought the slight protection of-
fered by a scraggly tree. There were three small children.
The mother carried in her arms a baby that had been
born during the siege.
The Japanese ordered us to line up. We fell into a rag-
ged formation. Japanese soldiers seized us by the arms and
made us form straight lines of four.
"March!"
We marched, down the main streets of the city. Chinese
coolies gazed at us, sombre-eyed. The Japanese guards
made a show of their authority and prodded us with their
sticks. The Malley girls began to sing, but no one picked
up the tune. Finally the young mother with her baby
stumbled. We begged for the use of a ricksha to carry her.
Bayonets came into play. The ricksha coolie who had
come at our call was kicked and sent away. The woman
staggered on.


54 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Beside me in the line was an elderly English couple,
Mr. and Mrs. Plimpton-Hill. He possessed that almost ri-
diculous dignity which only the English can attain. She
was a little, fat, white-haired woman who complained in a
soft voice. I had heard her use that same smug voice to
scold a Chinese boy in the Hong Kong Hotel because he
had burned her crumpets. Now in the midst of sordid
tragedy, her mild petulance possessed something of real
grandeur.
We were led in a roundabout route through the princi-
pal streets and finally were stopped before the side en-
trance of a dirty little building above which hung a sign,
SOUTH ASIA HOTEL. This had been a waterfront
brothel before the war. Its dark and odorous rooms were
now to house three hundred and fifty civilian "enemies"
of the Nipponese Empire.
We were ordered to form groups of six after which we
would be assigned to rooms. Clyron, Bradford, Rex, an-
other Eurasian named Briggs and an Australian named
Smart formed with me into a group. Meanwhile a young
and very drunk American had started a noisy argument
with the Japanese guards at the door. Beside him was a
Eurasian girl who was using the most violently profane
language I have ever heard. A wire-haired terrier yapped
and pawed the air at the end of the leash which the girl
held in her hand. The girl swore at the guards and strug-
gled to get past. The dog became more and more excited.
Each moment we expected to see the flash of bayonets.
"My name is Smith, Mr. John Smith," the young man
shouted, "and this is Mrs. Smith. We're just married and
we want a room alone."
"You're Goddam f—ing right, we want a room alone,"
added Mrs. Smith.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 55
Bills slipped from Mr. Smith's hands to those of the
guard. The Smiths got a room of their own.
The six of us were taken up the stairs and led into a
room. It had no windows and there were no lights. It was
about seven feet long and six feet wide and contained one
bed. It was almost impossible for all six to get into the
room at the same time. It would be completely impossible
for us to all lie down.
A trickle of water seeped into the room at one corner.
I explored and found the toilets adjoined the room. The
water supply had broken down long ago. Well water had
been thrown into the toilets and had spread out over the
floor. Already the odor was sickening, and it would get
steadily worse.
We looked at one another in blank despair. Smart's
chin was trembling, and I knew he wanted to cry. I felt
hysteria mounting up within me and went to the stinking
toilet and locked myself up until it should pass.
The Japanese gave us no food that night or the next
day. We were afraid to open the few cans we had, for we
had no idea when we might be able to get more, but
hunger forced us to do so. Briggs and Rex slept on the
bed. Bradford and I slept on the floor beside them. Clyron
and Smart had to sleep outside in the corridors.
The nights were horribly cold. Filthy water from the
toilets soon drenched our blankets. We only slept when
completely overcome by exhaustion. Across the corridor
a group of elderly missionary women had assembled. The
Smiths had the room beside us.
The Smiths' private affairs were very public. The sick-
ening sweet odor of opium escaped from their room.
Never have I heard a voice so coarsely loud as Mrs.
Smith's. Their profanities filled the night.


56 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
On the second night I awoke to feel Professor Ban-
croft's fragile hand shaking me by the shoulder.
Mrs. Smith was screaming, "Jesus—Jesus—Jesus."
The voice rose into a crescendo and broke, "Jesus—
Jesus."
"Something's wrong in there. You better find out what's
the trouble." The Professor was shaking with anxiety.
"Jesus—it's good."
"He might be killing her," the Professor continued.
"I think they're all right," I explained mildly. "Just
leave them alone."
Across the hall a plaintive voice from one of the mis-
sionaries said, "Quiet—quiet, please."
Silence descended and then in the expectant darkness
Mrs. Smith's vibrant voice again arose. "Get on up and
wash, you dope."


Chapter IV
On the third day two very officious little Japanese came
to read to us the rules and regulations which were to
govern us. They preceded this by a long recital on how
badly Japanese nationals were being treated in America
and England. All hardships which we might endure were
the results of barbarities inflicted on Japanese by our
countrymen. The reading of the mimeographed sheets
concerning the terms of our imprisonment became too la-
borious for them, and they handed the papers to Mr.
Plimpton-Hill.
It was a ridiculous scene. Three hundred and fifty of
us packed the stairs and narrow cprridors trying to hear
the words which Plimpton-Hill read. He enunciated the
words in his scornful Oxford accent. The Japanese offi-
cial who had written the order had tried at high-flown
language but had very few correct ideas concerning Eng-
lish grammar.
"It is to you to know that all Nipponese is gentlemany
are politeness, that to you is all barbarity." Plimpton-Hill
cleared his throat and apologized—"That's what it says
here."
We were promised eight ounces of rice, six ounces of
flour, a half ounce of sugar and a few other things. "Un-
deraged infants" were promised a small supply of milk.
We were promised the right to go outside to walk for an
hour each week. We groaned at the harshness of the rules.
We were soon to find out how far below their promise
the Japanese fell. We got no flour, no salt, no sugar. We
were never permitted to go out for air or exercise.
57


58 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
While the rules were being read, Professor Bancroft,
who had been standing at my side, collapsed. Mrs. Malley
helped me and we got him back to his room. She took one
glimpse at the filthy pile of blankets on which the Profes-
sor had slept, then picked him up in her enormous arms
and carried him to her room. She stripped the Chinese
mat from her own bed and made a place for him in a
corner of the room. It was soon evident that the Professor
had dysentery. No doctors were permitted to enter the
hotel, nor would the Japanese provide any medical sup-
plies although they had taken great quantities from the
hospitals.
For several days Professor Bancroft hovered between
life and death. Mrs. Malley was his constant attendant.
She gave him food from the very limited supplies she had
managed to carry in. She bribed the guards to let her buy
fruit from the vendors outside. She bathed him, covered
him with her own blankets, slept beside him on the floor
at night to be close at hand in case of emergency.
A little group of us gathered in the evenings in Mrs.
Malley's room and sat about the professor's bed and sang
old songs. The younger daughter, Patricia, was lovely.
She was tall and slender and had a mass of blond hair.
Her voice was very strong and clear, though touched with
a certain harshness. The beauty of the other daughter,
Milene, lay deeply imbedded in her character. Her dark
skin was pocked with scars. Her body was gaunt and ugly.
But when she sang, all the haunting mystery of Ireland
was in her voice. Soft and clear and gentle it spread out
into that miserable room. Stormy nights and clear, cold
lakes, unknown fear and the security of an Irish cottage,
all entered into our lives.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 59
Slowly I learned a little of the background of Professor
Bancroft's life. He told me of his sterile, lonely childhood.
His father had been a business man, wealthy, pompous,
insensitive to beauty. His mother he could not remember.
All his life he had struggled hopelessly against the weak-
ness of his body. At school and at Oxford where he had
been an undergraduate, he had lived as an observer rather
than as a participant in the life about him.
Then he had found the poems of Li Po. A single char-
acter woven in Pekin silk had brought calm beauty to
him. He had learned of the cool lustre that burns in jade,
the single line that forms a willow tree in Chinese art.
His hands had traced an aged story carved in soap-stone.
China's pattern enmeshed itself in his soul.
First he had haunted Limehouse and New York's China-
town. He had learned many characters and each became
for him a symbol of beauty and power. He wished to come
to China, but weakness and indecision had held him back.
He had never known any of the strong passions—not ter-
ror, not hate, not love. He had been mildly revolted by
the life about him, had been incapable of understanding
man's lusty struggle with life. His eventual coming to
China was an act of flight. More and more he withdrew
into a life surrounded by the few beauties that he knew.
Yet the core of all of his longings was the desire for
warmth. It was the warm glow of rich silk that enchanted
him, the fire that burned in the heart of jade, flame leap-
ing from a glass of wine. And through it all, he was lonely.
Often he had seen Mrs. Malley on the streets. The
warmth of her smile and her laughter had fascinated him.
He had never dared to speak to her. The timidity of years
had hemmed him in. Yet sometimes he had sat near her
in the hotels or restaurants. Young men would soon form


60 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
a circle about Mrs. Malley and the girls—officers from the
ships, griffins from the big companies, volunteer guards-
men in uniform. The girls flirted outrageously, yet some-
times he would see their hands brush against those of their
mother and catch the warm glances of complete under-
standing.
As they brushed by his table on the way out, Mrs. Mal-
ley would smile and, for a moment, Professor Bancroft
would be caught up in the ring of gayety and laughter. He
would give his little, ducking bow and look away in em-
barrassment, yet the glow that sprang up within him
burned for many hours.
When the Japanese planes had first circled Hong Kong
and released their burden of death on the unsuspecting
city, Professor Bancroft had been confused but not afraid.
The next day he went from recruiting station to recruit-
ing station to find some place where he could be of use.
In each he was rejected; the war had no place for shy and
gentle scholars. But throughout the siege he had never
been far away from Mrs. Malley. He watched her at her
work in the emergency center set up in the Gloucester
Hotel. He watched her hands, firm and capable, as she
tended the mangled bodies that were brought to her. Her
tin hat sat absurdly on her head. Her face was flushed, and
sweat poured down her cheeks. Still there was grandeur
in her massive figure and she alone remained incongruous
amid all the sordidness and brutality of war. The Profes-
sor could not associate her with the destructive powers
that were tearing down the gentle pattern of his life.
These things the Professor told me as he lay on the
floor of a darkened room in a Chinese brothel, and I truly
believe that he had never in his life been so happy.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 61
The first batch of food came in on the third day—rice
and ducks. The ducks had come from the storage rooms
of the Dairy Farm where the refrigeration system had
broken down two weeks before. The meat had turned
blue, and it gave forth a most unpleasant odor. Chinese
coolies piled the ducks in a heap in the dirty corridor,
laughing and holding their noses as they did so.
Plimpton-Hill started to dicker with the Chinese house
boys to prepare the food. Previously they had brought us
hot boiled water, charging us a dollar for a teapot full.
This was the only water available and many people spent
their last few dollars to secure water to drink. The servants
had also brought small plates of greasy rice and meat at
two dollars a plate and had smuggled in through the
guards some chocolate which they sold for three dollars
per five-cent bar.
A group of sailors from the Chania, an American ship
which had been sunk in the harbor by the Japanese, were
interned with us. They had formed themselves into a little
gang. A man named Brewster had assumed control. He
had been a mess-boy on the ship, but he was the biggest,
the toughest and the most profane of the crew. He had
picked up a friendship with Smith and spent many hours
in Smith's room. Smith's suitcases had been filled with
whiskey. Occasionally Japanese officials would come to
call on Smith. After their departure, more whiskey would
arrive and would be taken to Smith's room. Late into the
morning loud talk and drunken laughter would keep us
awake. Whiskey fumes and opium smoke helped to clog
the fetid air. Smith had been a food salesman for a large
American importing house. The price he paid for his
whiskey was a list of the names of local Chinese merchants
who had acted as agents for the Chungking Government.


62 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
If found, these merchants were immediately executed.
Now Brewster swaggered out of Smith's room. He saw
the bags of rice and the pile of ducks.
"I'll take charge of this."
Plimpton-Hill protested mildly. "We've already ar-
ranged with the house boys to"
"I said I'll take charge of this." And Brewster walked
toward the old man with his arms swinging.
"But I think it would be better if"
"Listen, you Limey bastard, do you shut up or do I
mash in your face?"
Plimpton-Hill turned to the rest of us for support. We
didn't want a fight and it didn't seem very important at
the time who prepared the food. Brewster called his gang
and the food was removed to the kitchen. The house boys
protested loudly, but Brewster managed to intimidate
them.
We had our first meal at five that afternoon. The rice
was a soggy, glutinous mass. The spoiled fowl stank to
high heaven. But we were ravenously hungry and we ate
it. In a few hours we were retching up the horrid mess.
We vomited it into the filthy toilets, and there was no
water to flush it down.
And during that miserable night while we tried to sleep,
the odor of frying duck came from the Smiths' room. One
or two of the fowl had not been spoiled. These went to
the Smiths. .
Rex, alone of our group, did not mind the spoiled food.
He ate gluttonously of the pasty rice and the putrid
ducks. He raced frenziedly from floor to floor getting extra
dishes of food. The next day when spoiled fish accom-
panied the rice he did the same thing. Despite ravenous
hunger, many people could not eat the awful concoctions


64 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
house boys and had obtained bouillon for me when for
two solid days I had vomited every other food I had at-
tempted to eat. It was not until months later that I learned
that he was a member of the Blue Shirts, the secret agency
of the Chungking police.
A room at the end of the hall was vacated, as it had
been occupied by a group of Eurasians. Now Clyron and
Smart and I seized it. It was twice the size of our original
room and had a balcony over the street. The Japanese had
ordered canvas to be dropped over the balcony so that we
could not see out and consequently the room was in con-
stant darkness. Nevertheless some air came in, and we
were farther away from the stinking toilets. After the
crowding of the first room, this one seemed spacious and
we had some vague hopes of keeping it to ourselves.
The next day Professor Dobson came bobbing into the
room, accompanied by the Chinese warder, formerly an
under-clerk at the Canton-Hong Kong Bank. At the door-
way they stopped to bow and grin at each other and each
insisted that the other be first to enter the honorable room.
In the room, the bowing and grinning continued. The
two, it seemed, were lodge brothers and were pledged to
eternal friendship. The mere fact that Archie Lee, the
Chinese, had betrayed his government and sold informa-
tion collected at his bank to Wang Ching-Wei could not
interfere with the blessed brotherhood of the lodge. To
expect it to do so indicated intolerance and a mind nar-
rowed by racial prejudice. So Dobson was to tell me fre-
quently in the days to come.
Behind Dobson were Hugh Murphy and Dr. Pearson,
staggering under the weight of heavy suitcases. These three
men took possession of the inner room and the balcony
was assigned to Smart, Clyron and myself. We made our


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 65
beds on the concrete floor, which though cold, was dry.
Murphy loaned me a heavy red and white striped bath-
robe and for the first night I slept in relative comfort.
The wall which separated our room from that used by the
Malleys and Professor Bancroft was made of thin base-
board and did not quite touch either at the ceiling or the
floor. Milene Malley slept on the other side of the wall.
In the grim, silent nights that followed, our hands would
seek each other's in the narrow aperture between wall and
flooring.
The mornings were the worst. At six, the Chinese
hawkers would awaken us, crying their wares in shrill,
sing-song voices. The canvas-covered windows let in only
scraps of gray light. The high-pitched voices outside held
some haunting quality of half-felt fear. "Ning Yan Yat Po"
and an answering call "Pan Yen Yat Po." Again "Ning
Yan Yat Po." Again the answering cry. Then there was
the heavy rhythm of soldiers' boots against the street.
Harsh commands of Japanese officers broke the soft crying
voices of the news vendors. There was the clatter of
wooden sandals against the curb and slurred Chinese bab-
bling. Chinese babies cried softly against their mothers'
backs. From the hallways, from the streets where they had
slept, out of the doorways of barred shops, the Chinese,
ragged and hungry, arose. They joined the throng on the
streets, pacing wearily up and down, waiting, even in the
early hours of morning, for the next night and the hope
of sleep and a few hours of forgetfulness.
But always, above the sounds of the streets, was the cry
of the paper sellers, "Ning Yan Yat Po," "Pan Yen Yat Po."
Morning after morning, I awoke and the gray day seemed
to press down upon me. I would wonder, "How can I get


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 67
then it was brought to a swift and tragic end. He walked,
one afternoon, directly into the path of three Japanese
soldiers. One soldier grasped him by the shoulder and
spun him around. He stared up at the Japanese with un-
comprehending eyes. There was a volley of Japanese curses
and a gloved hand lashed viciously across the boy's face.
He fell without a single sound. Japanese boots drove hard
into the emaciated little body. There was no movement.
The soldiers passed on, laughing and joking. That after-
noon and evening the boy lay in the street; the next morn-
ing he was gone.
Professor Bancroft was feeling a little better now. As
several married couples had been moved into the Malley
room, we could no longer go there in the evening to sing.
Instead we sat on the narrow stairway and there sang old
songs evening after evening until we became tired of our
own voices. Professor Bancroft sat close to Mrs. Malley
and his weak and tremulous voice joined her hearty
one.
As we huddled together on the stairs, the Chinese serv-
ants brought down tray after tray of chicken and ham and
other delicacies to the warders who had taken over the
main floor of the hotel. We had to stand as they passed
and the aroma of steaming hot meat nearly drove us mad.
We had to fight against the temptation to seize the boys
and take away the food. And when they had passed we
sat down again and tried to sing, but the odor of the food
had quickened our hunger and we could no longer find
pleasure in the memory of old songs. One by one we would
drift away and sit in the darkness, fighting against the
trembling pain that seized us.
A young clergyman named Ott joined our sing-songs.
He had brought with him a trumpet. This he played


68 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
loudly and discordantly. The brassy notes drowned our
voices and took from us the pleasure of participation in a
communal act. The old and sick soon complained bitterly
of the insistent trumpet. Some of us tried to hint gently to
the Rev. Mr. Ott that his music would cause our sing-songs
to be prohibited. His music, it seemed, was the music of
God and only God or the Japanese could stop it.
Then one night our Japanese guard and our Chinese
warder stamped angrily into the hall. All singing must be
stopped and the stairways must be cleared. The Rev. Mr.
Ott sadly put his trumpet away and we went to our rooms.
Milene Malley and I took seats on the floor in the corri-
dor. We talked of the things we would do when the Japa-
nese were driven from Hong Kong. We would go dancing
at night in the Lido, we. would bathe in the soft, warm
waters of Repulse Bay, bask on the beach before the Re-
pulse Bay Hotel, we would hire a junk and go to Gai Du
Island and climb the great, wooded mountain we had seen
so often far across the bay. All this we would do very soon;
the Japs could not possibly hold out long against the
united forces of America and Britain. It would be a mat-
ter of weeks.
Farther down the corridor, Patricia Malley sat with Bill
Scaley. Agnes Crawford, a husky, handsome English girl,
sat with her arm about Ted Smart. People tumbled over
our legs as they passed through the narrow hall. We laughed
and joked and for a while, we forgot the awful odor of the
toilets, the foul blankets on which we had to sleep, and
the never-ceasing hunger pangs. Within the Malleys' room
I could hear Mrs, Malley's rich, throaty laugh and Profes-
sor Bancroft's gentle voice.
Patricia started the song that we had sung so often:


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 69
1
"Ten green bottles a-hanging on the wall
If one green bottle should accidentally fall,
There'd be nine green bottles a-hanging on the wall."
Agnes Crawford picked up the tune:
"Nine green bottles a-hanging on the wall"
Patricia pronounced the word bottle with a slur as though
it were "bo-ul."
Each of us who picked up the song exaggerated the word.
Soon we were laughing. And then
The Japanese guard was standing in the hallway, "It is
always to being quiet." Silence cut into our laughter. The
unbearable stench of the toilets, the weariness of sleepless
nights, hunger, the indignity of imprisonment, all came
back to us in the presence of the hated guard.
The Jap turned to Smart whose arm was still linked with
Agnes'.
"Why you no stand in presence of Japanese officer?"
"I'm sorry." Smart stumbled to his feet.
The Jap's open palm struck him across the face. Smart
was knocked back hard against the wall. His fists clenched
and unclenched and for a moment I thought he would
strike back. The Jap turned quickly and walked down the
stairs. His hand was on his revolver.
We went to our rooms silently. I lay awake long that
night. Milene Malley's hand was cold in mine. Beyond the
thin wall that separated us, I could hear her crying softly.
Outside there was a jumble of noises. I could hear the
sound of glass being broken in Wing On's great depart-
ment store across the street. There was the shrill piercing
note of a gendarme's whistle, another and another. The


70 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
pitch of the whistles was deafeningly high. Coarse calls of
Japanese gendarmes echoed in the street. Heavy Japanese
boots stamped along the cobblestones. There was the soft
sound of slithering Chinese slippers—a pistol shot. I got
up hurriedly and went to the slit in the canvas that cov-
ered the window. A Jap sentry ran down the gray alley-
way toward the bund. He stopped with horrible sudden-
ness, toppling backward. A dark figure sprang from the
shadows close behind him. In absolute silence, the noose
that had cut off the Jap's breath was tightened about his
throat. The hand of the assassin jerked backward and the
Jap crumpled to the street. Again there was the soft slith-
ering of Chinese sandals and then nothing save the empty
streets and the black shadows and a black crumpled heap
in the alleyway.


Chapter V
The stopping of the sing-songs did much to break the
morale of the group which up to that time had been high.
Quarrels sprang up among us. The Rev. Mr. Ott, deprived
of the pleasure of blowing his trumpet, set out to organize
the community. Professor Dobson joined in eagerly. With
the assumption of great deference, he undertook the task
of bettering our relations with our Chinese warder, Archie
Lee. He and the ingratiating, syphilitic little bank-clerk sat
in conferences lasting many hours. New restrictions were
thought up with the greatest of care. Almost daily, Profes-
sor Dobson made the rounds with some new list—we wrote
our names, occupations, ages, addresses, names of closest
relatives, etc., over and over again on Dobson's pieces of
paper. Daily, too, there was a search for some article that
Archie Lee coveted. One day, Dobson found candles for
him, another day some peanut oil, still another some Tiger
Balm (a patented cure-all that earned millions for its
manufacturers). In return little gifts came tumbling in for
Professor Dobson. He could be seen occasionally scurrying
through the corridor with a couple of tins bulging under-
neath his bright green sweater. These tins he stacked in a
neat little pile underneath the one bed in the room, which
in his own deferential way he had managed to make "his,"
although the original plan had been that we should take
turns sleeping upon it.
The cooks were a source of ill-will too. They took their
food first. On the very reasonable grounds that they must
preserve their strength, they helped themselves to the best
of the supplies. When reminded that they had taken the
71


7a HONG KONG AFTERMATH
job at their own insistence, they rumbled angrily. Plimp-
ton-Hill who had been the first to complain, found his
plate laden with the soggiest of rice and fish bones. As far
as food was concerned, Brewster was boss. No one dared
argue with him openly. Everyone grumbled but held his
plate out docilely at chow time.
In the building next to us, a brothel of a similar type,
another 350 civilians were interned. No communication
was possible, however, between the two groups. The roof
of the South Asia Hotel was level with the top floor of the
Yat Gun Hotel, but none of us were permitted to go on
the roof, as the Japanese had forbidden us to look out on
the streets. The proprietor of the South Asia was still liv-
ing with his family on the top floor. No members of this
family were ever seen although their servants occasionally
scuttled up and down the stairs.
One day the proprietor's little boy, who was four years
old, found his way down the stairs. I found him in the
dark, smelly corridors, his eyes wide with fright. When I
first spoke to him, he whimpered a little, but in a few min-
utes consented to put his sticky fingers around one of mine
and began to jabber in Cantonese. I took him to Mrs. Mal-
ley, who spoke Chinese fluently, and he was soon pouring
out his woes to her. She soon had the little fellow encased
in her great arms and stopped his crying with a flow of soft
Chinese. Professor Bancroft looked on smilingly. By this
time shrill chattering had broken out in the hall above,
and Mrs. Malley and I took the boy out to where his ex-
cited parents were searching for him. Mrs. Malley talked
with the mother for a few moments explaining what had
happened.
The next day the servants sought out Mrs. Malley, Pro-
fessor Bancroft and myself and told us we might go up on


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 73
the roof. We mounted tiny stairs, passed through a door-
way which the servant unlocked for us and passed out into
the cool, fresh air. The unexpected jrelief from the awful
odors was an unbelievable joy. The flat roof-top was
crowded with potted poinsettias, piles of wood and chicken
pens. Soon the boy brought us a hot pot of jasmine tea and
a plate of sweet rice cakes. We wolfed them hungrily while
the boy stood to one side laughing. Across the harbor we
could see a Japanese freighter being loaded with loot from
the great godowns. The white flag with the rising sun of
Japan hung from her stern.
Each day after that we were permitted to spend a few
hours on the roof and usually some small amount of food
was sent to us. Mrs. Malley always tucked most of hers
away in a pocket to take to the girls, and Bancroft quietly
slipped part of his into her pocket too, and so did I. Mr.
Chen, the owner, occasionally came to the roof to speak
to us, but he was frightened of being discovered by the
Japanese. He and Bancroft talked softly, their conversation
usually turning to jade, which they both loved. Mr. Chen
showed us a few pieces from his collection and told us their
stories. One of these was a three-legged toad, which is
called a "moon toad." It was of grayish green jade very
similar in texture to the skin of a live toad. This is the
legend which he told us: About 2500 b.c. there lived a
great emperor named Yao who possessed a miraculous drug
which gave immortality. Chang O was the loveliest and
most beautiful of the emperor's concubines and he loved
her dearly. But one day she stole from him the drug of
immortality and fled with it to the moon, where the Moon
God gave her refuge. Yao was furious, but he could not
recall her in mortal form from the Moon God's palace, so
he changed her into a three-legged toad. The moon toad


74 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
now is a symbol of immortality and those who seek long
life often carry with them a three-legged toad carved in jade.
*
A window barred and covered with heavy brown can-
vas was only a few feet from the roof top. Those interned
in the Yat Gun Hotel could come to this window and I
was able to talk to many of them and to carry messages to
their friends in the South Asia. Both Thorpe and Dugoj-
bovsky came to the window and we were able to swap tales
of our experiences. Thorpe had spent the interim between
the surrender and imprisonment sleeping on the floor of
a small Chinese shop. He had salvaged nothing from
Tsacharoff's house. He had no razor, no soap and had not
had a bath since Christmas day. A scraggly white beard cov-
ered his face and his clothes were matted with filth. For
days he had been without food, so that even the small sup-
ply of rice provided for us came as a godsend. Still the
thing which seemed to upset him most was the death of
the little dog, Nicky. He shook his head sadly each time
we mentioned the puppy.
Dugojbovsky with the rest of the Russians on the Hong
Kong police force had been gathered together by the
Japanese officers. They were given the opportunity to re-
nounce their allegiance to the British and were promised
the freedom of the city if they would do so. No single man
among them availed himself of this offer and in conse-
quence all the Russian members of the police were in-
terned. Most of them were in the Yat Gun Hotel and one
by one one they came to the window to shake hands with
me. Laughingly they told the story of how the Japanese
had tried to use them to patrol the troubled streets of
Wanchai. The Russians lounged in the doorways and drank
beer and laughed as the Chinese coolies broke in windows


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 75
and doors and looted the stores ahead of the pillaging Japa-
nese soldiers. A cocky little Japanese officer slapped a Rus-
sian police captain across the face for failing to obey orders.
The unarmed Russian seized the Jap; he forced his head
backward until the neck snapped. He flung the limp body
into the filthy waters of Wanchai Bay. Later the Russian
was executed by the Japs, but no threats could elicit any
help from the Russians in keeping order among the rioting
Chinese.
Through this window I heard of the death of many of
the men whom I had known in Hong Kong. Among these
was a young Englishman named Marius Livingstone. He
was a stiff, proud young fellow who worked in a local in-
surance agency. He had been turned down by the Volun-
teers because of a bad heart. After the surrender, a Jap
officer had accosted him in the street and commanded him
to bow in passing. Livingstone refused. The officer insisted.
A group of Chinese looked on from a safe distance. Living-
stone tried to pass by but the Jap held him back with his
sword. "You bow. You bow," the little man shouted, jump-
ing up and down in rage. The pale young Englishman
stood still, looking lazily at the Jap. Then he said very
slowly, "You go straight to hell. I'll never bow to a dirty
litde bugger like you."
"I give you to count to ten. You no bow, I kill you."
The Jap waved his sword frenziedly. "I chop off your
head."
Livingstone lit a cigarette and leaned against the build-
ing looking disdainfully at his antagonist.
The Jap began to count. "One—two—three—" At the
count of ten, Livingstone had not moved. He was smiling
faintly. The Jap looked about and saw the solemn, averted
gaze of the Chinese. He raised his sword and with a single


76 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
terrific blow brought it down on the Englishman's neck.
The sword completely severed the neck. The head fell off.
The body was supported for a few moments against the
building, it fell slowly forward. Blood spurted from the
neck drenching the Jap. Very slowly the Chinese walked
away.
"I hand it to Livingstone," said Dugojbovsky when he
heard the story. "It's the only way to fight. You've got to
win or you've got to die. Once you make concessions you're
lost."
"No, I think you're wrong," responded Thorpe. "If
you're going to fight, you've got to live. No man has a right
to throw away his life for the sake of pride. England needs
every one of us."
As the two men argued, I drew aside the heavy canvas
and peered into the dim hallway. A young man lay on the
floor on a thin mat and with a start I realized it was Mike
Shakhty. As I watched a rat ran across his face and he gave
a thin, hysterical cry. Thorpe went back to care for_him,
for the boy was now trying to stagger to his feet.
"Mike's got dysentery bad," Dugojbovsky told me. "But
you wouldn't believe the things I saw him do the last days
of the siege. He's the most curious mixture of courage and
cowardice I've ever known. Shrapnel wounded three of
our men out near the Happy Valley race track. The Japs
were in all the big houses about the track, shooting from
the windows, crawling in along the streets. Mike and Serge
Malakov got a lorry and took it right out onto the track.
They got two of the men inside, then Serge got a bullet
through the ribs. Mike managed to get the last man in
alone and brought the lorry back to the shelter of the
godown where we were stationed. I drove it up to the hos-
pital and when I got there, Mike was all slumped over the


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 77
side. At first I thought he'd been hit, but he hadn't, he'd
just fainted."
These hours on the roof gave me something to look
forward to each day and in some part I could forget the
sordidness and viciousness of the life that went on in the
hotel. The quarrels that sprang up between us were petty
and degrading. Dr. Pearson sat hour after hour on the
edge of Dobson's bed, staring into space. We knew that he
was thinking of his wife and son, yet his attitude of dejec-
tion soon got on our nerves. His right hand was constantly
on his left wrist, feeling the movement of his pulse. His
lips counted soundlessly. Every few minutes he would
make a notation on the chart, which was always beside him.
He had a nervous habit of sniffing too. We would all lie
in the darkness trying to sleep and find ourselves waiting
for the next sniff.
One night Murphy got up and towered over him in the
darkness. His voice was choking with rage. "By God, Mar-
tin, one more sniff out of you and I swear I'll kill you."
There was dead silence and then Murphy paced the
room a few times. Finally he went back to Pearson. He
said, "I'm sorry, Martin, I'm just w-well, I'm sorry." He
stumbled back into bed.
Pearson sniffed. We all gave sighs of relief. Without
realizing it, that sniff had become a part of the pattern of
our lives. It filled some tiny, inexplicable need.
Clyron was an escapist supreme. In that tiny hotel, so
crowded one could hardly move without stepping on some-
one, Clyron managed to disappear for hours at a time. He
had brought one book with him, Apuleius' The Golden
Ass, and this he read over and over again. He apparently
made no attempt to memorize, but preferred continuous


78 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
re-reading. At ten o'clock in the morning he would set out
into the dingy corridor with his book under his arm and
none of us would see him again until five. I have never
discovered the mystery of his disappearance. Months later,
when his hiding place could no longer be in danger of
invasion, I asked him. His answer was, as always, vague. "I
was just around." "But where?" "Oh just different places."
"But how could you find a place alone in that crowd?"
"Oh, I wasn't alone." I gave up the attempt, but his mys-
terious disappearance act has always titillated my imagina-
tion and sometimes I lay awake at night and reviewed in
my mind every cranny and corner of that dark, fetid build-
ing seeking to discover his hiding place.
After a few weeks, Clyron began to appear with tinned
foods procured from some mysterious source. These were
mostly local goods of extremely poor quality—tinned pears,
absolutely without taste and strangely brittle, tinned peas,
hard as pebbles, tinned melon, sickeningly sweet. These
tins were covered with Chinese characters and strange di-
rections in English such as: "These pea is more pleferable
to cook long time" or "To opening tin running round
age."
A solitary bathtub lived in a cubicle inside the toilets.
It was soon filled high with filth and rubble. There was
no water and no opportunity for bathing. One toilet seat
served the ninety-odd people on our floor. Beside this there
was a sunken Oriental toilet little more than a hole in the
concrete floor, which only the most dextrous among us
could use. About half of us were ridden with dysentery and
we formed a sad, unhappy line outside the toilet in the
morning. Men and women waited in line together, hop-
ping from one foot to another, their faces contracted with


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 79
pain. Some of us carried Chinese Bibles which a local mis-
sionary society had been kind enough to provide for each
room. Each day the Bibles became noticeably thinner.
Finally someone would be able to stand it no longer and
would bolt for the cubicle in which the tub was inclosed.
It was here that the Smiths staged their most spectacular
battle. Mrs. Smith used the seat and Mr. Smith crouched
over the Oriental toilet. Back and forth across the length
of the toilet, they hurled a storm of abuse at each other. It
was 3 a.m. and there was no other sound in the hotel.
Shocked missionaries, prudish British taipans with their
austere wives, and small children lay in the darkness and
listened to the flow of vile vituperation. Finally an aged
missionary lady could stand it no longer. In a thin queru-
lous voice, she shouted, "Thou shalt not take the name of
the Lord in vain." There was a moment of complete si-
lence. Then someone began to laugh. The whole affair was
filled with a grotesque humor. Roar after roar of laughter
swept the building. In the black night, with our Japanese
sentries standing on guard with ready bayonets, amid sick-
ness and hunger and impending death, we roared with
laughter. And somewhere deep within that laughter was
the key to our eventual victory.
One day as I passed the cubicle containing the tub I
heard a scrabbling sound within. I opened the door and
found Clyron standing on the tub and leaning halfway out
of a small window high above it. He was talking in excited
Cantonese. I climbed up beside him and looked down on
the roof of a small store. Two figures attired in coolie
clothes stood on the roof, waving at us. They were Leung
Sik Ling and Ah Huang. They now attached a package to
a rope which Clyron had lowered through the window.
Here then was the key to Clyron's mysterious food supply.


8o HONG KONG AFTERMATH
We drew up the package and examined it and found that
it contained some bean curd cheese and two pomeloes. A
Jap sentry passed in the street below and we slammed the
window shut.
Clyron invariably shared whatever supplies he had with
the rest of us and usually gave me portions for the Malleys
and Professor Bancroft although Dobson strenuously ob-
jected to this practice. That night we had what seemed to
us to be a feast. Bean curd cheese has much the flavor of
a very strong Gorgonzola. We each had a square of about
a quarter of an inch which flavored an entire bowl of rice.
Pomeloes have the appearance of large lop-sided grape-
fruit. They divide into sections as a grapefruit does, but
the flesh is dry and sweet. There was enough for each of
us to have two pomelo sections. We sat about that evening
eating the fruit and talking idly. A saucer of peanut oil
was on the table. A cotton wick had been run through it
and it gave off a pale, sputtering light. Dobson was not
with us. He was spending the evening with his lodge
brother, Archie Lee. In his absence, the tension died and
a feeling of mellowness crept over us.
Professor Bancroft sat on the floor beside Mrs. Malley.
His hand did not leave hers throughout the evening. He
told us stories of Chinese mythology, recounted their time-
less legends. He told us how the birds of prey changed
during the first moon into turtle doves, how the rats of
the field transformed themselves into quail during the
third moon. He repeated the warning of the "Little Calen-
dar of Hsai" that should the rats fail to change into quail
that there will be much greed and many evil deeds within
the Empire. In the tenth moon, the pheasants dive into the
rivers and become oysters; should they fail to do so, he


82 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
his special plates in order that he might not contaminate
the household, his special bath. Month after month Clyron
cared for the boy, and at last, a few weeks before the siege,
Dr. Wentworth had pronounced Leung completely cured.
Clyron begged me not to tell the other men on our faculty
the story—"They wouldn't understand."
When the food had been drawn up from the roof below
and taken into the room, I made a suggestion—one I was
later to deeply regret—that we pool our food, sharing all
that we had evenly. This plan was agreed upon and each
of us put what we had into the "kitty," a duffle bag, which
eventually found its place under Dobson's bed.
The next morning we heard singing in English and the
tramp of many footsteps. I ran to the window and peered
out through the slit in the canvas. English soldiers were
marching down the streets. Later we learned that they were
being transferred from imprisonment on the island to a
camp in Kowloon which was called Sham Sui Po. They
were in the uniforms of the Hong Kong Volunteers. I saw
my friend Roderick Leslie among them and began to rip
down the canvas.
Dobson grabbed my arm. "You can't do that. You can't
do that. The sentries have orders to shoot anyone seen at
the windows."
I said, "Go to hell," and pushed him aside roughly.
I yelled, "Rod! RodI" Rod looked up and grinned, that
old puckish grin of his. He lifted his arm high and spread
his fingers in a V. He shouted up, but the din in the streets
was too strong and I could not catch his words—save for
one—Victory.
We watched them march by. Already their uniforms
were covered with filth. Many of them were wounded.
Some were so weak from dysentery, they had to lean on


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 83
their companions for support. Still others had to be carried
on make-shift litters. Down they marched, down to im-
prisonment and sickness and, in many cases, death. But
they sang as they marched. And, as we tore away the can-
vas, cheer after cheer raked the straggling lines.
"Thumbs up for Victory."
Our people ripped down more canvas and shouted back.
"Thumbs up for Victory."
A man at the end of the line was on a litter. His legs
were horribly mangled, but as he was carried past the hotel,
his clenched fist shot up with the thumb pointing to the
sky—victory still would come!
As I turned from the window, Dobson confronted me,
an angry little heap of a man.
"Brown, you dared to lay hands on me. I, who am your
superior, must report this action of yours to the proper
university authorities."
I was tired and I said wearily, "I'm sorry."
"As I am a Christian, I shall try to conduct myself in
my personal relation to you as though this deplorable in-
cident had not occurred. But it will be difficult, very diffi-
cult."
"Didn't you see those men down there on the street?"
"I have obeyed the rules and you should do the same.
Your violation of the restrictions imposed by the Japanese
may readily have serious repercussions. I shall now go to
Mr. Lee and attempt to explain this action of yours."


Chapter VI
A few days later the news came that we would be moved.
We were not told where at first, but finally our warder
announced that it would be to the grounds of Stanley
Prison. People stood about in groups and joked and
laughed. Men clapped each other on the back. Women
smiled and chatted for the first time in days. We were go-
ing to prison and we were enormously happy about it. We
would have a chance to walk about, to breathe fresh air
again. We would escape the horrible smells, the darkness,
the inactivity. How good it was to go to prison!
The next morning we were told to pack our things and
be prepared to march at noon. People collected together
their few possessions, wrapping them in blankets and boxes,
fighting over pieces of string with which to tie them. In a
few hours, the slimy corridors were jammed with luggage.
Noon came and there was no sign of the Japanese. We
waited and the hours slipped slowly past. Children cried,
women fretted, men sat on the baggage and bitterly cursed
our captors. Late that evening a soldier came and read us
a notice that the transfer had been postponed until ten
o'clock the next morning.
Packages were torn open to secure bedding for the night.
Refuse was thrown about the building. We tossed down
our blankets on the floor and prepared for another bitter
night. We were all up early in the morning. Again such
goods as we had were packed. Ten o'clock came and again
there was no sign of the Japanese. The interminable hours
crept by. Nothing happened. The Japanese did not bother
to notify us of the postponement.
84


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 85
Another day and still another passed by. We had given
up hope of release from our odorous confinement. Then,
without warning, a half-dozen gendarmes appeared upon
the scene.
The cry went up, "Everybody out!"
We tumbled out into the street, tossing our possessions
loosely into sheets and blankets. Many were dazed by the
first sunlight they had seen for more than three weeks. The
wind swept down upon us cold and harsh, we shivered but
we did not care. No matter where we went, it could not be
worse than the filthy brothels from which we had come.
Since I had nothing to carry save my blankets and a
razor, I had agreed to help Professor Bancroft who was still
not strong enough to walk any distance unsupported. As
I came into his room, the little Chinese landlord slipped
in behind me. He was bearing a gift for Professor Bancroft.
It was a small jade figure of a pigeon. The piece was ex-
quisitely carved from white jade, mottled with ash gray.
The pigeon is the Chinese symbol of longevity and is the
gift given to old men who have performed the duties of
life honorably and well. The pigeon, reasons the Chinese,
is the only bird which does not choke itself while eating.
Old men have often choked to death over their food. To
give an old man a pigeon is to wish him many more years
of happy life. The little Chinese could not have selected a
gift which would have affected the Professor more deeply.
Outside the gendarmes were shouting, "Get in fours.
Get in fours."
They pushed us along into the back of the lines. The
Professor stumbled and almost fell. We took our places and
I dropped the professor's case and he sat on it. Many Chi-
nese gathered about in a cautious, watchful semicircle.


86 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Leung was in the crowd but he did not come near us. De-
spite their hurry to get us into line, the Japanese would
not let us move. Hours passed, the cold wind bit into our
flesh, but still we stood and waited. We hopped up and
down, trying to keep warm. Several men with dysentery
wanted to go back to the hotel. Stony-faced Jap guards
would not permit them. Miserably they sat on their cases;
their faces were drained of blood from the agonizing pain.
One man befouled his only suit, toppled slowly from his
suitcase and lay stretched out on the street. We got blan-
kets under his head. He held the blanket clenched between
his teeth to keep back a moan of pain.
"March!"
The straggling column crept along the road behind a
swarthy, bespectacled, much-decorated Japanese major-
domo. Vainly the gendarmes tried to keep us in lines of
four. Some were too weak to walk more than a few steps at
a time; a few had to be carried. Mrs. North, the missionary
woman whose child had been born during the siege,
clutched the baby against her emaciated body. The infant
wailed thinly. Mrs. North's face was taut; her legs buckled
under her, but she screamed and clutched the child more
firmly to her when others tried to help her by offering to
take the baby.
Professor Bancroft leaned heavily against me. Mrs. Mal-
ley on his other side was laden high with bundles. She
walked with her head high, her eyes straight ahead. Even
now with her faded pink dress and her corsets loose about
her, there was a beauty about her—a beauty of strong, wild
courage. Milene padded softly by her side. Milene walked
more quietly than any Occidental I have ever known. Her
feet moved silently across the rough cobbles, with that


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 87
eerie quality of motion without movement that one finds
only in the Far East.
We were paraded through the main streets again in
order that the Chinese might witness the fall of the white
man and see how degrading was his dismissal from the city
of Hong Kong. Then we twisted down to the waterfront
and along the bund.
In peace time this section of the city had been tremen-
dously crowded. One had literally to push one's way
through the streets. The bund is a broad road, bounded
on one side by the great commercial buildings and stores
of Hong Kong. On the other side the dirty waters of the
bay lap against a sheer stone wall embankment.
Junks, sampans and river boats usually lined this wall
or were tied up against the dingy wharves that stretched
grimy fingers into the bay's yellow waters. Coolies had
swarmed about the waterfront, stood in the high sterns of
the sampans and tossed pomeloes to their brothers waiting
in the bund above. They worked with incredible speed.
Lithe hands flicked the golden gray fruit from the packed
sterns and twisted them upward through the air. The
hands of the waiting coolie, working with the speed and
accuracy of a juggler's, caught the pomeloes and in a single
movement tossed them into the rattan baskets. Coolies,
working in pairs, brought down heavy crates of salt to be
loaded on junks sailing to Macao, the fantastic Portuguese
port just south of Hong Kong. They stretched thick bam-
boo poles across thin shoulders and lashed the cases onto
the poles, then, bent beneath the weight of the salt, they
trotted along the bund. "Hang hoy! hang hoy!" they
shouted, and the dense crowd of Chinese who lined the
waterfront would part to let them through.


88 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
This was all of the past. Now the bund was bleak and
deserted. The ugly, fore-shortened statue of Gordon of
India that dominated the bund had been removed. It had
been made of blackened cast iron and was now on its way
to Japan to be molded into guns—providing the boat on
which it was being carried could break through the sub-
marine blockade which already encircled Hong Kong's
harbor. The squat statue of Queen Victoria was now torn
down too. It had sat in absurd majesty beneath a cast-iron
portico and stared stupidly and benignly across a minia-
ture green park, across the harbor into Kowloon, and had
seemed to watch with tireless eyes the hands of the great,
lighted clock that was set in the tower of the Star Ferry
building. Victoria now rested in a great pile of scrap metal
—torn up tram tracks, iron window frames, smashed auto-
mobiles—awaiting a boat that would deliver her to the
vandals of her empire.
We passed a rice store. A great line of Chinese waited
outside to buy small quantities of rice. The line stretched
for fifteen blocks. Only able-bodied men, willing and strong
enough to work for the Japanese were permitted in the
line. Each man had to stand with his hand on the shoulder
of the man in front. How many hours they had been wait-
ing we would never know. As we passed, many of them
averted their faces. Their captivity was more humiliating
than ours. We were marching into prison under compul-
sion with bayonets and rifles at our back; we could bear
ourselves proudly. But they were beaten down by hunger,
forced to wait interminable hours in line for a few ounces
of rice, forced to endure the blows of the Japanese and
try to gain their favor and the privilege of working for
them—the alternative was starvation. There is a legend in


go HONG KONG AFTERMATH
beneath our weight. A child fell catching his leg in a
jagged hole in the rotting pier. He screamed wildly. His
mother fished him out, scolding and whacking him as she
did so. Then she sat down on the rotting boards beside him
and she too began to cry, deeply, bitterly. Another child,
about six, came and put her arm about the mother. The
father, a young bank clerk, had been with the Hong Kong
Volunteers. He had been killed in action.
One of the old vehicular ferries was tied up alongside
of the wharf but for some reason unknown to us, the Japs
would not let us on board. They forced us into the rough
semblance of a line at one side of the wharf and let us wait.
The cold winds brought with them a thick mist and an
occasional spray of rain. Some of our people sank to the
street in exhaustion and we covered them as best we could
with our luggage. The rest of us jumped up and down and
swung our hands in an effort to keep warm.
A rickety board was put up as a gangplank and we were
ordered aboard. The board sagged treacherously and each
person who stepped on it had the momentary sensation of
filthy blue-brown waters coming up to engulf him. We
stood on the deck, pressed close against one another, strug-
gling to keep hold of our possessions in the confused mob.
A squat Japanese soldier stood eyeing Mrs. Malley as I
talked to her. He was partially dressed in uniform and car-
ried a gun with a heavy rusted bayonet. His hair was long
and matted. Gold glistened from his teeth. He was barefoot
and his trouser legs hung around hairy, scabby shanks. His
trousers he had left unbuttoned in order that he might
scratch the more private parts of his person with greater
ease. A filthy once-white handkerchief he stuck in his fly
instead of his pocket. He grinned at us broadly and beck-
oned for us to come to him.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 91
Mrs. Malley looked at me fearfully and asked, "What
shall we do?"
"Pretend not to understand. Get as far forward as you
can."
When we tried to push away, the Jap came close to us
and seized Mrs. Malley's great arm and pointed to the
stairs that led down to the hatch. Mrs. Malley tried to draw
away but he did not release his hold.
"I guess we better go," I whispered.
We started off for the hatch, but after a few steps the
Jap stopped me, pointing for me to return. I pretended
not to understand. The Jap pressed the flat of his rusted
bayonet against my chest. I saw that while the stock was
rusted the edge had been filed to a razor edge. At the top
of the flight of ladder-like stairs the Jap pressed close
against her. He pressed his legs against her hips and leaned
against her forcing her to practically carry him down the
stairs. I came down behind watching helplessly. In the
hold, Mrs. Malley got into a corner and I stood in front of
her. The ugly little beast did not quite dare to use the
bayonet though he eyed it speculatively.
Dobson came up to make friends with the soldier. Per-
haps he hoped to find another lodge brother. With elabo-
rate politeness, a grin and a bow, Dobson extended his box
of cigarettes which he had saved secretly for just such an
occasion. The Japanese was pleased, he took the box and
all the cigarettes. He popped one cigarette into his mouth,
the others into his pocket. Dobson appeared pleased too.
He bowed again,, smiled broadly, stuck his hands in the
armholes of his vest and gave a perfect imitation of a
boy scout who had just done his good deed of the day.
Mrs. Malley was smoking, as one of her friends had
given her a cigarette while we were waiting on the wharf.


92 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
The Jap made signs that he wanted a light. Fearfully Mrs.
Malley extended her hand with the lighted cigarette. The
Jap held her hand while he lighted up, then ran his own
hand up the length of her arm. Mrs. Malley jerked her
arm back. The Jap grinned balefully and walked away.
Again Dobson approached him and bowing and smirking
murmured a few words of Japanese. The soldier grunted
and again went to the ladder and mounted.
Dobson came over to us. "Great people the Japs. All you
have to do is understand them. See how friendly that chap
was, glad to get some cigarettes too. Bet he hasn't had any
like that for many a day."
Mrs. Malley gritted her teeth. She said, "You unspeak-
able, filthy, oily rat. You'd kowtow to anyone or anything
that made life easier for you. It's the slimiest and vilest life
I've ever known anyone to live."
"Why, Mrs. Malley, you're excited, but really you
shouldn't say such things. Of course you've had a hard
time, but you should turn your eyes to the Lord. You
would find great consolation there."
The hold of the boat in which we had been placed was
made of unpainted iron which was badly rusted and left
red brown stains on one's clothing wherever it touched.
There was a thin pool of water too on the deck, and as
soon as the boat was in motion this slushed from one side
to the other. Professor Bancroft had managed to get down
the stairs and I now saw him clinging to the rusted side of
the boat. Mrs. Malley and I went to him and tried to ar-
range blankets on the floor to make a bed for him. As we
worked, the Jap soldier again appeared on the scene. With
grunts and motions, he ordered Mrs. Malley to mount the
ladder again.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 93
This time he got his hands beneath her skirts and
pushed and jostled her up the stairs. There was a look of
sober intensity on his face which under other circum-
stances would have been laughable. Mrs. Malley was fully
three times his size and could easily have taken him by the
scruff of his neck and tossed him overboard. Indeed when
I caught a glimpse of her glaring eyes and flaring nostrils
as we emerged onto the deck, I was afraid she might do it.
We took our places by the rail. The Jap rushed from one
side of her to the other and each time I managed to step in
between. He stuck his bayonet into the rail between us
and motioned for me to go away. By this time I was con-
vinced he did not dare use it, and I pushed it aside. He
made one more attempt to get beside Mrs. Malley but
again I managed to intervene in time. He walked away
with a sad and dejected look as though saying, "What are
the fruits of victory, anyway?"
Mrs. Malley and I looked at each other and at the filthy,
bare-footed ape-like creature and broke into sudden laugh-
ter. Then Mrs. Malley leaned far over the rail and heaved.
When she'd finished, she looked up and said, "I guess it's
funny but it makes me sick. That man's hands against me.
It makes me feel like I'll never be clean again."
We stood at the rail and watched the glistening blue
ocean and the pine-crested islands. We left the littered har-
bor far behind. We passed close to a junk. Its great square
sails were patched in many shades of blue. The sails them-
selves had worn so thin that it did not seem possible that
they could support the patches. Two old women sat in the
stern fishing. A little boy stopped his play on the deck and
waved to us. The setting was so peaceful that it seemed im-
possible that imprisonment still lay ahead. We felt that we
must be on our way to freedom. Then cutting the shining


94 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
surface of the water we saw a brown patch—another, an-
other, another. They were dead horses and close beside
them were the corpses of Japanese soldiers.
Then as we rounded one of the many jutting peninsulas
of the island we saw a freighter of about four thousand
tons beached on the rocky shore. A gaping hole in her side
showed where a torpedo had struck her. We saw the bodies
of more horses and soldiers on the rocks and on the beach.
Apparently she had been a transport and had been struck
just outside the harbor. The heavy seas of the night before
must have carried her in and dashed her against the rocks.
We reasoned that our own boats must be close at hand and
a surge of optimism swept through us. We were not com-
pletely forgotten! How good that seemed. "We're not for-
gotten! We're not forgotten!" The words rang through
the ship.
The old ferry nosed slowly into Stanley Bay. The high
grey walls of Stanley Prison loomed up before us. The rain
had stopped almost as soon as we had left the wharf in
Hong Kong. Now the sun shone brightly on the green hills
and sandy beeches. Clusters of hibiscus formed bright red
patches on the hills. Flame vines seemed to set afire the
walls of nearby cottages. But no color came from the prison
walls. The prison buildings gazed out at us. Their win-
dows were steel grey eyes, as expressionless as the eyes of
the little men who manned the prison turrets, their tommy-
guns ready to spit malicious death upon us.
A little cement wharf formed a thin grey line in the bay.
This had been used in the past only for wallah-wallahs,
small yachts and the government boats bringing supplies
and prisoners to Stanley. Two junks had been anchored
near the wharf. Now they came out to us and with much


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 95
shouting and grunting, the junk crews and the Jap soldiers
managed to lash them to the ferry's sides.
Mrs. Malley and I went below decks to help Professor
Bancroft. I got the Professor's arms across my shoulder and
we started across the slanted boat bottom. Mrs. Malley
started to mount the stairs and the moment that she did so
her little Japanese tormentor materialized from nowhere
and assumed his favorite position behind her with his
hands closely clasped to her buttocks. The Professor and I
were right behind. He reached up and flicked the Jap's
old-fashioned cartridge belt with his fingers. Cartridges
tumbled out on the floor. The Jap released his hold on
Mrs. Malley's buttocks and began to scramble about in
the stamping crowd for his bullets. Dr. Dobson joined
him in the search, and the three of us escaped up the stairs.
We climbed over the ferry's high railing, sought a pre-
carious footing on the jutting sides of the junk and jumped
down into the hull. The Professor fell as he made the
final leap but was not hurt. We found seats on the edge of
the crowded hatch.


Chapter VII
It was late afternoon when we reached the shore. The
Japanese soldiers who came with us on the junks jumped
off first. Grinning they ran to the foot of the jetty. Here in
sight of us all, they took down their trousers and relieved
themselves, chatting in their merry, guttural fashion as
they did so. They left a pile of human excreta in the path
over which we all must walk to enter our place of im-
prisonment.
We were among the earlier arrivals at the camp. Chinese
laborers were still engaged in putting up the barbed-wire
entanglements that were to hem us in. These were not
ordinary fences but were great rolls of barbed wire attached
to poles by an elaborate criss-crossing of the barbed strands.
These entanglements were about four and a half feet high
but nearly six feet wide. To cross them without being
slashed to ribbons seemed an impossible feat. The Chinese
workmen appeared badly frightened and did not look up
as we passed. At the far end of the camp where the road
entered the bottleneck of the peninsula, two Japanese sol-
diers stood guard, but, for the present we could roam
freely about the peninsula with the exception of any place
near the shore which was already cut off. Also a sign
warned us not to walk along the road to the fort, the
scarred shell of which we could see on the hill-top above us.
The great prison gates were closed and we could not en-
ter the actual buildings of the prison. More than three
thousand of us must find quarters in the buildings pro-
vided for the prison warders and in St. Stephen's College,
the grounds of which adjoined the prison. St. Stephen's
96


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 97
College was not a college in the American sense but what
we would call a preparatory school. In Hong Kong the
term "middle school" is used. It had accommodations for
about 300 boys between the ages of seven and eighteen.
There were also within the grounds a few small cottages
previously used by the masters of St. Stephen's and other
families. All in all 500 people might have used the camp
without undue crowding.
By the time we located the Malley girls and assembled
our few pieces of baggage, dusk was already falling. Pro-
fessor Bancroft looked very ill, and it was imperative that
we find a place to spend the night. Our little group was
joined by an elderly English couple, Charles and Maude
Dana. Mr. Dana was deathly sick and it was obvious that
he could not walk far, not did we have a litter or any other
means of carrying him. He had suffered from diabetes for
years and had taken regular doses of insulin. Now his sup-
ply had been cut off. Mrs. Dana had begged the guards to
help her get some as she knew there was a supply at Queen
Mary Hospital. They had been unwilling to give her any
aid. Mr. Dana had dysentery too and he was too weak to
speak clearly.
Finally we got him up the incline to the nearest building
of St. Stephen's College which was the science laboratory.
By now it was quite dark. Mrs. Malley found a candle and
we entered the black hallway. The stench of rotting bodies
and human excreta nauseated us. Already a few of our peo-
ple too weak to move farther lay huddled in the hall. But
in the laboratory beyond was a scene of incredible filth
and confusion. The room was ankle deep in dirt. Torn
papers, broken glass, scattered roach-infested tin cans, mud
and water littered the floor. The Japanese had apparently
used the building for the temporary billeting of troops.


98 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
In one corner of the room, face downward, lay the body of
a Canadian soldier which the Japs had not bothered to
move. We went to the rooms above and found them in the
same condition. Two more bodies were in the upstairs
rooms—another Canadian and an Indian guard.
We returned to the downstairs laboratory and by the
flickering light of the single candle, we set to work. We
cleaned up a corner of the building as best we could and
laid out blankets for the two sick men. Ted Smart and Bill
Scaley joined the party and the three of us dug a narrow
trench outside, halfway down the steep incline to the
beach and placed the dead Canadian soldier inside it.
Scaley searched his pockets but we found no identification.
Ted said, "It doesn't seem right just to cover him with-
out—well, without some sort of service."
We looked nervously at each other, each afraid of show-
ing some emotion, appearing sentimental. The Malleys
had come now to the edge of the makeshift grave.
Mrs. Malley said hesitatingly, "Professor Brown, won't
you just say—something?"
"I am a Quaker. In my church, in moments of great
solemnity, we have a few minutes of silence. Can't we have
that now?"
The six of us stood in silence over the grave of the un-
known Canadian who died in the futile defense of Hong
Kong. The surf beat dully on the rocks below and con-
fused voices rang through the prison camp, but for a min-
ute we were alone with the dead man and the six of us
accepted in silent solemnity the task which he passed on
to us.
Ted Smart and I slept outside that night under the scant
branches of a casuarina tree. The morning came sharp


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 99
and cool and clear. Dysentery pains were attacking me
and I was glad to lie still. Ted left me and went over to
the main hall of the college; he came back with joyous
news, there was running water and also shower baths. It
had been 27 days since I had had a bath. Ted helped me
over to the main hall. The cold, harsh needles of water
seemed to give me new life. My razor, shaving brush, a
cake of soap, toothpaste and toothbrush were, other than
my blankets and the clothing I had on, my only possessions.
I had bought them with my last few dollars the day before
the surrender. Fortunately I had bought five packs of
blades. I shaved in cold water after my shower and felt a
hundred percent better.
But I had to put back on my stained and odorous cloth-
ing. I was wearing a blue suit with a thin, dull red stripe,
almost new, which I had purchased from a Chinese tailor
just before the siege. I am no judge of cloth and it was
now apparent that I had made a very bad buy. The dye
had run badly. The blue had changed to a sickish purple,
splotched with masses of dull red. My silk shirt was torn in
several places and my shoes were already beginning to
crack. There were mirrors in the washroom and for the
first time, I got a good look at myself. I'd lost over forty
pounds and my suit clung to me like a burlap bag. I had
been too preoccupied in the scrutiny of myself to pay much
attention to the men about me. Now I saw that they too
were staring at themselves in the mirrors. The look of
comic horror on some of their faces was wonderful to be-
hold. The man behind me was tugging at his beard and
grimacing at himself as though seeking to establish his own
identity. I did not recognize him at first, and then as he
turned in my direction I saw that he was Yaroslavsky, a big,
blond Russian police captain with whom I had frequently


HONG KONG AFTERMATH ioi
the garden and we peered into it and found it half filled
with yellow water. An old-fashioned pulley apparatus for
lowering buckets into the well was at its side. For some rea-
son we were never able to fathom, great quantities of
broken glass lined one side of the garden. These glass frag-
ments were colored brown and bright blue and stretched
over an area twenty-five feet long. Separated from the gar-
den by a deep ditch, were the parade grounds. Both garden
and parade grounds were littered with torn papers. We
picked up some of these paper scraps and found them to
be prison records. Most of them were reports on prisoners,
showing a picture, fingerprints, personal data and a record
of their offenses.
Later we were to learn that many of the convicts im-
prisoned for minor offenses had been released by the Brit-
ish when the news of surrender came through. Others had
escaped during the days of the siege and still others, fre-
quently the worst members of the criminal community,
had been given their freedom by the Japanese when they
took over the prison. Some of these criminals had started a
crime wave in Stanley that endangered the lives of all of
the inhabitants. They seized hand grenades dropped by the
troops and revolvers from the bodies of dead soldiers and
broke into house after house in Stanley Village. They
robbed and looted houses and frequently killed those hardy
enough to resist them. Many of them found their way into
the town and started a reign of terror so great that Chinese
householders had to keep heavy bars across their doors
and plead with Japanese gendarmes to give them some pro-
tection against the marauding bands.
Above the parade ground on a low, sloping hill was an
old, old cemetery. Here vaults, nearly a hundred years old,
housed the young Englishmen, their wives and children


io2 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
who had first come out to shape the colony. We stopped to
read the inscription on a small, semicircular tomb. It read:
"Robert Timothy, infant son of Lieutenant Geoffrey Alan
Cardwell: Born May 10, 1844—Died July 28, 1845—Suffer
little children to come unto me." Above the grey, lined
stone, the heavy branch of a casuarina tree cast flickering
shadows. The slender trunk of the tree was gashed with
several bullets; another had chipped a flick of stone from
the tomb itself.
At the fear end of the cemetery were new piles of earth,
where many of our dead were buried. Dugojbovsky and
Yaroslavsky were working in the earth With shovels.
Thorpe and I turned away, we had looked too frequently
on death these last few days and wished, for a few hours, to
be free from it. We walked past the prison gates and onto
a small rocky peninsula that stuck a swollen finger into
the sea. Resolutely we turned our backs to the prison and,
finding seats on the rough stones, as near the ocean as the
barbed wire would permit us to go, we looked out over
the bright, shining water and the islands that glowed green
and purple in the distance. It was a magnificent sight. To
men confined for weeks to a blank and odorous room, it
gave a happiness beyond words.
Thorpe talked of his boyhood in Jamaica. He showed
me the old, white ramshackle house in the mountains, sur-
rounded by heavy tropical trees. The fields about the
house were bright with flowers. Along a shaded road, a
donkey moved slowly, coaxed forward by a colored boy.
Thick hands of bananas were roped to the donkey's back.
He blinked, flicked at the bothersome flies with his tail
and, when the Negro boy shouted too loudly at him,
stopped to look reprovingly at the youngster. Thorpe and
I climbed a mango tree together and plucked the warm


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 103
orange fruit. The seeds of a mango are covered with thick
yellow-orange fiber that cannot be removed. This fiber we
clipped into the semblance of hair, and we painted absurd
faces on the seeds. We walked barefoot into Kingston and
stopped at an old sponge market. The sponges, still wet
from the sea, formed great piles on a grey, weatherbeaten
wharf. We talked to a great, soft Negro mammy dressed in
a red print dress who proudly showed us her pickaninny,
naked save for the red kerchief she had tied about his head.
We borrowed bicycles and peddled out along the lush
countryside to a tumble-down shack where Dolpho, a
wrinkled old colored man, greeted us. We sprawled out on
steps made from packing cases and listened to Dolpho's
tales of Zombies, the spirits of dead Negroes whom he told
us still worked the sugar and jute mills. Dolpho's woman
brought us green cocoanuts with their tops sliced off and
we sipped the fresh, sweet, colorless fluid. When we were
about to leave, Dolpho brought us sticks which he had
carved into grotesque semblances of men. We peddled
back along the warm, twisted road. Thorpe's mother met
us at the door, trim and erect, dressed in stiff cambric, and
scolded us for wasting the day.
I shall probably never see Thorpe again but there are
few men whom I shall know so well or respect so pro-
foundly. He is a man of great simplicity, without pretense
or affectation. He has never had a well-paid or a secure job
in his life. But Thorpe is a great man—deep within him is
an unconquerable belief. If he dies in Stanley Prison
Camp, as I am afraid he will, that belief will not die. His
is the belief that honesty and courage, simplicity and gen-
tleness are the foundations of a man's life. No organized
force can take them away; they are his, a living part of him,
imperishable even in death.


io4 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
The sun was high in the sky when we resumed our tour
of the camp. We passed a one-story building, surrounded
by an iron grill fence. This was the lepresarium where
Hong Kong's occasional lepers had been segregated in or-
der that they might not infect the city. Men were busy
cleaning out the rooms and trying to disinfect them, for we
would need every inch of space. The largest buildings in
the compound were the warders' quarters. These were
white stucco buildings, most of which contained six apart-
ments. Each apartment was composed of two large and one
fair-sized room. Also there was a small kitchen, a servant's
room and an amah's pantry. Also a bath. These quarters
were on a dead-end road which was later to be dubbed
Roosevelt Avenue. Two of these large buildings with a
small one in between were at the far end of the road.
Opposite them was a string of half-open, concrete garages
and tennis courts■. Farther down this road was a large
block of these houses and at the other end of the road,
which was about the length of two city blocks, a warders'
clubhouse stood. This faced on the main road of the camp
with a side entrance on Roosevelt Avenue. In back of it
was a bowling green and more tennis courts. The whole
camp was built on a series of hills. Towering above the
warders' club was a steep formation of veined rock. A road
turned and twisted to its summit and there stood two small
houses. Originally these houses were intended for the chief
warder of the prison and the prison doctor. A bomb had
struck the doctor's house and crushed in one side. The
Japanese had assigned these two buildings to the officials,
traitorous Chinese, who were placed in charge of the camp.
Thorpe and I stopped in at the warders' club. It was in
great confusion. The wooden tiles had been partially
ripped up for firewood. Across a diminutive bar a price list


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 105
for wines and liquors still hung. Machine-gun bullets had
sprayed the sides of the building and fragments of glass
littered the floor. Bedding and baggage was piled willy-
nilly about the room. A sick man retched miserably in one
corner. In the center of the room, a neglected baby cried
fretfully. A frightened Siamese kitten glared out at us from
beneath the narrow aperture of a metal locker. We climbed
up another hill to the buildings of St. Stephen's College
and found the Malleys still in the science laboratory. Bad
news awaited us—Charles Dana had died while we were
away.
Charles Emerald Dana was the first to die in our camp.
There was a short funeral ceremony. Briefly we were told
the simple story of a man who had come many years ago to
Hong Kong, built a business based on personal integrity,
prospered, formed friendships with the Chinese, learned
their language, contributed generously to their charities,
and had finally retired, expecting to live his last days in
security and peace in the country which he loved. Instead
the Japanese had entered his home, forced him to kneel for
hours in a corner of his house, slapped him across the face
when he protested, harried him into a filthy brothel, de-
prived him of medicines and let him die like a pauper on a
bundle of blankets on a concrete floor.
Maude Dana stood stony-faced during this recital. Her
lips were a hard grey crease. The bones stuck out in her
sunken face. Then very slowly, deliberately, she said,
"They killed my Charlie." Then for a long time she hesi-
tated, this strange, strong, puritanical woman, seeking some
words deep enough to express her hate—"The Bastards."
Fedor Yaroslavsky found some white wood from a pack-
ing case and fashioned a cross. With black paint, found in


106 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
the warder's quarters, we painted in the name of Charles
Emerald Dana. We shaped another larger cross and placed
it on the grave of the three nurses who lay with Dr. Black,
beneath a large mound, next to Dana. We only knew their
last names. We blocked them in with care: Mrs. Begg, Mrs.
Smith, Mrs. Buxton.
There is a story that must be told. There can be no
evasion.
Stanley Peninsula is roughly bottle-shaped. It is joined
to the main part of the island by a narrow strip of land,
which is the neck of the bottle. A few days before Christ-
mas, the Japanese landed in Repulse Bay and cut off the
neck of the peninsula. Communication lines between the
main forces and the small garrison in Stanley were com-
pletely destroyed. Four hundred soldiers, mostly of the
First Battery, a unit comprised of volunteer soldiers from
Hong Kong, some Canadians and a few Indians were
trapped.
These men refused to surrender, feeling that their fire
would prevent the Japanese from massing in Repulse Bay
for an attack on the city and might delay such an attack
until the Chinese Army, reported to be closing in from
Yunan Province, could form contact with the British forces
and attack the Japs in the rear. When the city surrendered
on Christmas day, it was impossible to get word to the be-
leaguered force on Stanley Peninsula. These four hundred
men fought on with a mad, desperate courage against the
thousands of Japs who were hourly adding to their forces
as boatload after boatload of soldiers was ferried across
from the mainland.
The Japanese ordered a surrender. The men in Stanley
refused. A group of Jap soldiers approached bearing a


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 107
white flag. The volunteers suspected a trick. It would not
be the first time that the Japs had come up under the cover
of a white flag and then let loose with a machine-gun when
they got in range. An excited volunteer shot into the ap-
proaching group. The Japs retired at a run.
The siege turned into a massacre. The Japs were deter-
mined to kill every man in Stanley. For three days the lit-
tle band of volunteers fought on I Day after day, they held
off Japanese mass attacks, killings hundreds of the Sons of
God. Finally only one hundred and forty of the original
four hundred were left. After days of fighting against tre-
mendous odds, these 140 surrendered. Many of these men
were technicians, lorry drivers and others not engaged in
actual combat.
These men surrendered honorably after valiant fighting.
The Japs executed them.
The Japanese had previously broken into the Maryknoll
Mission, a brick building high on the hill overlooking
Repulse and Stanley Bays. They found the Catholic fa-
thers saying mass. They looted the buildings, profaned the
sacred shrines and herded the Catholic fathers together for
examination. They broke into the supply of canned goods
which the fathers had. They prodded open the cans with
their bayonets. They poured tinned milk into their mouths,
did not like the taste, spit it out, threw the cans on the
floor. Preserved fruits and vegetables met the same fate.
This was not fitting food for the Sons of God, accustomed
to rice, salted raw fish, native vegetables and buffalo meat.
One of the Catholic fathers wore khaki trousers beneath
his black priest's gown. A Japanese officer caught a glimpse
of the khaki and lifted the priest's skirts high. Ah, a soldier
in disguise! He chortled in glee at the cleverness of his
supposed discovery. Bayonets came into play. Carefully one


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 109
thrust bayonets ringed him in from every side. He stood
bewildered within the circle. A stout Jap soldier prodded
him with a bayonet. Wildly he started to run, seeking a
way through the ring of steel that bound him in. He im-
paled himself on a Jap bayonet. The thick blade passed
through the lower portion of the stomach. He drew back,
then, screaming, mad with pain, he again charged. An-
other bayonet sank into his flesh. Again and again, he
charged into bayonet points. Then he fell, writhing,
screaming. A Jap crashed a final bayonet into his heart.
One by one, the men were led into that fateful circle.
Some of them refused to run and these were bayoneted in
the back. One sought to break through the circle, saw the
solid ring of bayonets and stopped, just in time to escape
the blade thrust out at him, ran again, and again and each
time was stopped by an outthrust blade. Finally in despair
he ran directly, purposefully onto a bayonet. He gave one
shrill scream and fell at the feet of a diminutive soldier.
The Jap kicked loose his blood-stained bayonet.
An officer from the Volunteers walked calmly up to a
Jap soldier. He gauged the exact position of the bayonet
point and lunged forward. His death was mercifully quick.
It is a custom of the Japanese soldier to "blood" his
sword as frequently as possible. This means to draw human
blood from a living object. Along the China coast, they
had tied innocent Chinese captives to trees and run them
through with bayonets. Pictures of these acts were even dis-
tributed by their own propaganda units in the belief that
the world could be intimidated by their bestial cruelty.
So now men in English and Canadian uniforms were
used as living dummies for bayonet practice for these Japa-
nese soldiers. No effort was made to kill them quickly for
as many Japs as possible wished to blood their swords and


no HONG KONG AFTERMATH
thus become greater soldiers. The rocks concealed this
grisly sight from most of the priests, who waited expecting
that they would be led into the ring, but they heard our
men "screaming like stuck pigs," frenziedly seeking some
way out of that ring of death.
The three priests on the end of the line were actual eye-
witnesses of this mass murder. Father O'Shaughnessy, an
elderly priest whose red hair and beard was necked with
white, told'me the story. He was not one of the Maryknoll
fathers, but a visiting priest from Central China. Carefully
I checked over the story with other witnesses, and I have
told a story carefully substantiated by corroborative evi-
dence.
"Did not one single man get through that ring of bayo-
nets?" I asked Father O'Shaughnessy.
"Yes, just one."
"And what happened to him?"
"He was covered with blood from a great gash across his
side. He ran screaming down the hill past the row of
priests."
"And then?"
"He was followed by a Japanese soldier and bayoneted
in the back."
A boy from Minnesota died. His name was Richard Sava-
cool and he came from a small Minnesota town. I had
talked to him a few days before the siege in Hong Kong.
He had laughed and told me how he'd skipped across the
Canadian border in order to get into the scrap early. He
was a handsome youngster and he was, he told me, just
nineteen.
He'd been trapped on Stanley Peninsula and, when he
saw that surrender was imminent, he'd tried to swim to the


HONG KONG AFTERMATH m
main part of the island. A Japanese- machine-gun bullet
caught him in the shoulder and broke the bone, but some-
how he had managed to get to the shore. He clambered up
to the mission grounds and Father Ignatius had taken
him in.
Father Ignatius was able to lay out a mat for the semi-
conscious boy on the stone floor. Richard felt that he was
dying and asked that the last rites be said over him. As
Father Ignatius leaned over the boy, a Jap soldier passed
by with a bucket of boiling water to cleanse the wounds of
other Japanese soldiers.
"Please, won't you give me just a little of the hot water
to wash out this boy's wounds?" Father Ignatius had
pleaded.
The Japanese looked down scornfully at them. Then,
without a word of warning, he threw the scalding water
down over the priest and over the American boy.
During the next two days Richard's pain was so great
that he could not hold back the tortured screams. He lay,
biting the edge of the straw mat, moaning slightly, trying
to stifle his screams. Then he could stand it no longer and
he would scream and scream until, for a while, he would
lose consciousness.
When the Japs came to lead the other soldiers out for
execution, Richard was too weak to walk. So they bayo-
neted him as he lay on his straw mat on the stone floor.
He was the first to die.
But this was only the beginning of the Japanese slaughter.
They marched into Tweed Bay Hospital, which is within
the grounds of Stanley Prison. They claimed that there had
been snipers on the hospital grounds and when Dr. Black,
the doctor in charge, came to the doorway, dressed in a
white hospital coat, they bayoneted him.


112 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
They then claimed that some of the wounded men lying
on the hospital beds were faking their injuries.
They went through Tweed Bay Hospital and put a
bayonet through every bed. Men too weak to stand were
bayoneted in their beds.
The nurses were next. They were raped repeatedly.
And when the Japs had finished, they slashed the bodies
of the ravaged women to ribbons with their bayonets.
These are not propaganda stories.
I helped to shape the cross above these three volunteer
nurses.
They lie today in Stanley Cemetery.
I helped to bury the blood-stained mattresses and torn
and bloody cots we found in Tweed Bay Hospital.
There were many dead bodies lying within our barbed
wire entanglements. The Japanese had cared for their
own dead, had burned their bodies and built little shrines
in their memories. Our boys were permitted to lie as they
fell. The camp was soon dotted with the graves of our
dead. English, Eurasians, Canadians, Chinese, Scots, Rus-
sians, German Jews, Portuguese and Indians shared to-
gether these humble graves. Some of them were mere piles
of rock, with sticks on which were perched helmets to
mark them.
Others were marked simply: Private: Volunteer Guard:
Unidentified.
But just outside the barbed wire were more bodies. The
faces were clustered black with flies and the odor of putre-
fying flesh was sickening in the camp. Still the Japanese
would not let us cross the barbed wire in order that we
might bury our dead.
Each day a young English girl went down to the barbed
wire behind St. Stephen's College. Ten feet beyond the


Chapter VIII
The plans Thorpe, Dugojbovsky, Yaroslavsky and I had
made to room together were never fulfilled. The Japs gave
orders that the American, British and Dutch communities
should be segregated. Whether this was a deliberate plan
on the part of the Japanese to create ill will and national
prejudices among the internees, I do not know. Certainly
it was fertile grounds for quarrels. First the grossly over-
crowded area had to be split up in three parts. A man
called Jake Bayne represented the Americans in these ne-
gotiations. Bayne, as he afterward boasted openly, padded
the number of Americans coming into the camp and, by
so doing, secured more than a fair allotment of space for
our group. The Americans were given three buildings of
the warders' quarters and the warders' club.
Pearson, Clyron, Dobson and Murphy, I found together
in a small room on the ground floor of the far building of
the warders' quarters. Their blankets were stretched out
on the wooden floor and their possessions scattered wildly
about the room. Privacy was the greatest luxury of all and
I set out to see if I could find a place so small and so
objectionable that no one would wish to share it with me.
In the servants' quarters I found a narrow amah's pantry
about seven feet long and three and a half feet wide. A
bomb had hit directly outside. The one small window had
been smashed and the frame was a mangled mass of metal.
A large section of the wall had been blown away too and
the tiny room was piled high with concrete, glass and
broken metal. The door had been knocked askew and
hung limply on its broken frame. I set to work on this
U4


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 115
pantry and cleaned up enough space to lay down my
blankets. The floor was made of coarse cement and I
thought longingly of the relatively soft wooden floors in
the main section of the buildings, but was still determined
to build up some small space of privacy for myself if
possible.
The American section of the camp was organized quickly.
Jake Bayne was in charge. He had gathered about him the
roughest, toughest and most unscrupulous of the camp. The
China coast has always abounded in adventurers, young men
who go to China to build up a swift fortune through all the
devious channels, the strange chicanery, of the Orient.
Some make their fortunes quickly and return to America
to live in respectable ease; others are caught by the lure of
cheap liquor, becoming more and more dissolute and
finally ending up sometimes as waterfront bums, some-
times as wealthy members of the fantastic, corrupt society
of the coast.
These men, mostly young, and some strangely idealistic,
Jake Bayne gathered about him. Bayne himself was the
prototype of the Coast adventurer. He was about forty-
five, but looked much younger. He was tall, dark, hand-
some and a super-salesman. He had a wide grin, a strong
handclasp. He took you immediately into his confidence.
While he talked to you, you believed him even though you
had every concrete proof to indicate the falseness of what
he said. He caught your name immediately and used it
frequently. He appealed to all that was greedy and con-
ceited and evil in you and showed you that these faults
were really virtues. He assured you that you were just a bit
different from the rest of the crowd, you deserved a little
more, a little better treatment. He flattered and cajoled,
and pretty soon you and he shared a secret. You had


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 117
When I protested, he shook his head stubbornly and
looked away. He talked of cooperation, working with the
gang, the need for a strong leader. I pointed out that the
best rooms were being taken by the strongest men who
needed them least and that, in consequence, the sick, the
old, women and children were being unnecessarily crowded.
Scaley indicated his unwillingness to give up or share his
room. He was, he said, "playing the game."
Soon a group of young "bully boys" prowled the camp.
Many of them worked hard, building a kitchen, cleaning
the blasted building, transferring luggage, boiling water
and doing the many chores of the camp. They wore what
almost amounted to a uniform. A group of prison coats
had been found in the warders' quarter and these were
distributed to duly qualified members of the "work gangs."
The bases of the large shells used by the British in defend-
ing the city had been covered with khaki cloth protectors.
A large number of these were found in the prison and
were used as hats. Some of Bayne's men stood about in
surly fashion, mumbling at those who passed and threaten-
ing violence to those who did not join the gangs.
The Europeans of Hong Kong were being rounded up
slowly. Each day a new group of internees arrived by junks
or by truck. American work gangs met the incoming Amer-
icans and helped them with their luggage. The British
were not organized and did things haphazardly. I immedi-
ately joined the work gang meeting the junks. On my first
trip I found an elderly, white-haired English woman sit-
ting disconsolately on her luggage. She was very weak,
could hardly walk and had no idea where to go. Very
calmly she told me that her son was missing. She had
heard conflicting stories about Jim. The report of his death
had come to her, but since then she had met a man who


n8 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
told her that he had recognized Jim among the soldiers
marching down to surrender. She seemed half-dazed and
made no effort to find quarters for herself or help with her
heavy bags.
I hailed several of our work gang who were lounging
about the pier, smoking cigarettes. They refused to help.
"She's British. Let the British do it."
At length I found a young Eurasian boy named Roy
Lidgate who had a bamboo pole. We stuck the pole
through the luggage and started to scramble up the rutted
path to St. Stephen's. Mrs. Weatherell walked slowly with
us, grasping a package tied in sheets in her hand. The
"bully boys" looked on scornfully.
Roy was only fourteen and he was soon exhausted, and
I found that I had but little strength after my many bouts
of dysentery. We crawled up the hill, ten feet at a time.
Mrs. Malley saw us from he hill-top and she and the girls
helped us get the bags up the hill, and saw to it that some
kind of quarters were found for Mrs. Weatherell.
This is a disgraceful story but it is true. Young Ameri-
cans stood by idly, refusing aid to an elderly English wom-
an whose son was missing in the fight against our joint foe.
As the internees slowly assembled in the camp, we
heard news of our friends. I talked with the Vice-Chancellor
of Hong Kong University and found that he had been able
to talk for a few minutes with Rod Leslie. He had found
him well and in high spirits. Rod had been rejected for
military service at home, but out here he had been able to
do his bit and was happy about it. I also learned that
Tsacharoff had come through the fight unwounded.
But of others there was sadder news. Nathan Pearlman
was dead.


120 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
On the Friday before the siege he had come to my room.
He brought with him a gift. It was a book of poetry. "The
Assassins" by Frederic Prokosch.
"I wanted you to have this, Nick. It sounds a little silly,
but somehow it seems that something might happen to me.
I wanted that you should have some little thing of mine."
"But what could happen to you, Nat? Is something
wrong?"
"No, I guess it's just a silly idea of mine. But somehow,
I feel as though things were crowding in. Anyway, I want
you to have the book."
He walked across the room and wrote in the book. "To
my good friend, 'Nick' Wenzell Brown, from whom I
have learned much of the greatness of America. Nat Pearl-
man, Dec. 5, 1941."
That night we went to a cinema and saw Charles
Laughton play "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." During
the horrible whipping scene, Nat clutched my arm and
said, "Let's go."
We slipped out and through the faded Chinese streets.
We wandered deep into the Chinese section of Kowloon.
We stopped to listen in a doorway to the thin strains of a
Chinese lute; again we stopped to peer over the shoulder
of a man squatting in the street. Before him were spread
samples of his caligraphy and he was inviting the passersby
to hire him to write letters for them. A young peasant had
entered into a bargain with the old man. The bearded
savant undertook his letter. His brush formed sweeping,
complicated characters on thin, mutton-grey parchment.
At length, he finished and handed the paper to the young
man, who gave him a few pennies, bowed low before his
learning and passed into the crowd.
We turned in at one of the Chinese restaurants. We


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 121
ordered won-ton soup and bitter melon soaked in ginger
and talked until early morning. Nat was doing the things
now he had dreamed of doing all his life. He had always
loved the violin and played with a harsh, haunting qual-
ity. Now he was taking lessons and hoped to play really
well. He was taking art lessons and described with mock
seriousness his successes at drawing the cubic cat which is
the first obstacle of all beginners.
He had a good job with the Hong Kong Electric Com-
pany as statistician. For the first time in his life, he had
left poverty behind. The world opened broad and filled
with hope before him.
And now, a month later, I ask my informant how Nat
died.
"He was in a group trying to stop a Jap landing party.
There was hand to hand fighting. He died with a bayonet
through his body."
I learned too of the death of Simon Baraslovsky.
Simon Baraslovsky once told me how his uncle, Kle-
menti, during the first World War, had attacked single-
handed a German tank while he was armed only with a
broken bottle. He managed to wrench open one door, and
killed the gunner. His broad hands had to be pried loose
from the throat of the dead driver after a dozen bullets
ended his life. The Germans hanged Uncle Klementi to a
tree that it might serve as an example to frighten the
peasants of his little Russian village. That night young
Simon had joined the party which cut down Klementi's
body and buried it in a shallow grave. When they finished,
they set fire to the German staff headquarters. Simon's gun
had accounted for two officers as they fled from the flaming
building.


1258 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
This story Simon had told me over many glasses of
vodka and I had not bothered to believe or disbelieve.
But I know how Simon died.
On last Christmas eve he was standing with two sentries
on a little mountain path just east of Lyamoon Pass. The
bay beneath them was jet black. Shells whistled across the
harbor, landed with shuddering impact against the side of
the looming Peak. The Japanese had landed on Hong
Kong Island. From time to time hoarse screams rent the
night. British sentries were being strangled by the crawl-
ing marauders. The Japs had broken up in little groups
and were combing the island. The guttural commands of
Japanese officers came in muffled echoes to the ears of the
three men watching the entrance to the Pass.
Far below them they heard the dull sounds of oars
straining at rusted oar-locks, water lapping against the side
of a junk, the murmur of harsh voices. A flare lit the sky
and in its momentary brightness they saw a tiny high-
sterned junk and twenty men swarming from its sides into
the churning water.
"Get them before they scatter." And before he had fin-
ished the words, Simon was leaping down the hill. One
man rushing to meet twenty. His bayonet sank deep into
the stomach of the Jap leader. He was shouting, screaming,
cursing in Russian, The confused Japs broke, running
across the rocky beach. British guns barked from the hill-
side. A half dozen of the ragged, barefooted men fell.
Simon's bayonet brought down three. A bullet caught
Simon in the back but as he fell, he pulled down with him
a frightened Jap soldier. When the British came to mop up
this shattered group of invaders, they found the little Jap
still alive, pinned beneath Simon's hulking body.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 123
During this period I learned of the release of Jan Henrik
Marsman. Marsman's story is ironic. Nothing could have
done more to break the morale of the Crown Colony than
the disclosures brought about through the investigation of
the tunnels Marsman had built. The tortuous manipula-
tions of contracts and sub-contracts, the suicide of one
government official and the attempted suicide of another,
the sight of the crumbling tunnels and the final failure of
the courts to act, save for the indictment of a single scape-
goat Chinese, filled Hong Kong with bitterness and un-
easiness. Marsman, the mysterious Dutch-American-Fili-
pino, stood for many in Hong Kong as the very incarnation
of evil. Many and frightful were the tales which sur-
rounded him.
Marsman had been imprisoned for a few days in the
Kowloon Hotel on the mainland. But he was not brought
with the others to the prison camp. He was "forgotten."
The Japs had curious habits of forgetting, not seeing, and
making mistakes.
The camp began to settle down into a humdrum exist-
ence. The trickle of new internees filtering into the camp
became less each day. A few in the camp, through judicious
bribery, had managed to get entire truckloads of goods in.
Archie Lee, who had come out with us from the South
Asia Hotel, was now installed as warder of the American
quarters. Many a bank-note slipped into Archie's hands
and strange orders were issued whereby six or eight peo-
ple were crowded into a small room, while other rooms of
the same size were occupied by a single couple.
The Red Cross officials were interned with the rest of
us. One truckload of Red Cross goods, however, was per-
mitted in the camp. Bayne got hold of this truck and had
all the goods transferred to a room which thereafter was


124 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
kept locked, with the statement that it was being reserved
for a group of young Americans who were driving trucks
for the Japanese. Hospital supplies, cots and even many
cans of milk for the children in the camp were appropri-
ated by Bayne.
I saw the unloading of these goods and asked Dr. Hicks
for an explanation. Red Cross markings were plain on the
boxes. Smirkingly Hicks told me to mind my own busi-
ness. I told Dobson the story and he disappeared, return-
ing shortly with three cots, one for himself, one for Mur-
phy and one for Pearson. He assured me I had been
mistaken.
Clyron too had managed to secure a cot of sorts. It was
nearly five feet high and about two and one-half feet wide.
It was composed of two hard round slats and a piece of
limp, grey canvas. Clyron was crowded up against the door
of the room which opened and closed a perilous fraction
of an inch from his head. He lay on this strange contrap-
tion looking like a stiff in a morgue. His yellow hair had
grown long and he had lost a great deal of weight. He had
always been extremely thin but now his clothes napped
about him grotesquely.
The first days of the camp were marked with consider-
able freedom. The neck of the peninsula was cut off by
guards, but the barbed wire entanglements were not com-
plete and we had a considerable area in which to walk.
"Scrounging" became the most used word in the camp. To
scrounge was to get possession of some object—by any
means possible. All of one's possessions had to be guarded
with the utmost care. Objects ordinarily of little worth
now became prizes worth fighting for bitterly. Garbage
cans, ash heaps, dumps and ditches were thoroughly


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 125
searched. A millionaire business man and a university pro-
fessor picked over a refuse pile. Both were bearded and
dressed in ragged clothes. An old shoe turned up. It had a
great hole in the sole and no heel, but it contained a
serviceable piece of leather. These two dignified men quar-
relled, screamed and shouted at each other, bitterly de-
nounced each other as thieves, nearly came to blows in the
acrimonious dispute over the old shoe. Then the profes-
sor's sense of humour came to his help and he burst into
laughter. The business man joined. They shook hands and
apologized. The shoe was carefully divided and there was
enough for each of them to do a repair job. One man had
two children in the camp; the other a sick wife. The in-
stinct to fight for the members of one's family temporarily
blotted out all the civilizing influences of the centuries.
Milene and I found a hidden footpath leading down the
sharp slope, across jagged rocks, to where a brown stream
flowed into the sea. Here was a hut made of branches and
covered with grass and leaves, scarcely visible from the
road above. An old Chinese tottered out to us and Milene
asked him in Cantonese for food. He took us out into a
garden by the river bank and pulled up half a dozen heads
of choy. He had a few chickens too and gave us two small
eggs. We had no money, but Milene pressed a jade li upon
him. He would not accept.
Mrs. Malley gathered together the neediest of our group
that night and we feasted on soup. Several bovril cubes
and a garlic gave the soup flavor. Thorpe found a broken
school desk and we smashed this up to build a fire. We sat
about on the concrete floor of the Malleys' tiny room and
sipped the scalding brew.
This group of people—Thorpe, Bancroft, the Malleys,


126 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
i
Mrs. Dana, Smart, Dugojbovsky—had become a part of me.
I felt inordinately proud of their acceptance. I think I
have never been more happy. For here in the midst of cor-
ruption, filth and greed, I had found people completely
unsullied, but rather strengthened and purified through
personal sacrifice.
There is a legend in China that he who plays upon a
jade flute can conjure up wondrous scenes that appear in
light, filmy mists that fade with the last note of music.
The palaces of the emperors, groves of cherry blossoms,
gently swaying willows, horses galloping silently through
the peaceful countryside, tumbling rivers and mountains
capped with snow, pink-tinted from the setting sun, ap-
pear and disappear as moving shadows.
In Bancroft's gentle voice were many of the magical
qualities of the jade flute. Bancroft had thrown aside his
fear and shyness and confusion. The little glow of warmth
that always arose within him when he observed life's ab-
surdities had grown into a strong, rich flame.


Chapter IX
Hunger is a dreadful thing—a torture worse than the most
violent of physical pain. Its horror lies in the way in which
it twists and distorts a human. He who has not known
hunger can never be sure of how he will react to it. Hun-
ger's degenerating forces beat deep into our American
community.
We lost, not our morale, but all of our moral values.
We placed material needs far above those of the spirit.
We sold out to things which we knew deep in our hearts
were wrong.
This American community was a fair sampling of Amer-
ica. As a group we were better educated and had received
greater social opportunities than the average American.
All of us had travelled, at least from our homes to China.
Most of us had travelled widely.
At least half of our men were university graduates. At
least a dozen held Doctor of Philosophy degrees. Most of
the large universities were represented. Columbia, I think,
headed the list. Stanford, University of California, Yale,
Harvard, George Washington, Oberlin, Pomona, Lehigh,
University of Pennsylvania, Chicago, Duke and other uni-
versities and colleges throughout the country had gradu-
ates in the camp. The small colleges were well represented
too, especially among the missionary group.
As a group the average moral stamina was higher than
it would be in a casual selection from the entire American
nation. Many had endured great physical hardships in the
past. Many, especially among the missionaries, had led lives
necessitating tremendous personal sacrifices.
i«7


ia8 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
The community included many occupational variations.
We had among us salesmen, accountants, merchants, sail-
ors, teachers, preachers, two dentists and a doctor, mission-
aries, government officials, panhandlers and prostitutes.
And we sold out our birthright of democracy. Tempo-
rarily we voluntarily submitted to a type of vicious tyranny
which seemed to help us secure material benefits.
How we did so is important.
For here is an indication that if America is ever faced
with hardships—ith famine, with military defeats, with
physical suffering—she too may sell out.
The war ahead of us is a long one. Our sacrifices in
men, money and materials may be tremendous. Will we
then sell our ideals—the principles of democracy—to avoid
further losses? We must see the danger that faces us.
"Expediency!"
In this war, as a nation, we have already set aside our
beliefs and, in the name of expediency, dealt with the
Vichy Fascists in Africa.
What if after a long and bitter struggle, Japan offers a
negotiated peace? Will we be strong enough to assume for
ourselves the burden of annihilating the forces of world
conquest or will we temporize and hand that burden on to
another generation?
With this in mind, I tell the story of trickery and of
petty dictatorship that sprang up in Stanley Prison Camp.
At the outset, I wish to make it clear that our lapse from
morality was a temporary one. But, by the time we had
found ourselves as a community, so much damage had
been done that the effort to crawl back to a decent self-
government was long and arduous and left many heart-
breaks behind it. I am truly sorry that our repatriation
came as quickly as it did. For a rennaissance of democratic


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 129
spirit came about in that camp. In another two months
many of us would have been able to look back upon the
camp and ourselves with pride and a complete mastery and
redemption for our original mistakes of government.
The Japanese empowered us to select our own repre-
sentatives and to establish a self-governing unit within the
camp. When I came into the camp, Jake Bayne had al-
ready set himself up as acting chairman. Work gangs had
been organized. Rooms had been allotted to favorites. You
had to be with Bayne or against him.
After two weeks a meeting of the whole community was
held. Bayne, who had not yet been elected to any post,
cited his own accomplishments and stated bluntly what he
intended to do in the future. Primary among his accom-
plishments was that he had secured a more than fair allot-
ment of space for us and also more than a fair proportion
of the food which came into the camp. This was accom-
plished through misrepresentation of our numbers. This
was done partially by including the names of American
truck drivers and bank employees who were never in-
terned. Now there was only a certain amount of space
available and only a limited quantity of food. Thus by
securing more than our share, we deprived the British of
a portion of theirs. Bayne boasted openly of his deceit in
the matter. No American in the camp raised his voice in
protest.
Bayne continued with the statement, "There will be no
idlers or sluggards in this camp. If there are, we will find
methods both of mind and muscle for dealing with them."
The threat of physical violence was unmistakable. Bayne,
not yet elected to any post, was threatening violence against
his fellow Americans.
I protested and asked that this part of Bayne's report be


130 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
read over. When questioned directly, Bayne admitted the
threat of violence. There could be no mistake on the part
of the community on either issue. Here we had a petty dic-
tator, annexing territory which did not belong to the com-
munity, using violence to establish his position.
Nominations for chairman of the camp were thrown
open. Bayne's name was put up, seconded and the nomi-
nations almost instantly closed. A call of hands was asked
for. Those in favor—the community responded as one.
Those opposed—one hand went up. I report with quite
sincere pride that it was my own.
I protested the quick closing of the nominations. It was
then suggested that I put up a nominee. I could find no
man willing to run against Bayne. At length, as a joke, my
own name was put up. Again the votes were run off.
Bayne's victory was, to say the least, overwhelming. I se-
cured one vote—Bayne's.
This may appear a petty recital. It is not. A tremendous
proportion of the suffering endured in Stanley Prison
Camp was caused by our own greed, our failure to share
and our willingness to submit to petty dishonesties. Within
a few weeks, the camp was split wide with dissension. And
the retaliation taken upon me personally was both brutal
and contemptible.
I had hardly returned to my room when Dr. Alexander
Hicks appeared at my door. With him was the most be-
draggled, filthy and odorous human I have ever encoun-
tered. He was the waterfront bum who for months before
the siege of Hong Kong had hung about the Star Ferry
entrance panhandling coins from passersby and who had
once appeared in the free food lines which I was watching
at Central Market during the siege.
"Professor Brown," Dr. Hicks said, smiling broadly, "I


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 131
have brought you a congenial companion to share your
room. May I present a Southern gentleman, Mr. Virginius
Carroll."
Carroll stood shifting his weight from one foot to the
other and looking at the floor.
I showed Hicks my pantry still half-filled with frag-
ments of cement too heavy for me to move, blankets hud-
dled in one corner, the complete absence of furniture. I
mentioned the names of men who had similar pantries
alone which were well furnished and intact.
Curtly Hicks snapped, "You can sleep with Butsy here—
or sleep outside." He strode away.
That night a heavy storm blew up. The wind lashed the
building. Torrents of rain swept into the hole torn in the
side of the room. Butsy and I huddled together in a corner.
We twisted and squirmed trying vainly to find a dry spot.
Soon our blankets were completely soaked. The cold water
penetrated our clothes. At length I gave up in despair and
shivering and sniffling, I got up and went outdoors deter-
mined to walk the night out.
A candle shone brightly from a window in a far part of
the building. I went over and peered in. Bayne, the phoney
"Judge" Briscoe, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings, and Hicks sat
about a table. A pot full of coffee was before them, cheese
and tinned meat. A half-filled whiskey bottle was on the
table too. That day I had eaten two ladles of glutinous rice.
I had not tasted coffee since the day of the attack on Hong
Kong. I did not taste cheese or milk or any of the foods on
Bayne's table, nor did I smoke a cigarette or touch any
liquor for a period of six months—neither did most of the
camp's internees. Yet never was there a time when this one
group did not have all they wanted.
Hicks saw me staring in the window and smiled and


132 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
waved at me mockingly. The next day Bayne and his cor-
tege moved to the top floor. It took six men several hours
to move the food supplies up the two flights of stairs. They
used the back steps and moved quietly. Afterwards they
were more discreet in their midnight parties.
Each night the Americans stood guard over their quar-
ters. We worked in two-hour shifts of two men each. Japa-
nese soldiers occasionally wandered drunkenly through the
camp and made this precaution essential. The rainy season
had set in early and the nights were bitter cold. The men
standing watch were volunteers and each had a shift every
third night.
Murphy loaned me his heavy red and white striped bath-
robe to wear, as I had no coat. The two hours slipped by
slowly. But these night shifts were not without their re-
compense. The turbulent darkness bound the two watchers
together in a secluded intimacy. The men with whom I
stood duty soon talked of themselves, their desires and am-
bitions, their homes, their childhoods. They cast aside their
hard shells and talked freely of fears or tenderness.
A hard-bitten business man, seemingly callous, almost
brutal, talked to me one night of his little boy. He brought
out a photograph which he carried in a silver locket about
his neck. He lighted a precious match in order that I might
see the picture, though matches sold on the black market,
on such rare occasions as they were available, for twenty
cents apiece. The flickering light showed me a rather ordi-
nary eight-year-old boy. The father's voice was clogged
with emotion as he talked.
The boy and his mother were in Manila where they had
gone for safety's sake. "If anything happens to that boy, I
swear I'll kill every Jap I can lay my hands on. I swear it. I


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 133
swear it. There'll be no peace for me; I'll live the rest of
my life to kill." He sat down hard on a concrete block.
Sobs racked his body, he buried his face in his hands and
began to cry.
I walked away, went to the picket fence that looked
down on the prison. The Japanese officers were having one
of their frequent parties within the prison walls. The thin
monotonous wail of Oriental music was punctuated with
voices, coarse with drink. The laughter of the flower girls
tinkled through the brooding night. Moans, a blow, a
scream, a rifle shot blended into the pattern of debauchery
below.
When I returned to where I had left Mr. Bluelick, he
was gone. The next day he spoke to me in his old surly,
profane fashion. The barrier between us was never again
broken down.
Two men, I came to know well during these lonely
nights. One was Mike Shakhty, the wild, neurotic young
murderer whom I had first seen in the police station in
Kowloon the night before the Jap attack on Hong Kong.
The other was a young seaman, Pasquale Cordone. Pat was
tall, dark, lean, intense. His young face was set in rigid
lines. His background was the slums of Brooklyn, the
Frisco waterfront, reform school, prison, ships' galleys,
brothels, the tough gambling dens and bars of nearly every
port in the world. He could read only a few words and
with great difficulty. He was confused, bitter, rebellious,
yet his mind had a whip-like quality of directness. His code
was simple: "Most guys is bastards. I gotta cheat and lie
and steal with 'em; they do the same with me. It's me or
them—so I gotta see to it that it's me. I gotta get what's
comin' to me. But there's a few good guys in the world—


134 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
real swell guys. You don't never take nuttin' from them.
You share what you got." Then looking away, "As far as
I'm concerned, you're one of the swell guys, doc. You know
I ain't got nuttin', but, Jeez, I got a plan. I guess I better
not tell you about it now."
It was during one of these midnight shifts that Mike
Shakhty told me the story of the earliest and most vivid
memory of his childhood.
Sleet and hail swirled down upon the gray frame houses
of the little Russian mining town. The night was filled
with angry sound—the biting, whistling wind, a horse
neighing, complaining bitterly of the miserable cold. Mike
stood at the window and pressed his face against the cold
pane. The houses outside were gaunt and gray and seemed
to waver against the solid torrent of sleet that beat upon
them. Two dull square eyes of yellow light stared lopsid-
edly from the house opposite. A shapeless figure bent al-
most double by the storm crept across the street.
In the room beyond he could hear his mother's voice
slurred and sullen with drink. A glass clinked against an-
other. Korasov's voice, loud, boastful, "My dear Kate, we
drink to tomorrow."
A bottle clattered to the floor and broke. His mother's
gurgling laughter, the sound of scuffling feet and rough
embrace. Fear passed its fingers over Mike; he ran across
the room and jumped into the vast bed. He sunk his head
deep into the pillow, face downward and pulled the rough
blankets close about him.
The door banged open and Dmitri Korasov's hulking
figure filled the doorway.
"Mikhail, come on out here and say your piece."
Mike pretended to be asleep.
"Come on out here, you little bastard."


136 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
words rang out across the dingy room, clear and defiant.
Some mysterious, throbbing note entered into them and
gave them a ring of deep sincerity.
When he stopped, the room was quiet. The mother sat as
though stupefied with drink. Korasov spoke first.
"Didn't I tell you what a dirty little swine you popped,
Kate?" He crossed the room to Mike, ham-like fists swing-
ing at his side. He spread his hand against the boy's small
chest and pushed him hard against the wall. "You bloody
little bastard, I've a mind to beat your brains out."
"Dmitri." Kate's voice was still slurred, soft. But sharp
metal rang below its covering. "Leave the boy alone."
Then to Mike, "Mikhail, go back to bed."
The boy ran across the room. The white cotton night-
shirt pulled up against his thin shanks. He sidled through
the door keeping as far away as possible from Korasov.
Again he was in the vast bed with his face sunk into the
pillow. His emaciated body jerked with his sobs.
When he awoke, his mother lay beside him. He was cold
and he crept close to her, placed his face against her
breasts. She turned in her sleep, put an arm about him. He
felt her warm, liquor-laden breath against his face and
stirred restlessly. She pushed him aside roughly, rolled over
on her side.
The hall was filled with red. Red banners draped the
balcony, hung in red folds nearly to the floor. Red cloth
embraced the judges' stands. Red was on the walls, across
the chairs, even on the microphones. And clustered thick
on the red banners were the symbols of the Soviet, the
hammer and the sickle, spots of bright yellow on the bright
red background.
Three judges sat on their bright red daises and below on


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 137
a bare wooden stand, only slightly elevated, stood three
men, charged with the deadliest of Russia's sins—sabotage!
Boris Orshenko, gray-bearded, dignified, a former profes-
sor of chemical engineering in Moscow, stood at the right.
Strong, slender hands plucked at the cloth above his heart.
His voice was clipped, decisive, quiet as he denied the alle-
gations brought against him.
At the left a tawny giant of a man stood. He was six
foot five, heavy shouldered, of terrific strength. The wide
face, the heavy cheek-bones, the thick yellow hair, the
broad, flat nose with its flaring nostrils, the thick lips and
almost colorless eyes, all gave the impression of an imbecile
mind. When questioned, he spoke with a flat voice, stum-
bling for words, repeating meaningless phrases, gulping,
stammering. "I—I do not understand. Wha—what is it you
ask? I—I know nothing—know nothing. Please, please to
not ask"
And between these two men stood a third, dark, slight,
nondescript. Twitching muscles tugged at his face. For not
a single moment was he completely still, he peered near-
sightedly through the crowded hall. He moved his hands
from his coat, to the rails, into his pockets, tugged again at
his coat. He coughed, choked, wiped a fleck of blood and
spittle from the corner of his lips, peered again into the
crowd.
In the balcony, he found that for which he searched, his
great blond wife and the slight, small-featured dark boy
who was his son. His eyes lit with pleasure when he dis-
covered them and his hand spread upward a few inches in
a sign of greeting. But the woman's eyes turned away, star-
ing straight at the prosecutor, Korasov. The boy gazed
down at his shoes. His little hands were clenched at his
side, and, like his father's, his face twitched spasmodically.


138 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
The trial of the alleged saboteurs had been thrown open
to the public and the great hall was crowded. A gala spirit
pervaded the crowd. Red paper ribbon was tossed about,
sweets were eaten and frequently loud voices rose above
those of the principals. The court had to be repeatedly
brought to order. Loud speakers made a bursting din of
the prosecutor's attack upon these men, and the sound of
his voice carried far out into the streets which were massed
with listeners. The trial was broadcast from one end of
Russia to the other, that all might know and fear the pen-
alty imposed upon those who opposed the system.
Now Korasov stopped his wild harangue and called the
boy's name. Kate took his hand and led him through the
gaping crowd and up to the prosecutor's stand and through
a wooden gate and left him there—alone.
Korasov towered above him. There was no snarl in
Korasov's voice now. It was pitched low, diffident and
friendly.
"Did you ever hear your father speak against the Soviet
Union?"
"Yes."
"Did he tell you that sweeping changes must be made?"
"Yes."
"Was Professor Orshenko a frequent caller at your
house?"
"Yes."
"And did he bring many of these little white pamphlets
with him?"
"Yes."
"And have you anything to say to the court?" As Kora-
sov spoke he moved the microphone near the boy.
Now it had come—the thing that he must do. He braced


140 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
are guilty. We stand united in our guilt. We have plotted
against the Soviet Union—not through hate, but through
love. We have plotted to overthrow that which is corrupt
and weak and cruel. We could not rest while a single flaw
remained—we must have—perfection.
"We seek no clemency. We wish to die. We would look
with contempt and loathing upon men weak enough to
spare us. For we are enemies of the Soviet as she now
stands. All idealists are enemies of the materialist world.
And men who have ideals must die for them, for ideals are
dangerous things. They arouse discontent—and they de-
stroy. Russia cannot, shall not be destroyed.
"And you, my former son, for you have now renounced
me, keep the name which you have chosen. But there may
come a time in weakness, in fear or in despair when your
new name is too great. You may want back the name which
I have given you—the name that stands for disgrace. If you
are ever in trouble, it will be a comforting name, for no
greater disgrace can come to it than that which I have
brought."
Mike stopped abruptly in his story. In the pitch black-
ness of the cloud-filled night. I could see only a dim
shadow before me.
"That couldn't be the famous Shakhty trial."
"No—it was not the Shakhty trial."
"But—your name."
"Oh, I've taken many names—the names of Russian cities
—Bryansk, Kuibeshev, Shakhty—others."
"And your real name."
"I have none."
We walked a few steps in silence. "I guess you wonder
why I told you this."
"Yes, why?"


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 141
"Because you're like my father—more like him than any-
one I ever met. You were down there battling with Bayne
—for ideals. And the people down there were wondering
what it's all about—talking about ideals when they're hun-
gry. Bayne promised them food. They think maybe he's
clever enough and crooked enough to get it from them. You
come along and talk about ideals and principles of democ-
racy. My father was a fool and you're one, but do you
think—do you think—that my father would mind, if I took
back his name?"
"I don't know. What is the name?"
Again there was silence. "I—I won't tell you."
"That's all right. You know, Mike, you've done some-
thing very fine for me tonight. You've taken me away from
here. I wasn't in prison tonight. I was clear away in Russia.
You have to leave here sometimes. I'm deeply grateful,
really."
"Do you really want to know the name?"
"No, not yet."


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 143
come weak and she wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. The
wrinkled, pouchy face had some kinship with Miss Farri-
gate's. One was the face of an aged, perplexed and rather
pious monkey; the other was that of a sly, mischief-making
and worldly ape.
No one had ever been rolled in Lucy's place. It had been
a haven for those who were drunk or feared publicity.
British officials now dressed in ragged shorts and patched
shoes walked with their bedraggled wives along Roosevelt
Avenue in the early evening and fearfully avoided meeting
Lucy's eyes. But they need not have feared. Lucy played a
straight game, and I have seen her introduced by an inno-
cent wife to a husband who had been a frequent caller at
her establishment. She leaned forward, peering nearsight-
edly at the embarrassed gentleman and then in stilted, un-
recognized mimicry of the English lady: "Oh, I'm so glad
to meet you, Mr. Hormell. Are you a newcomer to the
colony?"
Despite the appearance of incompatibility, Miss Farri-
gate and Lucy had a strange affection for each other.
"Sometimes, you know, I think," I have heard the little
missionary stammer, "that perhaps Miss Reynolds is not
quite—well—quite a lady, but really she has a heart of gold
—she really has, you know." And Lucy Reynolds' coarse,
strident, choking voice could be heard talking to a group
of amused men of the camp about Miss Farrigate. "You
should see her, boys, she wears a flannel nightie—you
wouldn't believe they still existed. And every night she
gets down on the cement floor and says her prayers. She
sticks her skinny little rump right against my face. The
other night I stuck a hairpin into her, I did, and then
says 'Excuse me,' real nice. She gives a little jump and
squeals and goes right on saying her prayer and when she


i44 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
finishes she turns to me and says 'Jesus' name be praised.'
'O.K.,' I says, 'but keep your goddam fanny out of my
face or next time I'll pour a glass of water over it.'"
Yet the two women could be seen often passing through
the camp together arm in arm and when either managed
to secure a little extra food via the black market or other
devious means they shared it on equal terms. And when
poor Miss Farrigate finally became ill, Lucy Reynolds sat
up beside her each night, collected her rice and spoonfuls
of buffalo meat for her and performed the arduous task
of re-cooking the pasty rice until it was brown and dry.
Perhaps the unity of Miss Farrigate and Lucy Reynolds
could be ascribed to their common foe—Vera Van Sciver.
Vera, to quote Dr. Pearson, was "one of those great big
bouncing girls, who sports a lorgnette and lots of pearls."
Madame Van Sciver, as Vera liked to be called, had ar-
rived in camp with an assortment of silk dresses all of the
same style. They were in baby tints—baby pink, baby blue
and baby purple. She definitely preferred the baby purple.
They were knee length and all were provided with flowing
capes.
Madame Van Sciver had been quite a figure in pre-war
Hong Kong. She could be seen almost any day being
wheeled at a desperate pace down Kowloon's Nathan Road.
The ricksha coolie sweated and grunted under her tre-
mendous weight and the purple cape billowed out and
back.
Vera's avoirdupois was unevenly distributed. Her head
was covered with myriads of tight, yellow curls. Her cheeks
were sleek and pink. The lower jaw bone receded and was
replaced by a roll of fat which was the first in a long line
of chins. The breasts jutted out in a spectacular fashion,
the nipples plainly visible against the thin silk. But from


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 145
the breasts down, Vera was beautifully formed. Hips and
tummy were in a straight line and the silk-stockinged legs
were long and slender and of lovely shape.
Madame Van Sciver looked the part of the dowager
duchess as she breezed through the camp, appearing calm
and haughty. She passed the bedraggled wives of Hong
Kong's taipans and smiled down upon them condescend-
ingly. In some unknown fashion she managed to keep the
pastel-shaded gowns spotless. She would bear down upon
some sorry little group like a great pink-purple cloud and
drift on down Roosevelt Avenue with the eyes of all upon
her.
Madame Van Sciver was possessed of a paralyzed lung
which had a strange effect upon her speech. Whenever she
wished to say anything, that wish was first expressed in a
series of gurgles and sputters. The series of chins became
convulsed and bounced agonizingly and finally the voice
came out, thin and reedy—a few words at a time and then
another spasm of convulsive sounds.
I must admit to a perverse delight in introducing Mad-
ame Van Sciver to my acquaintances. Most of them stood
in startled awe as I bore down upon them with the im-
pressive Vera at my side. It was not evident at first that the
rich string of pearls, the pendant earrings, the pearl brace-
lets and the gigantic diamond ring which she wore, were
all phonies.
"Mrs. Van Sciver," I intoned solemnly. "May I present
Professor Dobson. Professor Dobson—Mrs. Archibald Van
Sciver."
The easily impressed Dobson, bobbed and grinned and
ducked. From Vera's cavernous bosom, the sounds of
strangulation began. Gurgles and blurps followed. Then,
"How do you do," and Vera relapsed into impenetrable


146 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
silence—one heavily bejewelled hand was extended to Dob-
son.
I could swear that Madame Van Sciver enjoyed these
encounters as much as I did. I suspected a highly intelli-
gent woman beneath that soft and silly exterior. Once in
the early, pale evening light, I sat beside her and slowly
disentangled the jumbled, half-remembered ends of a mag-
nificent poem of Alexander Blok. And when I had fin-
ished, Vera Van Sciver leaned over and kissed me.
Virginius Carroll earned the nickname of "Butsy" dur-
ing the first few days in the camp. It was he who first
instituted the custom of following behind the Japanese
soldiers in order to pick up their butts when they were
thrown away. This idea did not originate with Butsy, for
dealing in discarded cigarette butts has long been a recog-
nized business in China. Ragged Chinese roamed the
streets of pre-war Hong Kong assiduously collecting butts
and storing them in stained paper bags. When a bagful
had been gathered it was taken to a cigarette maker and
sold for a penny. This tobacco was used again in making
cigarettes which sold on Chinese stands at three or four
for a penny.
A few men got large stores of tobacco in the camp; others
got a few packages, which soon were gone. To many the
loss of tobacco was as great a privation as our very scanty
diet. Except for Bayne and Hicks and their group, who
were bountifully supplied, most of the camp surrepti-
tiously pocketed their butts and re-rolled them with toilet
paper, providing any of the latter was available. But Butsy
knew none of society's taboos. First he combed the camp
for stray butts and secured, by some unknown means, the
cooperation of half a dozen small boys. These butts were


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 147
kept in a tin can in our cubby hole and their odor min-
gled unpleasantly with the many other unpleasant odors of
the place.
This means of supply, however, was soon exhausted. Any
smoker in the camp would be followed by a lurking, sham-
bling figure and the moment the butt was thrown away,
Carroll pounced upon it. From time to time cigarettes
were smuggled into the camp by Chinese or Indian guards.
These were the cheapest brands in China—See-Saws, Globes,
Golden Dragons, My Dears and even those from Hong
Kong's second-hand market, most of which were nameless.
Cigarettes were the easiest things to smuggle and tremen-
dous prices were asked for them. See-Saws, for example,
sold for ten cents a pack of twenty in ordinary times; now
four dollars was considered a bargain price.
Gradually the taboos against diving for cigarette butts
were withdrawn and Butsy had hundreds of competitors.
I have seen women who had been my gracious hostesses in
their homes on the Peak, who had served the most elabo-
rate of meals, fighting grimly for possession of a wasted
cigarette end. The Jap soldiers delighted in smoking in
our presence and observing Englishmen and Americans
watching the curling smoke like hungry dogs eyeing a
meaty bone. A soldier would throw away a half-burned
cigarette contemptuously. The watching men would be
torn between pride and greed, and finally one would step
forward furtively and slip the long end into his pocket.
Many tobacco substitutes were tried in the camp. Pine
needles was the most common and the least unsatisfactory,
especially if a small amount of tobacco from a discarded
end could be added to the crushed needles. Others tried
dried alfalfa of which a small quantity grew wild near the
prison gates. Still others preferred dried grass or ground


148 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
bark, and one of my acquaintances went in for dried hibis-
cus blossoms. I have heard many a lengthy discussion on
the relative merits of pine needles and alfalfa for smoking.
The question of paper for rolling cigarettes was another
great problem. The few men who were fortunate enough
to have brought pipes to the camp looked with condescen-
sion upon those who clipped old newspapers in which to
roll their favored concoction. I have heard, too, a man re-
ceive an unforgettable tongue lashing from an irate wife
who objected to his using the much-needed supply of toilet
tissue for the luxury of smoking.
For a bed I had secured an old and rusted metal frame
that had been thrown out from the prison. The frame had
no spring or mattress, but branches from trees could be
laid upon it and my blankets upon them and I was, at
least, off the floor, which was frequently wet. Butsy had
thrown his piles of blankets and canvas on top of the
debris. I had secured an old packing case on which to sit,
but this mysteriously disappeared and on that same day,
Butsy came into the possession of two whole cigarettes.
One by one my few belongings went the way of the
packing case so that I found it advisable to carry my razor,
blades and shaving brush with me at all times. My treas-
ured tin can in which I collected my rice was gone one day,
and so my spoon, the only utensil I had for eating, joined
my shaving equipment in my pocket. The next tin can
which I procured was carefully stowed under Clyron's cot
in another room and I went running for it each time the
Rev. Mr. Ott sounded the bugle for mess. One morning a
shoe-string was missing from one of my shoes. On the pre-
ceding day, Butsy's shoe-strings had both been brown. Now
one was black. I pointed out this strange sequence of


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 149
events to Butsy, but he vociferously denied any knowledge
of the missing article.
Butsy had been a habitual drunk before the siege and,
if rumor was to be believed, a dope addict. The total ab-
stinence imposed upon him by the camp had curious
effects. He slept for only a few minutes at a time and
grunted, jerked, moaned and flayed the air with his hands.
The room was so very small that we were in constant close
physical contact, and time and again his flaying fists or
jerking legs struck me. Butsy had no teeth and he drooled
sickeningly; the spittle stuck to his tangled beard and
became enmeshed with dirt. At night he would sit upon
his pile of filthy blankets and scratch vigorously, smack his
lips, noisily emit gas and again roll over, jerking and
moaning.
He seldom talked although when he did, he held forth
at great length. His voice was a nasal whine, tinged with
the accent of the South. Quite occasionally his loose lips
and his empty, gaping mouth caused the words to be
slurred beyond recognition.
He had one favorite sentence which he repeated fre-
quently and fervently.
"Maybe some women is all right, but most of 'em is
bitches."
Most of us had frequent dreams of food, but Butsy's
dreams were apparently of drink. More than once he star-
tled me by speaking in his sleep with a clarity he never
attained in his waking hours.
"Hey, put a little water in it, will you? Huh, Bud, will
yuh?" or "A whisky straight. Hey, whatsa matter with ya?
I said 'A whisky straight.'"
These speeches were invariably followed by sounds like
those of a dog lapping water. Occasionally the dreams took


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 151
"Yeah."
"Mistuh Brown, wouldn't you like some honey?"
"Yeah."
"But you know it costs money to get honey."
"Yeah."
"With just a little money, I could get some honey. But
I ain't got no money."
"Nope."
"Now, Mistuh Brown, ain't you got some money?"
"Nope."
"Look, just a little money for some honey."
"I haven't got a penny."
"Gee, that honey sure would be good. You sure you
ain't got no money?"
"Yeah."
"Well, then I guess we can't have no honey."
In despair, I consulted Pat Cordone on the problem of
Butsy's unwillingness to bathe. Pat gave me assurance that
Butsy would take a bath on the following day. I don't
know what magic Pat used, but bright and early the next
morning, Butsy arose and began to disrobe. He pulled off
layer after layer of foul clothing. He was wearing at least
three suits. At length he got to the point where all he had
left was a pair of khaki prison shorts, a striped sweatshirt,
shoes, socks and, on his head, the khaki shell-casing which
he wore as a hat. Thus attired he sallied out to the bath-
room.
Two hours later he returned, his face twisted into a
petulant grimace. He stamped into the room and again put
on the layers of filthy clothing and as he did so, he talked
whiningly.
"Dag-nabbed old missionary women. They won't leave a
guy alone, they won't. First time I took a bath since I been


152 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
here. They keep a-knockin' and a-knockin' and a-poundin'
at the door. God-durned old bitches, bet they been in there
plenty o' times. I never go round botherin' nobody. First
time I took a bath and they won't leave me alone. Gol-nab
'em all."
For a while I thought he was about to burst into tears,
but when he had finally twisted into his many clothes, he
stamped away, stopping in the doorway to say:
"Just like I says, maybe some women is all right, but most
of 'em is bitches."
Dr. Martin Pearson was standing up under the strain of
the camp remarkably well. Pearson was a hypochondriac
and suffered in the years before the war from every disease
his imagination could conjure. In the previous January he
had assured me he had tuberculosis, by February he was
convinced he was a victim of cancer, in March, a slight
swelling on one cheek was a sure sign of mumps, very seri-
ous at his age.
But now his absorption in his physical reactions served
him in good stead. The walls of his room were soon cov-
ered with charts, as they had been at the hotel. His pulse
held an untiring interest for him. He would sit, one finger
on his wrist, silently counting for a minute. Then he would
jump up and chalk up the results of his count on his chart.
Next he would go to the window, put one foot on the
window ledge and raise himself ten times; then back again
to the chair and another count. Heart, temperature and
nerve reflexes, each had separate charts. He had brought a
thermometer into camp with him; this he would place
beneath his tongue and sit dolefully looking at the wall.
His hands he clasped in front of him and the thumbs
slowly revolved about each other. Then the thermometer


i54 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
and soon the green suit billowed about him in waves. Men
who had worn suspenders into camp were unfortunate, for
as stomachs went down, pants, held with suspenders, sagged
miserably and great protruding gaps showed about the
waistline. Pearson attempted to remedy this situation by
means of a thick rope taken from one of the trunks Dobson
had managed to get Archie Lee to have sent into the camp.
Dobson insisted that the rope should not be cut, so Pearson
looped it twice about his middle and made long tassels at
the ends.
Pearson's frequent bursts of temper, I think, kept us
all on an even keel, for on these occasions he made accusa-
tions so wild and so fantastic as to be absurd and finally
everyone, including Pearson, would break into laughter.
One day he attacked me as I came into the room. His face
was red with fury.
"You make trouble for me. You're always making trou-
ble for me. You lie. You lie through your teeth. I, who am
credulous, believe your lies. That is the source of all my
troubles. Go away. Don't come near me, you lying bastard.
Wherever you come there's trouble. Listen to me. Come
back here. You tell the truth from now on. By God, you
tell the truth or I'll break your neck."
"Well, what did I lie about this time?"
Pearson jumped up and down in rage. His face turned
to purple. "You told me—you told me—that Lucy Reynolds
was a brothel-keeper."
"Well?"
"And I told Sally Hill (Lucy's best friend), who told
Lucy. Now they're going to sue me for libel—and I hope
they sue you too."
The thought of Lucy, who openly boasted that she ran
the straightest whore-house in the Orient, suing anyone for
libel was just a bit too much. The room rocked with our


156 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
"Will you call me Lulu
If I call you Jake?
How I love to kiss you
You're just like a snake."
Vera Van Sciver, too, provided Pearson with one of his
favorite themes for nonsense rhythms.
"She's one of these great big haughty dames
Who has a chauffeur she calls James,
She wears a lorgnette and strings of pearls,
A diamond ring and lots of curls,
She goes for a ride in Central Park,
She says to the chauffeur, 'Ain't this a lark?'"
Words and mumbled phrases, all mildly obscene fol-
lowed, as Pearson sought a pleasing rhythm. This particu-
lar one ended:
"Now, listen driver
You're in the service of a Van Sciver."
When we first came into the camp, we could look down
from our quarters into a level valley in which a line of
nine empty-eyed brick buildings stood. These housed the
Indian police. The buildings had been very badly kept and
there was a litter of filth about them. Wild-eyed Indian
children stared up at us fearfully. The Sikhs carried on a
brisk trade with our people. At night, they surreptitiously
climbed the hill and sold cans of bully beef or mouldy oat-
meal, usually at exorbitant prices.
There were others among the Sikhs who took these risks
for nothing and climbed the back paths of the steep slopes,


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 157
to bring gifts of shoes or shirts or food to those among
their friends who were in great need.
I spent much time walking alone through the heavy
nights. As I passed the picket fence leading to the Indian
quarters one night, I heard a voice, soft and sibilant:
"Sahib. Sahib."
The silhouette of a turbaned head and wide shoulders
was visible against the metal rungs.
"It is I—Singh. Come quick to me and be quiet."
It was the great Indian policeman with whom Dugoj-
bovsky and I had often joked in the Kowloon Station. He
was holding out his hand and I clasped it in surprise for
he had never offered to shake hands before. In the hand
were several crumpled bills.
"It is very little but it is all I have. It is for you and
the Russian Sahib. Remember no matter what these yellow
devils make us do, we are still your friends. Look, last
night they beheaded an Indian for helping his white friend.
So I must go now. But Allah be with you."
Seemingly without movement, he disappeared into the
black night and I was left with a little roll of bills in my
hand.
A white mosque stood back from the semi-circle of brick
buildings. The wailing Moslem chant drifted up to us
intermittently. The Sikhs • made their way through the
camp, but their faces turned away from us. The price of
our friendship was death. But now and then one would
stop to talk, always with his back toward the man to whom
he spoke. The message was always the same.
"They are forcing us to work for them. There have been
many executions. None of the promises made to us have
been kept. We shall not forget. No, we shall not forget."


158 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
People trickled into the camp from day to day and it
was known that hundreds of English were still in homes on
the Peak. The British quarters were unbearably crowded.
Even the Japanese recognized that in rooms already filled
with fourteen to twenty people, no more space was avail-
able. So the Indians were driven from their quarters and
the British from the Peak, Hong Kong's formerly wealthy
and prominent families, were herded together in trucks
and brought into the camp. The row of dirty, shelled
buildings was turned over to them.
These houses were designed with small two-room apart-
ments intended for two Indian guards. Now from eight to
twelve people shared the space formerly given to the In-
dians. The rooms were small and the Indians stripped
them of all furniture, so that they were like two square
concrete boxes. There was no room to move about and
men and women and children who had never seen each
other before slept side by side on the concrete floors. To
add to the difficulties of the situation, the Japanese released
the white prisoners from the jail at the same time and a
group of criminals, the scum of the China coast, mingled
freely with the people from the Peak. These men had been
convicted of every crime from rape to murder, and while
these were only a handful of them, they added greatly to
the terror and uncertainty of the camp.
The conditions in the Indian quarters were the worst
in the camp and I am ashamed to say that many of my
compatriots found some unholy joy in the fact that those
who had previously held high positions in the colony
should now be living in such a miserable fashion.
These buildings had neither showers nor tubs. The only
water was supplied through taps of which there was one
on each floor. Still worse there were no European toilets,


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 159
but only the Oriental toilets, bowls sunken in concrete.
For people suffering from dysentery, as a quarter of our
people were, these toilets, without even hand rails, were
torture. Many of the Peak people were old, and a large
proportion were women, for there was scarcely an able-
bodied Englishman who had not gone out to fight for the
defense of Hong Kong. Once when I went to see a friend
in the Indian Quarter, I saw a scene I shall never forget.
An old man, well over seventy-five, sick and dirty, was
struggling to use the sunken toilet. Twice he fell, strug-
gled up and got to the door. Then he fell across the sill.
I helped him to his cot, which was saturated with filth.
And very softly he began to cry.
Later, I found out who he was—Michael Scarbury, the
great Chinese scholar. With many others, he rests today in
Stanley Cemetery.


Chapter XI
The great gate of the prison wall was kept locked and
guarded. Occasionally highly polished cars passed through
the grounds, went up to the forbidding gate, honked and
were admitted. Often these cars were filled with the Geisha
girls brought with the officers from Japan. These girls were
brightly painted and dressed in flashing red or white and
clear blue. They viewed the camp with expressionless,
heavy-lidded eyes and gazed disdainfully at the ragged
English and American women whom they passed on the
road. Frightened-looking Chinese flower girls were also
driven through the camp and disappeared behind the
heavy metal gate. They too were brightly dressed and heav-
ily painted, yet a haunting fear seemed to ride with them.
Sometimes the cars stopped before the entrance, and the
girls got out and walked past the sentries. High heels
rasped sharply for a moment on rough cement; then the
prison gates clanged shut.
The officers were swarthy, perfumed dandies. Sometimes
they mauled the girls openly, but usually they sat in
austere dignity as they passed through the camp. They
held lemon-yellow gloves in their hands. They jumped out
of the cars before their women, clicked their heels with
Simian gravity. Their short, thick torsos ducked forward
and jerked back—then a soft, sibilant hiss as the girls passed
by them through the cavernous gate.
On these nights the wail of Oriental music lasted until
dawn. A woman's scream or the thudding impact of a blow
sometimes crept into the eerie cadence of the lute or the
160


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 161
Chinese violin. Voices, rough and harsh, blurred with
drink, rose in strange ape-like chattering.
There was danger in the camp. Those of us who pa-
trolled the buildings knew that at any moment an incident
might start which, if badly handled, might lead to whole-
sale slaughter. For the Japanese were not content with
their Geisha girls or Hong Kong's flower girls but some-
times prowled the camp searching for a white woman.
Twice while I was on duty there was trouble. Both
times Mike Shakhty was my partner. The first time a
heavy wind howled and whistled through the camp. A
typhoon was blowing up and it hit the next day with
shattering force. A large, three-sided garage faced the
American quarters. It was pitch black inside. There the
men of the camp had made ovens in which to cook our
supply of rice. Papers swirled about the enclosed space;
sand beat against concrete. There was another sound too,
like that of a rock chipping against metal. Mike and I
stared at each other, trying to believe that this too was one
of the sounds of the storm. The steady chink, chink con-
tinued, then the noise as of a rock being thrown down. We
peered into the gloomy blackness but could see nothing.
Softly we debated between ourselves as to what we should
do—was it a marauder from our own camp trying to break
into the supplies? If so, our duty was clear. Or was it a
Jap soldier? If this should be the case, we should watch,
but make no attempt to interfere unless physical violence
threatened some member of the camp. As we were un-
armed and the Japs all carried sabers and revolvers, inter-
ference was not only foolhardy but might start a massacre.
Heavy, dragging footsteps scuffed along the floor, seem-
ingly following an endless circle.


162 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
"It must be the wind."
A grunt—more footsteps.
"It can't be."
Finally we took a stand behind heavy pillars, trying to
protect ourselves from a possible shot.
"Come on out of there," Mike yelled, his voice trem-
bling a little.
No answer.
"Come on out of there," I yelled a little louder.
Still no answer.
We had no flashlights. Mike agreed to go look for one
while I kept watch. When Mike had gone, the footsteps
dragged to the far side of the garage. The rear door swung
open and a squat figure was outlined for a second against
the gray sky. When Mike came back, we searched the
garage. Torn paper swirled in great circles about us; a
fresh scratch was evident on the door, but there was no
other sign of an intruder. Could we have been victims of
our imaginations? I was not quite certain.
But the next day the news came in that a Jap private
had entered a room occupied by a group of English wom-
en only fifteen minutes after the mysterious figure had
disappeared from our garage. One woman had tried to
keep him out and he had thrust back the door until its
knob pinned her against the wall. He had been very drunk
and the women's screams seemed to frighten him and so,
after peering at them stupidly for a few moments, he had
staggered away.
The second incident was more serious in its nature. The
first sign we had of it was when a group of half-dressed
English women came clambering up the hill from the
British quarters. "There's a Japanese in our room; he's


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 163
got a gun out. Mrs. McKenna's on the bed sick. Mr. Mc-
Kenna and she are alone in the room."
According to our instructions, I went first to rouse Jake
Bayne and Judge Briscoe. They were dressed and came
out, but neither of them could be induced to go near the
room, and the Judge urged me not to do so. "Bayne knows
how to handle these things."
"But can't you realize there's an old man and old wom-
an in there alone with that Jap?"
"Leave it to Bayne," ordered the Judge.
I went into the room alone. A surly, blurry-eyed, little
Jap stood in the center. His trousers were unbuttoned and
his hat on sidewise. He had McKenna down on the floor
on his knees and was mumbling:
"You say you players—all white men need say players
now. You say you player."
A revolver dangled loosely in his hand. As I came into
the room he swung it toward me and I could see that it
was cocked. The revolver swayed back and forth; then the
Jap half-turned and sat down heavily on the cot where
old Mrs. McKenna lay. She gave a little scream and the
Jap turned drunkenly toward her. "You shu' up."
An Englishman' appeared in the doorway and instantly
he swung into action. He was across the room and had
knocked the revolver from the Jap's hand before I had
swung about to see who he was. He swooped up the
weapon, grabbed the Jap by the shoulder and hustled him
from the room. An Indian guard was waiting outside and
he took charge of the drunken Jap, leading him down the
hill to the prison gates.
I never found out who this Englishman was. He was a
man of about forty-five, tall and slender, with hair turned


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 165
jagged point, then pounded the metal thin with rocks
until it made a formidable weapon.
Then when the Commissioner of Prisons had come to
Stanley for his regular examination, Lee Bo Jung had
waited patiently in line until the Commissioner passed.
Then he leapt forward, the wicked little makeshift knife
pointed directly at the Commissioner's head. A warder
had intercepted the blow and received a deep gash in the
side. Lee had been placed in solitary confinement and his
prison term had been extended.
But Lee still had some tricks left in him and his lenient
treatment by the British apparently made him believe he
could try a similar game with the Japanese. He collected
little bits of wax from his candle. These he stuffed into the
keyhole of his cell thinking that they would so clog the
hole that the key would not catch. He tested his plan as
carefully as he could.
A Japanese soldier brought him his rice, unlocked the
door, slid the bowl into the cell and locked the door again.
But the key twisted too easily and the Jap became suspi-
cious and tried the door. It opened. Again the Jap tried
the key and again it slid easily into place, but did not
lock. The soldier peered into the hole and discovered the
melted wax.
Lee was hauled before the officer in charge. No trial
was held. An immediate order for Lee's execution was
given, but first he was to be tortured before the other
prisoners to avoid repetition of the offense.
Lee was taken into the yard by the old execution block.
A rope was tied about his ankle, and he was jerked up-
ward. Here he dangled all one afternoon, suspended by
one foot, hanging head down, his outstretched fingers a
bare half inch from the wooden boarding. At first Lee's


166 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
screams had filled the prison court, but soon he dangled
silently, jerking spasmodically—still alive. When the lesson
had been well taught, the Japs finished him. Casually a
Jap soldier ran his bayonet into Lee's throat and with a
sidewise motion half severed the head from the jerking
body.
As a whole the Japanese ignored us. They kept us within
the confines of the barbed wire, which was drawn tighter
about us almost every day, and let it go at that. Daily a
dilapidated truck chugged into the camp. A slim supply
of rice, a little rotting meat or fish, and Chinese greens
were thrown on the ground outside the Chief Warder's
quarters. The meat or fish was crusted with dirt. I have
seen a Jap disdainfully kick an eel out onto the ground,
indicating it was too malodorous to touch.
The meat was usually buffalo. It was hard, grisly and
streaked black with age. The camp butchers tested it as
best they could and often ordered it be buried so that it
might not contaminate the camp. The alternate to buffalo
was fresh-water eel. This was a long, narrow fish, some-
times eight feet long and weighing as much as thirty
pounds. It was covered with a gray scale-like substance that
peeled off sickeningly. This eel, or sturgeon as it is some-
times called, is a scavenger which abounds in the sewage-
filled, yellow rivers of China's interior. When properly
cooked it can be delicious. But we had to stew it as best
we could. Very often it was tainted, and the slightest taint
made it deathly dangerous. Occasionally someone in the
camp engaged in cooking pierced his finger with one of
the many, sharp bones. Unless immediate treatment was
given, septic poisoning set in. Mrs. Royce, who had so
competently handled the food kitchens at the Cafe" Wise-


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 167
man during the days of the siege, now worked vigorously
in the communal kitchens. But the poison of the scavenger
eel penetrated the skin of her hands. Her whole forearm
was swollen, black and ugly. The doctors of the camp
treated her and by some miracle, without medicines, man-
aged to save the arm. Mrs. Royce sat helplessly on the
grass leaning against the side of the building, one arm in
a sling, her big body sunken and her pink English cheeks
turned to mottled grey, and I did not recognize her as I
passed.
"'I there," she shouted, "hy'nt ya speakin' no more?"
The death of her son, the loss of her home, the deadly
gangrenous poison could not destroy her saucy Cockney
wit, nor take the Cockney twinkle from her eyes.
When Japanese soldiers rambled through the camp, it
usually spelled trouble. They left behind them a series of
incidents which, though trifling when compared to the
bestialities indulged in immediately after the surrender,
still were revolting and gave us all a sense of insecurity.
Orders were issued controlling our conduct when meet-
ing a Japanese soldier. The hat must be removed from the
head; hands must not be in the pockets; there must be no
smoking; we must bow. Above all, it was stated, we must
at no time look down upon a Japanese soldier.
Most of us scrupulously avoided the ape-like Sons of
God. When we saw them coming, we unostentatiously
turned aside. A few like Dobson carefully cultivated their
acquaintance. He showed his good will by keeping a small
supply of cigarettes on hand exclusively for the Japanese
and by elaborately doffing his hat, grinning broadly, and
bowing low at their first appearance.
One bright afternoon when there was a let-up from the
almost constant storms that harried the camp during Feb-


168 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
ruary and March, Pat Cordone and I strolled through the
camp. Coming up Roosevelt Avenue was a lone, hairy,
dirty Jap. Pat and I changed our course, but turned to
watch the little man's progress.
A tall young Englishman stood in front of the British
quarters. He was talking earnestly to two British women
and was unaware of the Jap's approach. The squat man
passed by in back of him, then turned, glaring balefully
at the three figures. The young man was still unconscious
of the enemy at his back. One hand was in his pocket and
he was wearing a hat. One of the women saw the little man
peering at them and gave a stifled cry.
The young man turned around awkwardly, took his
hand out of his pocket and took off his hat. The little Jap
stopped to pick his nose thoughtfully. Then with his hand
on his revolver, he approached the Englishman.
"Why you no bow to Nipponese soldier?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't see you."
"Why you no see?"
"I had my back turned, I couldn't."
"Why you have back turned?"
"I'm sorry, I was talking to these ladies."
"Why you have hands in pocket?"
"I'm sorry, I removed them as soon as I saw you."
"Why you have hat on head?"
"I took it off immediately. I didn't see you."
"Why you no see me?"
"My back was turned."
"So—you turn back on Nipponese soldier." The little
man struck upward with the full force of his arm. His
palm made a sharp thwack on the Englishman's face. The
tall young man, already weak from hunger, began to
crumple. Two strong, straight fingers caught him in the


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 169
ribs. With a little sigh of pain, the Englishman went
down.
The Jap kicked him three times—twice on the chest,
once on the side of the head. Then with his hand still on
the holster of his gun, he stalked arrogantly through the
camp.
Another afternoon, Larry Clyron and I walked up the
tortuous path to the top of a hill where Cheng, the greedy,
vicious Chinese head-warder, had his headquarters in the
cottage previously occupied by the prison doctor. Cheng
occasionally brought in little supplies of jam or sugar, and
a curious Chinese confection called wong tong which was
made of pale, flat slabs of brown sugar in which dirt and
bugs were bountifully imbedded. These he sold on the
sly, never making less than a three hundred percent profit.
We had a little of the money Singh had given me, and
Clyron was determined to purchase some of this strange
confection if possible. A group of men waited about the
place for Cheng's arrival. They sat on a low wall which
edged the embankment in front of the cottage, or strolled
in pairs along the much-worn tennis court.
Soon I became tired of the wait. Personally I thought
Clyron's suggested expenditure of our sole capital on this
gooey confection not altogether wise. Maybe brown sugar
contains all the energy that Clyron claims, but I have my
doubts. Moreover, I was not especially eager to swell
Cheng's richly filled coffers. So, leaving Clyron to hold
down the fort, I moved away toward the cemetery.
Far below me the prison gates clanged. A shining Ford
came up to the opening. Two officers passed through the
open gates. The larger of the two looked up at Cheng's
quarters and pointed. One of these men, I recognized as
Hiyane, the chief officer within the prison. He was a be-


170 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
spectacled, highly greased, perfumed little dandy, who
constantly sported yellow gloves and whose yellow, apish
face gave the impression of bland, insensate cruelty. The
other was his right-hand man, a burly, thick-lipped fellow,
with hairy nostrils, protruding cheek bones and a voice
like a guttural trumpet.
They jumped into the car and it raced madly up the
curved roadway toward Cheng's place. I shouted Clyron's
name, but I was too far away to be heard. The car drove
up into the center of the unsuspecting men, none of whom
had seen it. The officers jumped out. Their faces were
flushed with fury.
The burly man gave orders for the men to line up
against the low wall. Hiyane and the chauffeur had their
pistols out. The men, not understanding why, lined up
slowly. The big man screamed at them madly in a mixture
of Japanese and broken English.
"You have been in higher place than Nipponese officer.
No American, no Englishman must ever be in higher place
than Nipponese. This is insult; you will pay. You think
you can look down on Nipponese. This you cannot. Nip-
ponese is highest place in world. Only he can look down."
At the end of this rigmarole, repeated again and again
in an excited bellow, the squat Jap chauffeur was ordered
to slap each of the men, for it was explained that officers
would not deign to touch men of such inferior rank.
The chauffeur struck the first man solidly across the
face. He struck with an arched, upward movement that is
terrifically painful. The man staggered but did not fall.
"Harder—harder," shouted the Jap officer.
Clyron was near the end of the line and I silently prayed
that some miracle would change Hiyane's mind before my
friend was reached. Hiyane was standing in a pose of in-


172 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
as possible against the heavy rocks on the shore. It ex-
ploded thunderously.
The Japs rushed up the hill and seized both Black and
Wright. They slapped Black and shook him. A bayonet
was pressed against his spine and he was ordered by grunts
to march ahead of them. Black and Wright both tried to
protest and were slapped again.
Dugojbovsky and I ran to the nearest house. Here
Vasilievsky, a Russian who spoke Japanese, lived. He ran
down the road and tried to explain to the soldiers. Black
was sweating profusely; great drops of moisture stood out
on his forehead.
"What do they say? What do they say?"
Vasilievsky did not tell him, but what the Japs did say
was that both men would be shot. Finally they agreed to
release Wright. While Dugojbovsky followed behind to
see where they led the unfortunate policeman. I rushed
to the quarters where Mrs. Armbruster lived. She was the
official interpreter of the camp, a white-haired gentle lady
for whom, strangely enough, the Japs showed considerable
respect. Her mastery of court Japanese, unknown to the
common soldier, gave her a place of some reverence.
Finally an expedition was got up to go to the Japanese
officer in charge of the camp to plead for Black. But we
feared that it was already too late. Dugojbovsky had fol-
lowed the soldiers and their prisoner as far as the barbed
wire where he had been stopped. He watched and saw the
unfortunate Black being led into an old fort far up the
road.
But just as we were prepared to set out, we saw a stum-
bling figure coming down the mountainous road from the
fort. It was Black. He carried several bundles in his hands.
We waited impatiently for him. And this is the macabre


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 173
story that he had to tell: He had been taken to the fort
where he was slapped, kicked and mauled about. Then an
English-speaking officer came and asked for his story.
Black was quick-witted and he knew that the Japanese
have two soft spots. One is for dogs; the other is for small
children.
Black is a bachelor. He told, however, in mournful tones
a story of his little girl, four years old, so high (hand reach-
ing to his knee) and how he was so frightened that she
might find a hand grenade while at play and explode it
and be killed. He told the story movingly. The Japanese
officer was touched and ordered his immediate release.
Before he left they gave him gifts to take to the tiny
daughter—candy, a can of milk, a box of soda crackers, a
piece of chocolate cake. Black produced the gifts proudly.
We were afraid that an investigation of the story might
follow, but none did. And a few days later, the Japanese
officer sent down a crew of men to dispose of the other
hand grenades that lay about the camp.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 175
she refused to eat and put aside a part of her rations each
day for the girls, that they might have "just a bite" before
going to bed. The girls had long since refused the food
and so Mrs. Malley's sacrifice had lost its meaning. It had
become a habit to which she blindly adhered. The rice
collected in bottles, turned sour and green, and was thrown
away.
Her whole character changed. All her pride was gone.
She fought viciously for food for the girls. She traded off
articles of clothing that the girls had brought in for food
or money or cigarettes. She bargained shrewdly and when
once she was outwitted, screamed bitter denunciations at
the old Eurasian woman who had cheated her. She gave
way to spasms of violent temper.
The change had taken place gradually, but a single in-
cident had set it off. About a week after we had come into
the camp, Patricia and Agnes went to the camp's end.
There the coolies were still erecting the barbed wire bar-
riers and a gaping hole was disclosed in the wire. Far be-
low in the village, the Chinese fishermen could be seen
coming in with hauls of shining fish. The girls decided to
break through and see if they could make a bargain with
the fishermen.
They got through the hole and down to the beach, but
as they were dickering over the fish the Chinese took sud-
den fright and fled. The girls turned and walked directly
into the outstretched arms of patrolling Japanese soldiers.
Bill Scaley saw the incident and ran to Mrs. Malley with
the story. Nothing could be done; the girls were under
arrest in the village. No one could leave the camp to get
to them or find out what was happening. Mrs. Armbruster
finally managed to reach the Japanese officer in charge and
he promised to investigate.


176 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Mrs. Malley walked up and down in the narrow corridor
outside the room for hours. She beat her hands against the
concrete walls until they were raw and red. She tried to
force her way through the Japanese barricade and it took
the strength of three husky Irish policemen to hold her
back from attacking the Jap sentries. Once she got away
from them and threw herself against the tangled barbed
wire. She fell upon the rolls and cut her hands and arms
and had a great gash across her cheek.
She would not wash off the blood. Her arms flayed out
at all who came near her. Finally she consented to return
to her quarters, but she would not remain still. She walked
up and down, up and down, up and down.
Professor Bancroft walked beside her but there was little
he could do. She paid no attention to him, and at last he
gave up and sat quietly watching her.
The girls were brought back into the camp late that
evening. They were shamefaced, but giggling. Apparently
they had no knowledge of the anxiety they had caused.
They had a long story to tell. The Japanese soldiers had
taken them to the three-room police station in Stanley
Village. There they had been locked up in a cell with
several Chinese women. The Japs came into the cell too,
but the Chinese police and the Indian guards had refused
to leave them alone. When the Japs had gone away, the
Chinese brought them tea and soup. Just as the Chinese
were about to give these to them, the Japs had come back.
The guards hid the food in a drawer of the police station
desk. The food was cold by the time the Japs had gone,
but the Chinese heated it again. The girls ate hungrily of
the fish stew and sipped the scalding tea gratefully. The
Indian guard produced cigarettes and offered them to the
girls. Agnes smoked hers, but Patricia brought her ciga-


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 177
rettes to her mother. Several times the Japs came back and
each time Agnes and the guards had to conceal their burn-
ing cigarettes.
Patricia told her story gaily. When she finished, Mrs.
Malley went to her, cradled the girl's chin in her hand.
"Patricia, did they do anything to you?"
"Why, Mommy, what could they do?" The girl began
to laugh.
"Patricia, tell me the truth." The strained, harsh voice
broke.
"Why, Mommy, I don't understand."
"Tell me the truth."
"I am, Mommy."
"Don't you ever, ever do this thing again." The huge
hand left the girl's chin, flicked a few inches away and
then struck viciously at Patricia's face. Mrs. Malley turned
abruptly away and walked out into the night. Great shud-
ders shook the heavy back and I could hear a single gasp-
ing cry.
Patricia was stunned. Slowly the livid mark of fingers
spread across her cheek.
"Why did Mommy strike me?" She looked at us bewil-
dered, and repeated, "Why did Mommy strike me? She
never struck me before." She threw herself upon the cot,
face downward, and cried hysterically.
Bancroft and Scaley and Milene were in the room with
me. Scaley put his hand on Patricia's shoulder, but she
wriggled away from him.
I said, "Come on, let's get the hell out of here. Both
Patricia and Kate must face this their own way."
Milene said, "That's right. It means so much to be
alone." She slipped her arm through mine and we too
went quietly out into the dark, cold night.


178 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Doctors in the camp reckoned that the food which we
were given was less than half enough to sustain life. The
open ground about the camp which seemed so inviting at
first, now held little interest for men and women too weak
to walk but for a few steps.
Each action required a sustained act of will. The move-
ment of an arm or leg had to be preceded by the deter-
mination that that member would move.
The sensations were peculiar. To stand, one had to
visualize the act of standing. Sometimes the body would
not follow the demand of the will. The mind, the will
and the imagination all stood, but still one remained
seated. Was one sitting or standing? The control nerve
centers had shot their message to the brain, but the limbs
did not obey. I never discussed these sensations with others
of the camp, but I am sure that they were not singular.
Often through some act of will, I would rise and walk
down the road. Then I would turn and see myself still
seated. Again there would be a terrific'struggle, I would
recede into my body, force myself upward, and again
mind and body functioned together.
My shoes had worn completely through. A former cob-
bler in the Indian quarters said he would do a repair job
for me with a piece of rubber tire that Dugojbovsky had
found and given to me. He ripped off the old soles but it
took him weeks to do the repair work.
Meanwhile Butsy provided me with a pair of shoes he
had picked up from an old refuse pile. The heel of one
shoe was completely gone and a section of the sole of the
other flapped about loosely. They were size twelve and I
usually wear a seven. They had no tongues and no laces
and worst of all, they were infected.
Soon my feet were a mass of pus-filled blisters. Stupidly


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 179
I had set for myself the task of walking about the camp
once each day. No matter how great the pain, I forced
myself to take this daily exercise. Fixations of this type
were common in the camp; they were tests of will power,
proof of one's stamina. Pain, sickness and weakness blotted
out reason and left only stubborn resolve.
I was walking through the parade grounds when the
lights seemed to burst in front of my eyes. They were
bright orange and yellow. They struck, exploded, broke.
They came quicker and quicker. I got up against the
prison wall, felt my way along. I had to move my legs
clear up to my chin to walk, yet when I looked at my feet,
I could see they were scraping the ground.
Mrs. Malley was beside me.
"Good God, Nick, what are you doing?"
Then there was blackness and I fell.
I was in my room and Dugojbovsky was standing beside
me, grinning down at me.
The room had changed almost beyond recognition and
hard to believe, I was in a bed. It was a double-decker
servant's bed with a hard board as a mattress, but after
the floor and my bed of branches, it seemed gratefully soft.
The heavy debris that I had been unable to handle was
cleared away. A piece of canvas flapped across the gaping
hole in the wall. A little stand was at my bedside and on
it was a big bottle and a glass.
"Vy you didn't tell me how you live?" Dugojbovsky de-
manded. "My God, vot a stink! Vot a mess!"
Slowly I gathered together the story. I had fainted
nearly two days before near the prison wall. Kate Malley
had caught me as I fell. She and Professor Bancroft and
Yarmolinsky, who was passing, had got me to my room.


180 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
None of them had seen my quarters before. The three
Russians had cleaned up the place, found the double-
decker bed for me and installed Butsy on top. They'd
called in little Dr. Hartpence to care for me. He'd diag-
nosed malnutrition with incipient scurvy and beri-beri
and additional weakness brought on by repeated attacks of
dysentery. He had also drained the pus from my feet, bathed
them with disinfectant and wrapped them in white cloth.
From the bottle, Dugojbovsky filled the glass with a
pale green liquid. It was tea made from pine needles
which was strongly urged by Dr. Hartpence as a cure and
preventative in cases of scurvy. Dugojbovsky had collected
the pine needles and brewed the tea for me himself. He
also had some sweet milk chocolate that he pressed upon
me. It tasted unbelievably good. Soon Mrs. Malley and
Professor Bancroft and Dr. Hartpence and Ted Smart were
in the room. They could not all get inside, but stood in
the hall until Hartpence ordered them away and gave di-
rections for me to sleep.
Peace and sleep came. The tortured, hammering need
that had kept me on my feet for the preceding week was
gone and I could rest.
The next twenty days were healing days—there was heal-
ing of mind as well as body. Slowly the horrors of the
siege, the filthy brothel and the camp receded. My mind
had been glutted with violence—bombings, bayonetings,
beatings. Now I sorted these scenes of violence and care-
fully put them aside—not to be forgotten but to be ac-
cepted as a part of the dreadful drama of war.
There was little pain, only weakness, and the days were
filled with sluggish pleasure. Dugojbovsky came to my
room each day. Through the Chinese wife of one of the
police sergeants he was able to make connections on the


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 181
outside, and the Russian community in Kowloon sent in
a few articles of food almost daily. These Yarmolinsky,
Yaroslavsky and Dugojbovsky shared with me with com-
plete unselfishness. The four of us began a game which
brought us all great pleasure. We told each other the
story of "The Brothers Karamazov." We told it carefully,
each taking turns. Every slightest detail of the story was
told. As those in the British quarters had no books and
my eyes were too weak to read the few we had in the
American library, this game proved a stimulation of the
mental processes which gave incredible pleasure. The re-
membering of some slight, previously forgotten detail,
provided all the thrill of an exciting sport. So engrossed
did we become in this game that several times all four of
us forgot when chow time came and Dugojbovsky only
managed to save us from a hungry evening by rushing
out at the end of the long line with his collection of tins
and bringing back for us the black, burned rice at the
bottom of the big kettle.
In these days, too, I learned many of the poems of Rus-
sia. Before I had known a few of the greater poets—men
like Pushkin, Lermontov, Nekrassov, Korolenko and Blok.
But now I heard many of the untranslated poems of lesser
note—those of Vyschaslov Ivanov, Sologub, Joukovsky and
Nassen.
Many of these we turned into English for, I believe, the
first time. Here is an old folk song of which I became very
fond:
Give me a horse
And let me ride
Back down the years
To my youth.


182 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
What! you say there's no horse,
I'm too old to ride
And there's no road back
To my youth.
Well, I've a horse
And I'll ride or I'll die
And I'll find the road that leads:
To my youth.
Yes, I'm an old man
Just skin and bone
But I will ride
And I'll ride alone.
The road that I ride will be my own;
I know the road of my youth.
Jake Bayne came to my room one day and in spite of
the fact that I detested everything for which he stood, I
found myself liking the man himself. He honestly pictured
himself as a modern Robin Hood. He made no bones
about his complete ruthlessness, but1 he also claimed, and
with some reason, that he used his ill-gotten gains to good
purpose.
When I taxed him on the matter of the hospital sup-
plies, he admitted his part in the matter cheerfully, but
told of the people to whom he had, in part, distributed
the food. In most cases he had gained adherents by gifts
of goods which were not his to give, but he had given to
women, to children and to the sick. He brought me several
cans of jam and when I protested that I did not care for
them under the circumstances, he assured me that they
were from his own personal supply.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 183
For two hours he regaled me with stories of water-front
brawls in Shanghai and Saigon and Singapore. In each
story, he played a noble role—the hard-hitting, straight-
shooting young American hero. He came over and shook
hands with me as he was about to leave.
"I like you, Doc. You're the only guy in the camp with
enough guts to get up on his feet and fight me. We ought
to be friends. You get well quick and come up and see me.
Maybe I'm too much the hard guy; I guess I need a
straight, brainy guy like you."
I was pleased and flattered and it took a couple of hours
before I realized how I'd been taken in. I'd shaken hands
with Bayne and accepted his gift, and Bayne saw to it that
this was known throughout the camp. It had been pur-
posefully done in an attempt to remove a danger from his
path.
And still I couldn't help liking the rogue.
Butsy parted company from me a few days after my ill-
ness. During the nights he used to get up quietly, disap-
pear for several hours and return, sighing happily and
would then fall noisily asleep in the bunk above me.
It was difficult to tell whether Butsy was putting on
weight or more clothes, but he was becoming definitely
bulkier. Several times, committees came over from the
British quarters to register complaints against Butsy. The
gentlemen from Virginia hung about the British kitchens
and they objected to his smell; they also suspected him of
thieving.
At length he was caught red-handed removing cans of
food from the rooms of a certain oil executive. Butsy was
removed to a larger room with some of the tougher mem-
bers of the camp. Here he was kept under surveillance at


184 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
night, forced to shave and to bathe regularly, and to shed
some of his clothes.
Butsy became a changed man. Shaven, washed and
cleanly dressed, he really looked the part of the gentle-
man. But he did not like his new role and he blamed his
fate upon the missionary women.
"Blamed old wimmen—it's just like I says—maybe some
of 'em is all right, but most of 'em is bitches."
Dr. Bancroft, too, was an almost daily caller. The little
professor had developed new strength and certainty of
purpose within the camp. His love for Mrs. Malley was
complete and it remained unchanged. Our monotonous
life no longer disturbed him, and the filth and the misery
of his surroundings troubled him but little, for deep
within himself he had built up a world that force could
not destroy.
His mind teemed with China's beauteous pageantry.
Frequently he was persuaded to talk of animal symbolism
which I found charming. He told me of the cicada, which,
in the legends of China, represents the disengaging of the
soul from the body at the time of death. The cicada springs
from the mouth of the dead, divesting him of human im-
purities. The cicada eats the wind and drinks the dew; he
is a symbol of death's purification.
He told of the Chinese dragon and explained that the
word "lung," now translated as "dragon" originally repre-
sented a great fish of the sturgeon family. This fish, the
Chinese believed, at the period of the full moon, shed its
slimy exterior and, taking the form of a bird, flew directly
into the heavens and disappeared. The early figures of the
dragon always show it with its neck twisted backward and
jaws upraised in an attempt to seize and swallow the
golden pearl of the moon. This creature, shown in the


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 185
period of transition, half-bird and half-fish, mystified the
early missionaries and they arbitrarily employed the word
"dragon" to describe it. Actually, the large malodorous
fish which were brought to our camp from time to time
were "lung."
He told of the part of the turtle in the religious cere-
monies. The grand augur, before setting a day for the
worship of heaven, engraved upon the turtle's back the
lovely characters of prayer. Then the carapace was placed
upon a fire of blazing willow wood, especially collected for
the ceremony and purified by soaking it in rice wine in
which powdered jade had been placed. As the bright fire
burned, cracks appeared upon the shell, and from these
cracks the grand augur determined the day which should
be set aside for the worship of the heavens.
Mrs. Malley seldom came to the room. When she did,
she sat in morose silence. The Professor watched her in
perplexed anxiety, but the look of tenderness never left
his face. This strange, irritable woman, bloated with beri-
beri, shapeless and ugly, still remained beautiful in his
eyes.
The door of my room opened softly and a shy little man
pushed his way in. He was dressed in dirty, grease-stained
khaki clothes and a badly torn Burberry. He pressed a
limp felt hat against his heart. He spoke apologetically.
"Professor Brown, I believe."
"Yes," I said.
"I don't think you remember me, I'm Malcolm Bec-
tave."
"No, I don't think I do."
"I met you just once—in Tsacharoff's jade shop."
Memory flooded back—of a rather round-faced young


186 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
man in a neat white drill suit, black and white shoes and
a too brightly colored tie of Persian Mosaic design. The
three of us had sipped chrysanthemum tea from Tsacha-
roff's ancient, delicately carved jade tea cups and had eaten
delicious Chinese small dishes—baus made of pigeon
breasts, ancient eggs sliced on Chinese sweet rice bread,
chicken curiously smoked in which were imbedded tiny
slices of strong, old sausage—and talked speculatively of
the war, whether or not the Russian lines would hold,
whether the Germans would attempt an invasion of Eng-
land.
Bectave, I remembered, was an Australian journalist
who, in spite of his slight physique, had won laurels for
his courageous reporting on the activities of Chinese
guerrilla fighters. He had spent six months travelling with
one of these marauding bands which had insistently har-
assed the Japanese forces near Amoy. It was Bectave too
who had broadcast the news of heavy bombings in Chung-
king; his mild, slightly high-pitched voice had come calmly
over the radio against a background of exploding bombs.
Bectave had come late into the camp from a hospital
cot, when all the patients had been driven out of Queen
Mary's Hospital by the Japanese. These people, some of
them too weak to walk, had been bundled willy-nilly into
a truck and brought out to Stanley. Most of them went
directly into Tweed Bay Hospital, the little, completely
inadequate former prison hospital within the grounds of
the camp. Bectave had found space in the Indian quarters,
where he recuperated on a mat, thrown on a concrete
floor, in a tiny room shared with four other men.
During the siege he had been in charge of the prepara-
tion of food in the free food kitchens for indigent Chinese in
the Wanchai waterfront. The market in which the kitchens


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 187
had been set up were struck repeatedly, but they had
stayed open until there were actual troop landings in the
Wanchai area. It was during the battering of the markets
that Bectave first encountered Jake Bayne, Bill Scaley, and
the tough young Irish biscuit salesman named John Riley,
who had become the leader of Bayne's bully boys. These
men had driven their trucks along the front through
scathing fire and stopped them outside the markets. All
three had been drinking heavily. They came into the
quiet kitchens where Bectave and his helpers were calmly
distributing food and demanded coffee.
Bectave had explained that they were not serving coffee
and that there was no time to prepare any.
Boastingly Riley had gloated, "We were the only guys
with enough guts to bring the trucks through the Japa-
nese fire. Now," he leaned forward threateningly, "you
boys are going to get us some coffee."
The Englishmen on the other trucks had obeyed orders
not to endanger the trucks or the supplies by running
them through heavily shelled areas. Sneeringly, Bayne and
Riley labeled them as "limey cowards." Riley got hold of
the arms of one of the Chinese boys who refused to serve
him except upon Bectave's orders. He twisted the arm
until the boy screamed. Then he released him with a
terrific kick.
The line of fire of the Japanese shells drew nearer and
nearer to the market. There was a direct hit on one of the
trucks outside. Rice and canned goods were spewed over
the streets. The detonations had not stopped before the
Chinese were about the truck, scooping the scattered rice
into their capacious pockets. Bayne and Scaley sat as
though stunned. Another shell exploded just outside the
market. Glass flew across the room. A sliver struck across


188 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Riley's knuckles and spraying blood licked at his arm.
Riley raised his hand and looked at it dumbly. Then,
“Jesus, Jesus help me, don't let me die, don't let me
die.”
He began to blubber like a baby, and to cross himself.
“Help me, Jake. Help me, Bill—Jesus—Jesus—Mother
Mary.”
And Bayne and Scaley helped themselves to more whis-
key from a bottle Bayne had set on the table.
Several hours later, Bectave was wounded. A piece of
shrapnel lodged in his leg, and he was removed to Queen
Mary's Hospital.


Chapter XIII
The story of Mike Shakhty's bitter childhood was slowly
unrolled to me. It was a bleak picture of fear and shame
and hate, smeared with scenes of violence. His mother had
brought him to America after his father's execution. She
had sent him to live with a young farmer and his wife in a
small Vermont town. She sent a little money now and
then to pay for his keep but usually she was far behind in
her payments. This couple had forced him to go to church,
and he had learned to hate a dry and sterile religion which
he could not understand. The one-room schoolhouse was
a torture chamber for him. His mind, though erratic, was
swift and mature. In a few days he could memorize the
books over which the class labored throughout the term.
The boys teased him unmercifully, shouting names at
him, bullying him, jeering, until the muscles of his face
began to twitch and finally, in nervous despair, he would
begin to cry. Once the teacher had whipped him. He tried
to keep back the screams of pain, but could not. Finally
he had lost all control and shrieking and sobbing, had
fallen to the floor. The teacher too had become frightened
and afterwards left him alone.
He did not come to the school yard until he heard the
bell; then he would take his place sullenly in the line and
march into the school. He tried not to speak and the
teacher soon lost interest in him and let him sit silently
in the far corner of the room. Here, wretched and lonely,
he sat each day waiting for the release of the bell. Like a
frightened rabbit, he would wait until the school yard had
cleared and then he would flee into the woods.
189


igo HONG KONG AFTERMATH
The great pines near a deserted pond were his only
refuge. Even in winter he haunted the woods and built
for himself a tent of pine boughs to protect himself from
the bitter winds. In the morning and at night, he wolfed
the scanty food set before him. Then in silence he would
leave the house. For days he would go without speaking
to a soul. He gave names to the trees and talked to them,
told them of his loneliness.
Then he found the library in a nearby town—and books.
It was a six-mile walk, but he made it almost every day,
taking a book and returning the one which he had read.
His reading was without guidance, but a new, warm world
was rising about him. The librarian, a thin, austere New
England spinster, became interested in the dark, silent boy.
She helped him to select books and talked about the
stories with him. He was deeply grateful and sought some
way to express his gratitude. One day he had reached up
and put his arms about her and in a shaking, tremulous
voice, he stammered out book-learned words of affection.
She was frightened by his intensity and withdrew from
him, a startled scream coming from her lips. He ran out of
the library, down the paved streets and rushed headlong
into the protecting woods. That night the spinster librarian
and her father came to call on the young farmer, and it
was decided that Mike must go away.
He was put on a train for New York where he was told
his mother would meet him. He did not recognize his
mother when he first saw her. She was dressed in cheap
finery—brassy earrings, a thick necklace of imitation pearls,
glass, rock-like diamonds, a velvet dress. Rouge formed
great circles on her cheeks, her lips were scarlet, her hair
golden. He thought that she was magnificent; the warmth
of her arms about him was an exquisite pleasure.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 191
Gradually he became aware of the significance of his
mother's apartment. The shabby red plush furniture, the
strange, exotic paintings, the smell of cheap perfume and
powder at first seemed incredibly grand to him. The men
who wandered in and out of the apartment drinking,
smoking, talking loudly, and the wild parties that lasted
deep into the night, seemed to him to spring from an en-
chanted world. After her first exuberant welcome, his
mother grew very cross with him and he learned to avoid
her—but there was Valentina.
Valentina shared the apartment with his mother and two
other women. She was a blonde good-natured woman who
laughed boisterously and who swigged gin straight from
the bottle. It was she who took Mike to his first movie;
she pampered him, feeding him candy and ice-cream and
pop until he was sick. She put her arms about him, nearly
smothering him. She brought to life all the starved emo-
tions of his boyhood; he did not want to leave her for a
moment. Valentina, too, beneath her coarseness, was
strangely sensitive and she gave to the boy a deep and
genuine love.
Sometimes in the night he would go to her and curl up
beside her in her bed. She would put her arm about the
small boy, giving him the warmth and comfort he had
always lacked. It was thus that his mother had found them
one day and her face had grown red with fury. She
yanked Valentina from the bed, ripped her nightdress,
seized a coat hanger from the closet rack and began to
beat her with it. Mike watched in horrified fascination,
saw the coat hanger bite deep into the soft flesh. He heard
the whimpering cry of the beaten woman and was filled
with fear. Then his mother had turned upon him. The
coat hanger swished in a vicious arc and landed on his


192 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
back, again, again, again. He howled with pain and fury
and rushed from the room.
Valentina packed her things and left and she took Mike
with her. She got a room in Harlem, and Mike lived with
her there until she died nearly three years later. He was
seventeen then, and he had lived on the periphery of New
York's underworld. He learned the ways of petty crime,
how to clog telephone coin boxes and how to spike drinks.
Valentina brought fewer and fewer men to her room, for
now she was bloated with drink. Mike helped her to roll
her victims. In the end, one of these men had murdered
her.
Mike found her, strangled to death with one of her own
stockings. Her tongue hung out, blue and swollen and the
bloated face was ghastly. He had touched her and found
the white flesh cold. He withdrew his hand, shuddering
and then again he fled in fear—running, running, running
—through the streets of Harlem—to no destination—just
away.
Despite this sordid story, I think that there must have
been some tenderness in Valentina. Whatever she may
have been, she gave to the boy the only real warmth and
affection that he had ever known. Though she herself knew
no way out of the degradation and viciousness and crime in
which she lived, she always hoped that Mike would find a
way. And Mike, too, out of all that twisted background of
crime, violence and passion, had developed within himself
something apart—something decent and strong—that finally
bore fruit within the barbed wire entanglements of Stan-
ley Prison Camp.
Richard Thorpe spent the long days carving chessmen.
Each piece was turned out with meticulous care. The more


194 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Looey Picklepuss was a sailor. He had another name
which was long and Germanic, but I do not remember
what it was.
Looey was the sourest, glummest guy I ever met. He had
not come off the Chania, but from another American boat,
the Colonel Harris, which had also been sunk in Hong
Kong's harbor.
Looey worked with Brewster and his gang in the kitchen
but he claimed he didn't get his share of the loot. Anyway,
there had been a quarrel and, a few days after Butsy's de-
parture, Looey moved in on me.
He just brought his gear in one day, threw it in the
bunk on top of mine and there he was.
The first two days he said nothing. On the third he
peered down at me, uttered one obscene, four-letter word
and withdrew. For the next three days he remained in
utter silence, but at brief intervals he would cautiously
lower his head from the upper bunk, peer at me for a few
minutes and again disappear.
On the fifth day he began to talk, not to me, but just
in general. He recited the tale of his woes. Long and bit-
terly, he denounced everybody in the camp, singly and
collectively. After a while, I'd get tired and would give the
metal frame of the bed a jiggle. There would be a moment
of silence, then Looey's long, sour face would appear
upside-down over my bed.
"You're crazy," he'd announce. "You're f nuts."
Looey divided his days between the room and leaning
against the building just outside. He took an abnormal
pleasure in all of my activities and always followed me
every time I entered the room. Whenever I dressed or un-
dressed, his eyes never left me for a moment and there was
something sickening about their steady, unblinking gaze.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 195
If ever I passed him in the grounds, he would flick the
sleeve of the nearest passer-by and with arm and fore-
finger outstretched he would point at me.
"See dat guy. He's nuts."
Soon I was well enough to take my tin can out into the
food lines and get my own rice. These lines formed hours
before chow was ready. Rice was served twice a day, at ten
in the morning and five in the afternoon. The children of
the camp would start a straggling line as early as two
o'clock, waiting patiently for Brewster to come out with
the steaming kettle and the ladle. Usually the rice was not
distributed equally and there would be a few "seconds."
The children raced back to their rooms as soon as they got
their first portions, dumped the food and ran back to be
first in the line of seconds. Sometimes there would be sec-
onds for twenty people, sometimes for none at all. The
children who did not get seconds would leave the line bit-
terly disappointed. McCoy, who had been the chief cook
on the Chania and was really a generous and kindly fellow
when away from Brewster's influence, scraped the kettle to
which the rice clung in a burnt, black mass and passed out
the pieces to the children and the sick. Actually this rice,
which was burned crisp, was more healthful and more
palatable than the slimy, watery composition which was
our regular fare.
Always midway in the straggling group of children who
headed the line was a white-haired missionary woman,
with a pocked, red face. When she received her rice, she,
like the children, raced to her room, deposited it and ran
back, panting and choking for breath, to take her place
near the head of the seconds line. If she got a second help-
ing, she walked quietly away with it; if she did not, she


196 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
accepted her dismissal unsmilingly. The children neither
made friends with her nor resented her. I think it is dis-
tinctly to the credit of the camp that, to the best of my
knowledge, no one ever questioned her right to take her
place with the children. She competed with them on fair
grounds; indeed her age was a considerable handicap. Oc-
casionally as she and little Roland Towle, who was seven,
left the line together we would place bets on who would
get back first. Roland was quicker but he had farther to go.
The old lady would race to her room on the second floor,
would disappear for a few seconds, then appear again,
making the stairs at full tilt and would race across the
asphalt roadway, panting and snorting. Roland ran a silent
race, but he was equally determined. It was always close,
and both parties had adherents in the camp.
''Come on, Roland. Come on, Roland," an excited big-
shot Hong Kong business man would shout.
"Faster, Miss Squibb, faster," another urged.
And often, no matter which of the rivals managed to
nose out the other, cheering would break out along the
line.
A change had come over the American section of the
camp during the period of my sickness. In the early days
there had been work to do—kitchens were built, water was
boiled, luggage was carried, repairs on the buildings were
made. Bayne and his gang had organized this work and the
men who participated ruled the camp. Now the work
was done and there was little for men and women to do
but sit and gossip.
Bayne had glorified the word "scrounging." When he
was taxed with having his own rooms, food supplies and


198 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
many things, but for himself alone. He had made arrange-
ments by which no other member of the camp could com-
municate with the Jap officials except through him; he fre-
quently went into the town and, at length, announced that
he would be permitted to leave the camp to go to Shanghai.
Repeated attempts were made to oust Bayne from office,
but to remove a dictator is a difficult task. Moreover, Bayne
had spread general distrust throughout the camp. Also,
few had clean hands. Nearly everyone at some time or
other had accepted a favor from him. Little cliques formed
and fought among themselves. The idea of a communal
life based upon truly democratic ideals had been thrown
overboard at the first meeting; now there was only a wran-
gle for power.
Bayne took revenge on those who opposed him. Little
Dr. Hartpence refused to obey his orders and was ousted
from his room, which he never secured again, notwith-
standing the marvelous work which he and his wife did
among our sick. Yet the discontent, the rebellion and the
fierce hatreds were a healthy sign. A group of Americans
had given in, within a prison camp, to a form of Fascism
at its very worst. We had the spy system, the strong-arm
boys, uniforms of a type, ruthless revenge against those
who criticized the leader. Yet the fight went on and, in the
end, we rid ourselves of the monster which we had created.
Aaron Boxstein had been editor of a small, violently
anti-Japanese newspaper before the war. He also had writ-
ten a book, which had won considerable acclaim, relating
his experiences with the Chinese army. He spoke both
Cantonese and Mandarin fluently as well as a half-dozen
dialects.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 199
He was one of the first men I saw when I entered the
camp. He was dressed in a strange suit made of burlap
bags, wore a beard, makeshift shoes of heavy cardboard
and a floppy hat which covered most of his face.
I turned to speak to him, but he turned away.
"Boxstein," I said softly.
"My name is Hamish MacGregor," he replied. "I think
you've mistaken me for someone else."
"So I have," and I walked on.
It was obvious that Boxstein wished to conceal his iden-
tity. Possibly his life depended upon doing so. Certainly
I did not wish to be the person to upset his plans.
Mike Shakhty roomed with Mac, as Boxstein was now
called, and they spent a great deal of time together. A third
associate was General Blumenthal, a man whose notoriety
had spread throughout Asia, America and Europe. The
General had been the right-hand man of one of the great
Chinese war lords, long since dead, and was a legendary
figure in China. For the past few years he had done little
but sit in the lobby of the Hong Kong Hotel and spin tall
yarns to any who would listen to him. Many an American
or British travelling correspondent has fallen for Blumen-
thal's tales and printed them in his paper back home de-
spite a dozen contradictory stories sprung from the same
reliable source.
The General was a plump, round-faced man with a coarse
and rasping voice. Across the fingers of his right hand he
wore a line of gold rings, one on each finger, and these
rings served as effective knuckle-dusters. These three men
formed a strange group—the tough, sturdy General, the
scholarly, highly intelligent little newspaper editor, and
the excitable, neurotic boy.


aoo HONG KONG AFTERMATH
I was sure that some mystery lay behind their friend-
ship. And, one day, after considerable prodding of Mike
I found the key in a single, breathless word—"escape."
It was from the hill behind St. Stephen's College that I
saw the burning of the junk. Dusk had cast a faint, purple
haze across the water. The sinking sun spread long fingers
of fire through the darkening sky.
A junk with a large, gray, square sail, with many patches
of blue upon it, moved in stately grandeur across the bay.
A chugging, dirty Japanese patrol boat set out from the
shore. Across the expanse of blue water, we heard a hail,
then another, like barkings of a surly, vicious dog. The
junk glided smoothly along. The motor boat drew up
by her side. We heard the guttural growl of the Japanese,
the shrill, excited chattering of Chinese sailors.
A Japanese officer climbed onto the deck, followed by
three Jap soldiers. From the shore we saw them as tiny,
moving, doll-like figures. They were searching the boat.
Two soldiers went below. Others smashed open boxes on
the deck. A woman's cry, clear and sharp, leapt across the
water. Voices were loud in protest. A shot.
Then pandemonium broke loose on the ship. We heard
struggling, fighting, cursing, cries of pain. I could not see
well, but Thorpe, standing beside me, was far-sighted.
"They're tying up the Chinese, tying their hands to the
sides of the boat. My God, they've knocked the woman
down. They've stuck a knife through the cloth of her skirt.
What are they doing, Brown, what can they be doing?
They're pouring something all over the deck. It's kerosene,
it must be—and those poor devils tied to the boat."
A flame sprang up from the junk—at first a thin finger
—then a great roaring burst of fire. Flames leapt into the


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 201
sails, rolled across the deck, licked with great orange
tongues at the broad, flat stern. Screams of pain filled the
night, screams rising and falling. Doll-like figures threw
themselves about, writhed in agony against twisted ropes.
The woman had got the knife loose and leaped into the
sea; another figure hurled itself from the deck; White
flecks in the water marked their progress as they swam to-
ward the shore. The Japs were standing by in the motor
boat. They moved toward the swimming figures. There
was the rat-tat-tat of a spitting machine-gun—a final scream,
then the roar of the burning vessel drowned out all other
sound. «
Higher and higher the bright fire leaped; then quickly
it lost its brilliance. Sparks drifted into the sky; dull glow-
ing embers marked the junk's position. Black smoke formed
swirling clouds against the sky now grown deep grey. Occa-
sional cracking, popping sounds came from the hold. Now
and then a snake of fire came to life and slithered across
the blackened bulk. Then silence.
The engine of the Jap boat struggled into action. The
ugly sound of Jap voices could be heard above the chug-
ging motor. They had done their work. The Japs returned
to shore.
It was Thorpe who taught me the meaning and value of
prayer.
Gently, shyly, humbly, he asked God, not for protection
but for courage.
His prayer was not for a gift of outside help, but a de-
mand of himself.
I remembered the prayer memorized in my childhood:
"Give us this day"
But the word "Give" did not occur in Thorpe's prayer.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 203
the shirt off his back. He came into the camp with two
shirts and I with only one. Mine was made of fine Shan-
tung silk that soon shredded under my clumsy washing.
"You cannot wear that. It is impossible," he stated one
day when I had come to the college to see him.
"One wears what he has," I laughed.
"That is your only one?"
"Yes."
"Here, you take mine." He began to peel off the shirt
he wore.
"But wait—wait. How many have you got?"
"I have plenty. Here, you take."
"How many have you got?"
"Plenty."
"But how many?"
"I've another."
"Just one?"
"Yes, but that is plenty. Now stop arguing and take."
"But where is the other?"
"It is drying out on the grass."
He was standing now, naked to the waist and forcing
the shirt upon me. His other shirt was still wet, but he
would remain half-naked until it dried.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 207
beri-beri and Pearson was so emaciated that he could
hardly walk, Dobson held his food for a time of "great
need." Part of it was still in the duffle bag when we left the
camp.
It was soon evident that the pooling of our supplies had
not been made in good faith. Hugh Murphy had held out
a large quantity of coffee, evaporated milk and sugar.
Each morning before any of the rest of us arose, Murphy
got up quietly to make coffee. When it was ready he came
in and nudged Dobson and they went off for their morn-
ing coffee, smiling happily at each other.
From my pantry, I could hear their conversation:
"George, there's just a half cup more, you must take it."
"But my dear Hugh, I want you to have it."
"No, George, you must take it."
And so the soft, velvety voice of Murphy and Dobson's,
falsely hearty, would continue over the odor of scalding
coffee.
As his hidden supply of food neared its end, Murphy's
degeneration became complete. He sought out the various
women of the camp and, his voice lowered to the gentle
whine of martyrdom, told them lying stories of his own
generosity and of how it had left him sick and without
food.
"Poor Mr. Murphy. He's so brave and he never com-
plains," I heard an old missionary woman remark. She
had given him one of her last two tins of milk, not know-
ing that he had already collected toll from half a dozen
other women during the morning.
Dobson escaped scot free from the diseases of vitamin
deficiencies which raked the camp. For a long time this
was a mystery to me. Then I found out that he had se-


zo8 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
cured a large store of vitamin tablets from the university
infirmary during the siege. These he kept to himself in
spite of Clyron's and Pearson's great need. When I sug-
gested once that he help Clyron out, he shook a chubby
finger at me.
"It's a matter of forethought, my dear Brown—fore-
thought. I gave careful consideration to the possible needs
and now, you see, I am prepared."
This "forethought" seemed to me long-ranged selfish-
ness of which I admitted Clyron to be incapable. For
Clyron had played his part in the defense of Hong Kong
while Dobson scoured the university grounds to protect
his own interests.
Dobson shook his head sadly and went away to find
Murphy, who listened with shocked attention to the story.
"This fellow Brown is a barbarian. He has no sensitivity
like us," and Murphy slipped his hand softly across Dob-
son's shoulder.
"No, he's not like us."
I suggested to Pearson that we take a walk. He agreed,
and after a final temperature test and chart recording we
set out.
The main road was nearly deserted. A lone Chinese at-
tired in a faded blue gown shambled along the road near
us. He wore thick glasses and his long black hair was thick
and matted.
He maneuvered into a position ahead of us and, without
turning, began to speak.
"Are you English or Americans?"
"Americans," Pearson responded.
"The news is very good."
"Yes? How?"


Chapter XV
It was a long time before I found the rock.
It was a huge boulder almost rectangular in shape, worn
smooth as though by the sea, yet set high up on the hill-
side of the jutting peninsula. The rock was balanced on
one edge and gave the appearance of being about to tum-
ble down the steep slope. The slanted edge of the rock
formed a narrow cave which was almost blocked by a
smaller rock. Thick brown grass and a thorny bush with
mottled green and brown leaves further obscured the
opening.
In this cave there was room for two men to sit with their
backs against the rock's side. The formation of the stone
even formed a slightly sloping armchair from which one
could look out into the bay and see the islands and the
green peninsula beyond. The rock's tent-like sides gave
protection from rain or sun.
My search for privacy was ended!
I spent hours daily in this cave. By some miracle no one
else ever found it. And the few people I brought there
always seemed to understand that it was mine. It was a
spot of blessed refuge and from the time of its discovery,
I knew little unhappiness in Stanley.
It was from this rock that I saw the escape.
Mike Shakhty came to my room to tell me about it. I
think that I alone in the camp watched the eight figures
crawl through the barbed-wire entanglements and disap-
pear into the night.
Into Mike some strange new strength had poured and,
as he talked, I understood for the first time the passionate
810


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 211
power that had made a revolutionary leader of his father
and which had now sprung into being in his son. The
fatalistic idealism which had led the father to death had
found its reincarnation in the boy. The plan of escape was
his and I feel certain that its successful completion was
largely due to his skill.
Behind the escape lay Mike's cold decision. He would
fight for the black Russian earth which his father loved.
His was not an escape to peace or safety. Somehow, in
some way, he would get back to Russia—or he would die.
Only in this way could he again take his father's name.
"Peace has come to me here in the camp for the first
time in my life—I've had a chance to think—a chance to
know. I've made a decision. I've found out what I really
want in life more than anything else. It's to get back to
Russia in her time of danger—to fight for her, to become
a part of her. Even if I'm killed now, on the way, I'll be a
part of Russia, for I'll be fighting to reach her; my hand
will be outstretched toward her borders."
Slowly I dragged from him the story of the death of the
old Chinese beggar in Kowloon to whose murder he had
confessed on the night when I first met him. All the fran-
tic fear, the hysteria and the shame had drained from
Mike now and he, himself, found it hard to explain his
actions.
He told me how he had drifted from one seaport to an-
other after Valentina's death, always filled with fear and
panic and shame. He felt that he must die as his father had
died—in disgrace. Yet he loathed the thought of death and
he withdrew, shuddering, from contact with his fellow-
man.
There was nothing, not one single thing in the whole
world that he wanted—except escape—escape from life,


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 215
I threw myself down on the bed and Looey's face peered
down at me through the darkness.
"Where da hell you been?"
And then as I was silent—
"You're nuts, just plain f— nuts."
There was a morning roll call at eight.
Dobson made the rounds for Archie Lee and reported
whether or not we were all in our rooms. I had fought for
the dubious honor of calling the roll as soon as I had heard
of the escape in the hope that I might be able to withhold
longer than otherwise the knowledge that Mike and his
group were gone, but Dobson's influence was too great and
this privilege was denied me.
Dobson did better than I had expected. He waited for
an hour before making his report, making a pretense of
searching for Mike. Meanwhile the monitors from the
other buildings where the escapees had been housed, gath-
ered together wondering how long they dare withhold the
information.
Dobson reported directly to Archie Lee. The camp was
scoured for traces of the missing people.
None could be found.
As I walked down Roosevelt Avenue, I came face to face
with General Blumenthal. He looked solemnly at me, and
then noting my astonishment, grinned and winked one
eye. Later I found out that he had given his place over at
the last moment to a young American aviator. That after-
noon a Jap staff car came to the camp and Blumenthal
was ordered in and taken to the town. He was gone for
nearly two weeks and then one sunny afternoon he was
brought back and dumped in the middle of the camp. He


2i6 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
was wearing a new suit and hat and a shining pair of shoes.
One day he told of being put through excruciating tor-
tures, of beatings, the water cure and the rack. The next
day he told of being treated royally, of fine dinners, flower
girls and champagne. Blumenthal had his own means of
keeping secrets—it was to talk too much, to talk and talk
and talk until no one knew what to believe.
The results of the escape were less serious than I had
feared. The Japanese moved the boundaries in much
closer and slapped an eight o'clock curfew upon us. The
electric lights which had come on about a month after we
had entered the camp were required to be extinguished by
ten. Two roll calls instead of one were instituted and a
heavier guard patrolled the camp. The Japs also forbade
us from keeping night patrol over our buildings.
The attitude of the camp about the escape was, as a
whole, admirable. While Dobson and a few others decried
the selfishness of a small number which resulted in added
restrictions on the entire group, most of us were very
happy and proud. News of our plight would reach the out-
side world and that, above all, was what we wanted. We
could not believe that we would be left to slow starvation,
to sickness and squalor, once our fate was told. Boxstein
would head straight for Chungking and, before he left the
camp, he had pledged to tell the world of Stanley. Elation
filled the camp. Men and women whose faces had set in
hard, grim lines laughed and swapped jokes and called
cheery hellos to one another.
We were completely cut off from news save for the ly-
ing, two-page Japanese propaganda sheet that was daily
brought into the camp.
This paper told strange stories indeed!


218 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
never sure whether Sir Donald MacDonald had lost his
mind, or had a perverted sense of humor, or whether he
really was in possession of the news and spread these
strange stories in order to divert serious attention from
himself. However, I suspect that the first guess is correct,
for several times he made fantastic, haranguing speeches
from the balcony of the tiny concrete room where he and
Lady MacDonald had sought refuge.
Whatever the source of the tales, the camp was alive
with stories of tremendous Allied successes. Most of the in-
ternees were convinced that Hong Kong would be in the
hands of the British again within a few months. These
successes buoyed up our people temporarily, but the let-
down will be terrific later on. This false optimism must
eventually lead to group mental instability in the camp
and should a breaking point in mental endurance be
reached, God alone knows what might happen there.
The eight o'clock curfew was rigidly imposed for some
time and led to many incidents. Both men and women
were slapped, kicked or beaten by the patrols. Bectave was
among the victims. At a few minutes past eight he slipped
across the grounds and was met by two Jap soldiers. They
pushed him down an incline and when he fell he was
kicked in the back and the side of the head, jerked up and
ordered to his quarters.
The cold had changed to sudden withering heat. Mos-
quitoes filled the rooms in great number. They buzzed
and stung all night long. Looey, like Butsy, seemed to get
large supplies of rice from some unknown source. This he
kept until it rotted. He stored it in open cans and jars
and left it about the room. Soon the place was alive with
roaches. Scorpions and centipedes too infested the camp


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 219
and it was necessary to examine blankets with care before
lying down.
Once, just as I had completed undressing, a gigantic
scorpion crawled out from under my pillow. I seized a
shoe and went after it. Blow after blow stunned but did
not kill it. The hard shell formed a solid protection and
the scorpion climbed high on the wall.
As I struck again and again at the venomous creature,
Looey looked on, dull-eyed and glum.
"You're nuts. How many times have I got to tell you—
you're nuts."
Two places of refuge were located away from Looey's
fishy stare. On rainy nights I slept in the bath-tub; on fair
nights I wandered the grounds of the camp. Only one
other man violated the curfew. This was Pasquale Cor-
done. Often we would sit and talk and he would tell me of
waterfront brawls in which he had engaged, or of the
spaghetti joint he intended to open in San Diego when he
returned. His loyalty took the form of offering to beat up
my supposed enemies and I had difficulty in persuading
him not to practice his undoubted skill upon Jake Bayne
and Looey.
"Whatsa matter with you, Doc? Looey he says you're
nuts; you let me at him for five minutes. He won't talk
like that no more."
Pat sought to instruct me in the gentle art of self-
defense. He showed me how to break a beer bottle so as to
insure a ragged edge suitable for twisting into the face of
an opponent. He demonstrated a rabbit punch to the
throat guaranteed to permanently disqualify the recipient
from further combat. He taught me how to hold a knife
so that it could not be twisted from my hand.


220 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Pat could always tell when I wished to be alone and left
me promptly. Often we would both spend the night prowl-
ing about the camp and would pass and repass each other
in the distance without sign of recognition.
The dark rolling waters, the slim pine and casuarina
trees outlined against the gray sky, the looming walls of
the prison, the old Gothic tower of St. Stephen's, the
hibiscus hedge above the low cemetery wall, the narrow
sentry boxes with their silent guards all held an eerie
beauty that could not be seen in the dirty, cluttered camp
that sweltered in daytime beneath the tropical sun.
Strange indeed were some of the scenes I witnessed on
those nightly excursions.
Ted Smart, the Australian artist, grew more moody and
silent. He seldom spoke. He sat for long hours, his chin
cradled on his chest, staring vacantly at the ground. He
grew a heavy, curly beard. His manner became progres-
sively more abstracted and he started nervously when
spoken to. His voice took on the thin edge of hysteria.
"We're never going to get out of here—never! We'll just
sit around until we die." Then his voice cracked. "Yes,
we'll die. We'll all die—slowly, slowly— Oh, God."
After the escape he became obsessed with the idea.
"I might as well try—the worst that can happen is to be
killed. We'll die, anyway. This will be quicker."
Yet Ted was incapable of making any sensible plan for
an escape and he knew it. He looked with fascination at
the free land that lay beyond the wires, but it was a fasci-
nation in which fear was mingled. His imprisonment had
sapped his vitality and he feared making decisions. Soon
the simple judgments needed in the camp became too
much for him. He wished that there were no choices to be


222 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Ted walked on and on down the long, straight road.
The bright moon cast shadows about him. Then he stopped
again, turned half around, bewildered that there had been
no shot. He continued walking, but now his steps were un-
steady, he wavered from one side of the road to another.
He came to a place where the rocks formed a natural
seat. He put his hand upon the stone and fell forward on
his knees. He buried his face in his arms and began to cry.
In the silent night, I could hear the sobs that ripped and
twisted through his body.
The Sikh leaned his rifle against the sentry tower and
walked down the road to where the boy knelt. He put his
arm beneath the boy's shoulder and raised him, and thus
supporting him, led him back toward the camp.
I went down to the sentry box and as the Indian came
back, he handed the still hysterical boy over to me.
"You will take care of him, Sahib."
"Yes. You know you risked your own life just now."
"There are many things more important than life,
Sahib."
Several times during the still, hot nights I came face to
face with the Jap patrols. They passed me without molest-
ing me. Once I lay on my back on the tennis courts behind
the old officers' club. A single Jap sentry passed, then came
back to look at me. For a moment my blood ran cold, then
he spoke in perfect English and offered me a cigarette.
He was a Nisei, an American-born Japanese, who had
gone to Japan for his education and been forced into the
army. As he talked on he became quite excited and the
main thread of his conversation was: "Why does America
fight us? How can they hope to win?
"Look what we have done in just a few months. Just


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 223
lookl We have all the oil, all the rubber, all the minerals
we want in China, Malaya and Java. We have spread half
way across the Pacific. We have actually shelled the Califor-
nia coast at Santa Barbara. We have struck at your bases
in the Aleutians. How can you possibly strike back! We
have hundreds of thousands of men in China. We have
every mineral we need. Daily we are building factories.
Soon we will be able to supply our armies with guns, am-
munition, tanks, planes, everything we need from the
mainland of Asia. What difference does it make if you cut
off the sea lanes? You never, never can drive our armies out
of China.
"Why does not America surrender while there is still
time?" he continued. "We have shown her that she cannot
protect her Pacific coast line. If she does not make peace
with us we will land a gigantic army on the coast—in six
months we can be walking the streets of Washington."
"And what," I asked, "if Tokyo is bombed?"
"Then America will know the vengeance of the Great
Nipponese Empire. She will be destroyed, utterly, com-
pletely." Then turning to me. "Do you not believe these
things?"
"No—neither, I think, do you."
He peered at me through the night and laughed. "These
are the things I have been told. I am a Japanese and I be-
lieve, but once I was in America."
He tossed his packet of cigarettes to me and departed
but he left me strangely disturbed.
Daily the Japanese news sheet carried accounts of the
shelling of Santa Barbara. An officer on the submarine
which had done the shelling gave a serial eye-witness ac-
count. It was, of course, greatly exaggerated. He told of the
"glorious sight of flames leaping to meet the sky," de-


824 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
scribed "the stark panic" of the populace. "How proud I
felt to be one of the little vanguard of Nipponese soldiers
to begin the conquest of our arrogant enemy!"
In my own mind, I pictured the fury of the American
people if, no matter how unsuccessfully, their very main-
land should be attacked. I thought of a nation deter-
mined for revenge, angry that shells should have touched
its shores. And when I finally did return to my country, I
discovered that few people considered the shelling of Santa
Barbara of importance— "Oh, no damage was done," they
said and shrugged their shoulders. Some did not even
remember the incident.
Into the camp there had flocked a group of nondescript
women. They were the riff-raff of the Wanchai waterfront.
They represented every conceivable blend of blood and
race, mixed Asiatic bloods—Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Ma-
layan, Javanese, often with a touch of Negro or European.
Some of the Chinese and Eurasian women of the camp
were there legitimately, the wives of the British police or
customs officials. Many of them such as Roy Lidgate's
mother were charming, cultured, helpful people. But there
were others whose presence no one could explain.
Some of these women were undoubtedly spies in the
hire of the Japanese, who kept them informed of what
went on in the camp. Others were women, known to the
Chinese guards, who were permitted to slip through to sell
cigarettes and food and then slip out again into the city,
their pockets lined with money. Still others were there to
seek the slender food supply of the camp, which was better
than the starvation of the city outside.
In the Indian quarters they had set up a brothel of sorts.
The price for their services was reported to be a ten-ounce


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 227
anyone who bucked him—he and he alone should decide
on the distribution of food. He argued, with considerable
justification, that the kitchen crew required extra rations.
Well, he'd decide how much they'd get.
Looey's portions grew considerably smaller in the fol-
lowing days. He walked up and down the waiting lines,
complaining bitterly: "Look at it. Look at it. It ain't
enough to feed a sparrow," and then pointing to Brewster's
waistline, the protruberance of which was undeniable,
"Look at him. He ain't getting no bird food, he ain't!"
Brewster smiled happily and continued to ladle the
sticky rice onto the plates and into the cans stretched out
toward him.
Late one night as I passed the quarters for the single
men, I heard a rustle and a quick footfall.
I stepped into the shadows and a figure, clad in a lav-
ender silk gown, hurried by.
It was Vera Van Sciver and in her hand she clasped
tightly a ten-ounce tin of jam!


232 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
We crept cautiously up the grassy path and peered over
the cemetery's low brick wall, and the scene that we see is
so unreal, so bizarre, that for moments we can only stare
in unbelief.
There is a rounded child's tomb in the cemetery. It
bears the inscription: "Isabel, infant daughter of Cpl.
Clyde: May 10, 1851-June 14, 1852: May she know the
peace of Heaven." Across this child's tomb, lay a woman.
Her dress had been slit and torn and it hung in rags about
her. Her 'legs were encased in white stockings to the knee.
The thighs and buttocks and lower part of her back were
bare.
A Chinese woman sat upon the ground, her back braced
against the wooden cross which Yarmolinsky and I had
built and placed above the graves of the nurses who had
been bayoneted in Tweed Bay Hospital. The cross threw
its shadow over her. Her hands stretched out grotesquely
from the shadows and seized those of the woman who was
prostrate across the tomb. She was holding the half-naked
woman in position.
A stocky Eurasian woman stood above the tomb. In her
hand she held a policeman's heavy belt. As we watched,
the belt came swishing down across the woman's back.
She shuddered and her body arched high in agony. An-
other blow fell and the woman tried to throw herself side-
wise. Blood oozed in a thick trickle across the rough con-
crete. Two other Chinese women watched, their faces ex-
pressionless in the pale green light that sifted down
through the casuarinas.
Then Pat let out a yell and leaped the wall into the
cemetery. The Eurasian woman dropped the leather belt
and ran. The three others followed her up the hill to the
gray dormitory of St. Stephen's. The beaten woman rolled


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 233
off the tomb and fell beneath the wood cross. We went to
her and saw that she was gagged with a white cotton stock-
ing. Pat got out his knife and cut it from her mouth.
The lash had left livid welts across her back and but-
tocks, but no serious damage se«med to be done. Her
stomach was bloody where she had scraped against the
tomb's rough surface. Now that the gag was gone, she be-
gan to cry loudly—"Ai-ai-ai-ai," and then the sputtering
obscenities of coolie Chinese.
"Get Dr. Hartpence, I'll stay with her until he comes."
"O.K."
Pat leaped up and darted down the hillside, but hardly
had he gone when the woman leaped up too and still
chanting her "Ai-ai-ai" ran like a frightened rabbit, zig-
zagging about the graves, leaping the low wall, and disap-
peared in the dark shadows below.
It was only when she jumped to her feet that I recognized
her. She was Susie Chu, the fat Eurasian woman who sold
cigarettes at exorbitant prices in the black market she
conducted from behind the rocks.
Not until many weeks later did I discover the reason for
Susie's beating. This greedy creature had made an arrange-
ment with one of the Chinese guards to bring in the ciga-
rettes and candies she sold in the camp. For some months
none of the other guards had dared to participate in this
dangerous game. Then a new Chinese watchman was put
on duty and he arranged with the four women who had
been in the cemetery to sell goods which he smuggled in.
They undersold Susie and she threatened revenge. Finally
in her anger she had gone to one of the Japanese officials
and informed. The poor Chinese watchman was executed
the next day in the prison yard. He was beheaded. The
beating was part payment for his death. Later they at-


234 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
tacked her again, scratched her eyes and pulled out great
strands of her hair. Susie wailed loudly. Soon afterwards
Susie became a devout Christian. She came daily to the
rooms of the Catholic Sisters and prayed for long hours at
the simple shrine which they had erected. We wondered
whether fear or repentance had brought about her conver-
sion. Whichever it was, it did not interfere with her par-
ticipation in the black market. Now, however, she did not
waylay lonely walkers on the rocks, but kept close to the
crowded areas.
She would creep up to one very softly and whisper, "You
like buy nice cigalettes? On'y fifteen doras."
Pat's possession of a knife was a more worrying problem.
One day, a month or so after we arrived in Stanley, the
Japs had issued orders that we were all to leave the build-
ings and report en masse to the parade grounds. It was a
viciously cold day. The rain poured down upon us. For
hours we were kept waiting, herded together like cattle.
The ground beneath us turned to heavy muck. We were
given no inkling of the intent of the Japanese. Conjecture
ran riot and some even believed that we were being pre-
pared for mass execution. Men went through their papers,
tearing up anything which might link them with the
army or secret lodges of which the Japs were most suspi-
cious. The parade grounds were soon filled with scraps of
paper. Men stamped them into the mud with their boots.
Then we were lined up and each of us was searched.
Even then we were not permitted to go to shelter, for our
rooms were being searched too. The Japs particularly
hunted for guns, knives, radios, cameras and typewriters.
We were ordered to surrender these possessions and if any-


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 237
wire into the bulging warehouse. Cases and cases of
canned milk, corned beef, tinned peaches, tea and vege-
tables could be seen through the grimy windows.
Then one day Jap soldiers tore down the wire about the
building and drove trucks up to the door. They brought
Chinese coolies with them to load the trucks.
Thorpe, Dugojbovsky and I watched them from the
crest of the hill on which St. Stephen's stood. A barefoot
coolie in black pajamas worked among the rest. Surrepti-
tiously he slipped a can into his pocket. A Jap soldier saw
him. He grasped him by the throat, pushed him to the
ground, started to raise him and at the same time drove
his boot into the coolie's crotch. Again and again he did
this, until when he released the coolie, the Chinese lay
motionless on the ground.
On the hills and along the roadway, the tattered Eng-
lish and Americans watched in stupefied silence. When he
had finished, the Jap looked about smiling proudly and
made a little bow.
The truck rolled away from the godowns but stopped in
the road. The Jap soldiers looked down upon the gathered
white men and then one of them tossed a tin of corned
beef down to the street. For a moment it lay there. Then
a British policeman leaped for it; another man kicked it
aside. Still a third seized it and slipped it in his pocket.
The Japs laughed. Another can and then another was
thrown to the street. Many of the watching men had wives
and children in the camp, starving. They threw aside all
pride and fought and scrambled in the street like children
fighting for pennies. They tugged at each other, tore off
clothing, stamped on hands and still the Japs threw down
more cans—and laughed.


238 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
The reactions of Dugojbovsky and Thorpe typified the
men.
"The bastards! The swine! Have they no pride?" The
Russian grew red in the face and swore to himself.
"If my little girl were here, I too might be fighting
there on the street for food," said Thorpe. He turned and
walked away, his head down. Dugojbovsky pounded his
fist in the palm of his hand.
"By God, I get that food, but I don't crawl. I take."
He was determined that he would get into the godown
that night. So were half a dozen other men with whom we
talked. When I saw that Dugojbovsky could not be turned
from his plan, I wanted to join the raiders, but he forbade
it. My feet were still without feeling and walking for me
was slow and painful. Dugojbovsky said I would endanger
the whole party and I had to admit reluctantly that he was
right.
The raid the first night was successful. I watched it from
the hillside. Straw mats and coats were spread over the
wires. Three men ran swiftly, took two quick steps upon
this bridge and leaped high into the air and across the
tangled rolls of wire. They broke a window in the godown,
seized the cases and bags nearest to their hands, tossed
them into the camp, rearranged the bridge and leaped back
to safety.
That day we feasted in Dugojbovsky's room. Yaroslov-
sky made pancakes on an open fire. We had milk and bully
beef and invited all our friends in for the spread. This
was a fatal mistake. Word of the raid spread through the
camp and the next night another group made a try.
A shot from the sentry sent them flying for cover. The
Japs came through the camp and made a search. They ar-
rested any man they found out of his rooms and one of


240 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Back they came into the camp but death came with
them, for Plaisted was unable to survive the ordeal and
two weeks later he died. Dugojbovsky mourned deeply for
he felt responsible for the organization of the first raid.
And indeed there was little consolation in the thought
that very few of the British in Stanley would live to see
freedom again and that, perhaps, Plaisted was lucky to be
among the first to go.


Chapter XVII
Serge Rubmansiov was nine years old. He was a small,
blond, fragile boy who looked much younger. Dugojbov-
sky brought him to my room occasionally and slowly I
learned his story.
Both his father and mother were doctors—graduates of
the University of Hong Kong medical school. Throughout
the siege they had distinguished themselves for courage.
They had taken their ambulance out to the jagged front
lines, penetrated deep into areas encircled by Jap snipers
and brought out many a soldier or wounded Chinese civil-
ian who would otherwise have lost his life.
The day after the surrender, they received a call be-
seeching them to go to Blue Moon Street in the Happy
Valley district. The Japanese had lined up a group of men
in one of the large houses and turned a machine-gun on
them. Several of these men were students at Pearl Univer-
sity. The only explanation ever found for this hideous act
was that the house might have been mistaken for that of
an important Chungking official.
Not all of the men were killed. Several lay screaming in
agony. The two Rubmansiovs drove to the doorway and
the husband went in to see what help could be given.
He was rendering first aid to one of the wounded men
when he heard a sharp cry outside. He rushed to the door
and found a Jap soldier struggling with his wife in the
ambulance. He ran shouting to her aid. He seized the Jap
by the arm and swung him around. As he did so another
Jap struck him in the back with his bayonet. The blade
841


242 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
went clear through. The Jap used his foot as a wedge to
pry it loose.
The wife was bundled to the great room still littered
with the dead of the Blue Moon Street massacre. There,
in the presence of the Chinese attendants, she was repeat-
edly raped. When the Japs had finished with her, they
bayoneted her too and then tossed her bloody body onto
the street, not far from that of her husband.
The two lay together all that day and that night and the
next day. Shivering looters stopped to pick the clothing
off the bodies and left them stripped naked, stark symbols
of Japanese savagery.
Not until the following night did the Chinese hospital
attendants dare to come back and provide for the dead a
shallow grave by the roadside.
This story Serge did not know, and pray God that he
may never learn it. He spent most of his time drawing pic-
tures on rough paper with a pencil. In spite of his scanty
equipment, there was a swift, moving imagery about his
work.
He had two great ambitions in life—to become an artist
and to go to America. Dugojbovsky and I promised him
that his latter wish would come true and that he should
have an opportunity to study with a good American
teacher.
But day by day, the slender, fragile child became paler
and thinner. We took him to Dr. Hartpence, who diag-
nosed the case as tuberculosis.
"It is still in the early stages. If we could get him to a
good hospital, with proper care, he could be cured quickly.
But here—here—well, who knows?" And the doctor, who
had a son of his own within the camp, turned to hide the
tears in his eyes.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 245
Chang's gratitude to me was undying. He brought me
frequent gifts—moon cakes, made of thick black rice in
which egg yolks were set, "to festivate the moon round-
ing," a beautiful Chinese scroll, cuff-links of light green
jade.
One day in the camp a Chinese woman slipped up to
me. "Bak Hon?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied, for this was my Chinese name.
"Come with me."
I followed her to the wires at a place where there were
no guards. Just outside stood a Chinese in coolie clothing,
pretending to be busy working on the road. It was Chang
Weng On.
I was badly frightened, for some Chinese caught talking
to internees at the wires had been beheaded.
Chang had brought a message from Pearson's wife. She
and the boy had left the city in an attempt to get to the
interior. The city, he said, was a hell-hole. Hundreds were
starving in the streets each day. The Japanese were trying
to empty Hong Kong. No food was given out save to those
who worked for the Japanese. Boats provided free trans-
portation for those who wanted to go back to Japanese-
occupied territory, providing they expressed themselves
willing to work on the farms to supply food for the Jap
army. Leung and Clyron's servants had gone and Chang
himself intended to go in a few days. He had a note for
Clyron from Leung and one to Pearson from his wife
which he tossed across the barricade. And then, wonder of
wonders, he produced two packs of American cigarettes
and tossed them over too.
I urged him to move away quickly and, from a distance,
I watched him dog-trotting down the road, using the lop-
sided, forward-leaning gait of the ricksha coolie.


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 247
Hill was waiting for me. He was sitting on the edge of my
bed with the tea and jam in his hands.
"I say, old man, you know really—really—we can't take
these." There was a sombre dignity in the emaciated man
and what had once seemed absurd pomposity now showed
as a real and noble pride. He stood handing back to me
the slender lifeline I had passed on.
Argument would have been futile, so I took back the
tins and still carrying them, walked with him to where his
wife was still sitting. For a long time, Mrs. Plimpton-Hill
refused my gift as being too great to accept, but finally we
made this agreement: Dugojbovsky had given me some
flour. With this the Plimpton-Hills would make bread and
each day while it lasted, we would have tea with bread and
jam at four o'clock. I would come to their place for it.
Tears of gratitude streamed down Mrs. Plimpton-Hill's
face and Plimpton-Hill, standing behind her, held the arm
of the chair so tightly that his knuckles showed white.
And so each day after that we had tea—a single slice of
bread, a spoonful of jam, carefully measured and tea which,
with each cup, grew weaker and weaker. But still Mildred
Plimpton-Hill was the gracious hostess and I know that
all day she looked forward to this hour and when it came,
she pretended that she was again in her lovely home on the
Peak. The old glasses from which we sipped the tasteless
brew became fine chinaware and the bent tin prison spoons
were sterling silver. We talked of gentle things—of Hyde
Park in the spring, of punting on the River Cam, of
Rupert Brooke's old apple orchard and the lovely tea-room
there, of book-stalls on Charing Cross Road—all the beauties
of old England which Mrs. Plimpton-Hill would never see
again.


248 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Bayne had left the camp. He alone among the Ameri-
cans was permitted to go to Shanghai. His ousting from
leadership in the camp had been imminent and for weeks
he had sulked in bed in order to avoid appearance on the
grounds. His henchmen arranged a theatrical exit for him.
A Japanese car and chauffeur came to take him away.
Riley, Hicks and a few others gave speeches for the de-
parting hero. The Rev. Mr. Ott blew his trumpet loudly
and tempestuously to the tune of "He's a Jolly Good Fel-
low," which ended in a long, sour blast. Then as the car
rolled away, the crowd sighed with relief and little Dr.
Hartpense voiced the thoughts of most of us, "Thank God,
he's gone." The blight of Bayne's presence removed from
the camp, we were able again to cooperate as a group and
in the ensuing weeks we obtained many alleviations from
the acute suffering of the earlier months.
Bayne's successor, as chairman of the camp, was Ben
Furlong. Furlong represented the substantial element of
the community. He was a solid, laughing man with a bluff,
hearty manner. He had been head of the largest oil con-
cern in Hong Kong but was scrupulously honest in his
personal relations. Furlong was generous and kindly and
I, for one, owe him a vote of thanks.
My suit was getting me into trouble. It had become so
filthy and so malodorous that I became unwelcome in any
confined area. Pearson in one of his apopleptic outbursts
voiced the rumors I had already heard.
He yelled at me, "You stink, by God, Brown, you stink.
If you want to go for a walk with me, all right—but don't
sit in the room. For Christ's sake, wash your suit."
But unfortunately I had nothing to wear during the
washing process. Ben Furlong solved the problem finally


352 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
knew, deep within ourselves, that those who had fought
and suffered in freedom's name must in the end enjoy its
fruition.
From eight to ten the grounds were heavily patrolled
and it was necessary to stay indoors. Sharply at ten, Dob-
son's head always popped into the aperture where I lived.
I reported "in" and then usually went out to wander
through the grounds, or to listen to Pat Cordone's stories
of reform school and prison or water-front brawls or
bordellos in Colon or Capetown, or wherever his ship had
happened to take him.
Ever since the first days of our internment, rumors had
trickled in to us about repatriation. These stories had
taken every fantastic form conceivable and most of us had
ignored them. One day rumor would have it that we were
all to be sent to Formosa to remain in prison there until
the end of the war; the next day it was Australia and free-
dom, the next Chile. No one knew where or how these
rumors started. Strangely enough on one occasion I was
able to trace a tale back to its origin—and, much to my
surprise, found it to be myself.
The story was this. Dugojbovsky and I sat in his room.
Musingly we talked about opening a Russian restaurant
after the war. Where should we do it? I suggested Buenos
Aires. Then we talked of all the fine Russian foods we
should serve in our restaurant in Buenos Aires. That night
the camp teemed with the story that we were all being
sent there. I traced the story back until finally I found it
had been told by an elderly Englishman whose room was
next to Dugojbovsky's. Where, I asked, did he get the
story?
"Why," he answered, "I distinctly heard the men in the
next room saying they were going to Buenos Aires."


*54 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Barney Latham told me the tale and we stood joking
about it, when General Blumenthal came along. He in-
sisted that the story be believed.
"It is true. There is a tiger in the camp."
I got mad. "How can you believe such tomfoolery I Why
man, it's utter rot, absolute drivel. Use a little common
sense."
"But it's true."
"It can't be true. Who ever heard of a tiger on Hong
Kong Island. My God, don't be such a fool. Why, if this
story were true, I'd believe in anything—even repatriation."
Just then, from around the bend in the road, we heard
shouts. Two Sikh guards, accompanied by two Jap soldiers
and a gang of boys, paraded down the road. A bamboo
pole was thrown across the shoulders of the Sikhs and a
tiger was roped to the bamboo. The Sikhs staggered under
its great weight.
I stood in awed silence as the procession passed.
"Now," shouted General Blumenthal, "perhaps you'll
believe what I tell you."
"I'll believe anything now—anything."
"Even in repatriation?" Barney asked.
"Yes, even in repatriation."
Barney and I shook hands solemnly.
"We'll be on the boat within a month."
Barney Latham was a grand fellow. He had been a stu-
dent at the University of California where he had gained
fame for his prowess at tennis. The United China relief
had sent him out to the Orient to play exhibition matches
to raise funds for them.
Barney had just arrived in Hong Kong and was sched-
uled to leave for Macao on the next day, when the war


856 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
in the camp talking to me. And now if I try to get rid of
them, they'll all be sore!"
He brooded for awhile in silence, then yelled:
"To hell with Dale Carnegie. I want a good argument."
Cheng, the fat, evil Chinese whom the Japanese had put
in charge of the camp, was gone. He had tried every con-
ceivable graft on those under his surveillance. He made
those in the camp who had bank accounts sign over funds
to him.
Bayne had come roaring into camp one day.
"I told him I wouldn't do it. I told him to go to hell.
He said he'd cut off all our food supplies. I dared him. I
told him you don't dare do it—I," he pounded his chest,
"I told him to go straight to hell."
For two days after this event we had no food at all and,
on the next day, Bayne meekly signed.
Cheng had accepted bribes of every kind and was even
holding out part of our rice supply and reselling it, using
John Riley as his agent. Bayne knew of Riley's participa-
tion in this theft but refused to remove him as our food
representative.
Cheng, however, was not splitting his profit with the
Japs and, having exhausted the funds of the internees, he
turned to tricks upon the victors. One day he disappeared.
Perhaps he was beheaded, for stories reached the camp to
that effect. In his place there arrived a pompous little Japa-
nese who had assumed the name of Yamashita. Before the
war, he had been a barber in the Hong Kong Hotel and
had then been known as Suna.
Now Yamashita stalked proudly through the prison
grounds in an officer's uniform. Neat banana-yellow gloves
dangled from one hand. To emphasize what he wished to


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 259
the day drew near, there was no definite news. On the
fifteenth there was no sign of a ship. Men wept in dis-
appointment and despair. The Japanese now informed us
that it was the Asama Maru which would carry us. It was,
they said, still in Yokohama. The twenty-first was now the
approved schedule for its arrival in Hong Kong.
The coordination of the Japanese was always poor. As
we were to depart on the fifteenth, the Japs considered it
unnecessary to maintain the increased rations of the Brit-
ish beyond that date. The Jap command had ordered the
restoration of the old rations and forgotten to counter-
mand the order. The English were, after a two weeks' res-
pite, put back on the nine ounces of rice previously
granted them. Even this represented a two-ounce increase
over the earlier days.
Again on the twenty-first we were disappointed. There
was still no sign of the ship. The English rations were re-
duced a second time and only the original seven ounces
given to them. Later when we finally left, I discovered that
on that day there was still a further cut, and all the privi-
leges granted during our last days at Stanley were removed
from the British even before we had left the grounds.
My own last days in the camp were extremely active.
Barrett Willoughby, a man of considerable power and in-
fluence in Hong Kong, appeared in my room one day. He
congratulated me on my fight against Bayne and asked me
if I would be willing to take out messages for the British. I
assured him that I would.
He arranged an interview for me with Franklin Charles
Gimson, the British Colonial Secretary. Gimson talked
with me for two and one-half hours telling me what he
would like to have known of the conditions in Stanley;
he also granted me the right to quote him publicly. Mr.


262 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
whose need for food was so desperate that it hurt me to
see it. And all that I had to offer was a can, perhaps two,
of jam. A couple of cans went to Thorpe and a couple to
Mrs. Royce. None of my Russian friends would take any.
"There are others not so strong as we."
Mrs. Royce, who had not wept over the death of her son,
cried over a tin of jam. Mrs. Plimpton-Hill said, "God
bless you," and the tears streamed down her face. Mrs.
Malley looked at me dully. "Why do you give to others
when you know I need so badly?" She threw the can back
at me. Professor Bancroft came to me later. "Please under-
stand, Nick, Kate's sick."
Milene would take nothing. She had grown more thin,
more pale. Her days in the camp were spent in work—she
washed and mended for those too weak to tend to them-
selves. She cared for the children of sick mothers, she
learned to patch shoes; she worked in the kitchens. In the
evening we walked together.
"I can't leave you behind, Milene. I can't—it means star-
vation for you, death."
"Listen to me, Nick. Listen carefully. You've got a job
to do. You've got to see that the conditions in this camp
are known. Somehow, in some way, they'll find how to get
us out, if only they know. For the time being, you've got to
forget me. You've got to fight for freedom and your task is
going to be the hardest one I know. You'll have to tell
the story of Stanley Prison camp again and again. You'll
have to tell it hundreds of times. You'll grow so sick of it,
you'll never want to mention it again. You'll think that
there's no use—that you're not accomplishing anything.
But it doesn't matter, you've got to go on and on and on.
You've got to beat your fists against a stone wall. People
will want to forget us here. Your job is to see that they


264 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
Sham Sui Po Camp, but for physical reasons were unable
to carry on, so had been brought to Stanley. They were be-
sieged by internees seeking information of friends and
relatives.
Willoughby took me up to see them and they provided
me with a picture of the camp in which the Canadians,
Volunteers, Royal Scots and Middlesex regiments were
held. The conditions were much the same as in Stanley
although the sanitary situation was somewhat better. There
had been deaths in Sham Sui Po from beri-beri which in
advanced stages affects the heart. We had had no deaths
from this source, but Sham Sui Po foreshadowed what
would occur in Stanley.
The Japanese completely ignored the regulations of the
Geneva Convention. Dr. Fairbanks was particularly indig-
nant at the mass punishment meted out to our men for
individual infringement of regulations. On one occasion
all food had been stopped for several days because one of
the soldiers attempted to get a note to his friend in the
hospital.
Of the many stories they told, the incident which af-
fected me most was the treatment of the men after there
had been an escape. Japanese officers went through Sham
Sui Po and attempted to force every prisoner there to sign
a statement that he would make no attempt to escape.
Many refused. These men were taken outside, lined up
against a wall and a machine gun trained on them. Finally,
upon the advice of their superior officers, all except four
men signed the worthless documents. There were four,
however, who steadfastly refused. These men were led away
to prison. The Japanese brought back reports that they
had been beheaded, but no proof of this was offered. Dr.


266 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
me, each in turn. Professor Virgil Bancroft looked on
shyly and his eyes were bright with happiness.
That afternoon I had a long conversation with Ban-
croft.
"This is madness," I told him. "You'll be leaving the
camp and Kate won't be able to go with you. Even though
she's married to you, she won't be recognized as an Ameri-
can citizen. Anyway, the repatriation lists are all made out.
Beside all that, Kate would never leave the girls here
alone."
"Why, Nick, I'm not going."
"But you've got to. You can't stay here."
"Why not?"
"You'd be throwing away your life. It means starvation
for you, death. You're not strong enough to take much
more of this—I tell you it's throwing your life away."
"No, Nick—you're mistaken. If I went, that would be
throwing my life away. You see, Kate's my life, now—Kate
and the girls. I've never really lived before; I've been cold,
weary, unwanted; now I am alive and there's need for me.
Don't you see?"
"Yes, Professor Bancroft, I understand."
The Japanese had forbidden us to take out any printed
or handwritten material. Daily, people from the British
camp came to me with messages which they wished to
have delivered. I took down the messages, names and ad-
dresses and committed them to memory. I also had Gim-
son's report and Dr. Dean Smith's data to memorize. Hours
passed at the rock as I went over and over and over this
material. Nothing must be forgotten. I had fifty-three
names of friends and relatives of internees whom I had


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 269
steps without halting.—Yes, I'll tell your wife and daughter
you're safe.
Thorpe walked with me for an hour along the brown,
beaten paths. We met Bectave, and Smart joined us later.
Their talk centered about a single theme which Bectave
expressed best.
"We would not mind hunger and suffering and pain so
much, if we could only feel that it was doing some good—
that out of it would spring something that can bring vic-
tory, the final triumph of a free people, a single second
closer. Then there would be comfort, even some glory, in
all this.
"You alone can give us this comfort, for if America
knows, if she only knows what will happen to her if she
does not win, then that great country will pour its strength
across the world like a sheath of flame."
Thorpe's hands twisted the sleeve of my shirt. "You will
tell them, Brown. You will tell them. Beg them to do
some single act in our name—an extra hour of work build-
ing a ship, an extra dollar for war bonds, a single thought
that will bind together more closely the free nations of
the world, a pint of blood, a piece of scrap metal—in our
name—given in our name. Then we'll still be playing a
part in the war, we'll still be fighting, even here behind
these barbed wires."
"That's the thing I've minded worst of all," added
Smart, "of not playing any part in this struggle, of being
wasted."
I answered them, "You have my word. You shall not be
forgotten."
Around us, listening, had gathered a ring of English-
men, men whom I had never met. Now in the dimming
light before the gaunt, gray buildings of St. Stephen's,


870 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
they filed by me, one by one, and shook my hand. Then
there was silence, complete silence.
I turned and walked alone down the steep slope, through
the cemetery where lay our dead, across the parade-
ground, past the prison gates. I dared not look back.
When I got back to my quarters, Dobson was scamper-
ing about the room, pulling out suit-cases, setting out a
fresh shirt, a new tie, his good suit. He was going to have
dinner up on the hill with Yamashita, he and Furlong and
the other camp politicians.
The next morning, Furlong, Dobson, Yamashita and
Archie Lee linked arms in front of the American quarters.
Dobson bowed and smiled broadly. The camera clicked
and a propaganda picture was prepared for the Japanese.
A call was sent through the American quarters that we
should all come out for a mass picture. Dobson came to
tell me.
"Im not going out to have my picture taken."
"But you must. These are orders."
"Look, if the Japs want a picture of me, they can come
and lug me out of here and take a picture while they're
doing it." v
"Really, Brown, you're incorrigible. You must learn to
cooperate. Back in New York, you know—I'll have to file
an unsatisfactory report on your unwillingness to partici-
pate in group activities, your rebellion against authority."
"Go ahead, you greasy little bastard. Now your syphilitic
lodge brother awaits you and maybe you can again be pic-
tured with that son of God—Yamashita."
"Really—really—Brown—you disappoint me so."
Ducking, bowing, grinning from ear to ear, Dobson
made his way through the camp. I went to his bed, dragged
out the knapsack in which he stored his food, took out


HONG KONG AFTERMATH 277
with her broken teeth and her clipped hair and her swol-
len, veined legs put her arms about me.
"Don't worry, Nick. We'll be all right. I'll see that
nothing happens to Milene."
Professor Bancroft came and shook hands too, but we
did not speak.
I walk through the gate and for the first time in six
months I am not hemmed in by barbed wire. But I am
not free; too much of me remains behind.
Kate and Bancroft turn and walk up the hill to the
cemetery where they can look out toward the rescue ship
that lies in the harbor and wave good-bye. A young boy,
about fifteen, joins them. He walks with difficulty, for he
has curvature of the spine, caused by months of malnutri-
tion. He has talked to me several times of rugby which he
loved so much. He will not play again.
Each forward step demands intense concentration. My
feet are covered with sores. The papers with which I have
stuffed the holes in my shoes have been torn to ribbons
by the sharp rocks of the roadway. I can no longer see any-
thing; I bump into one person and then another.
Then I hear a voice, very calm and feel an arm about
me. It is Barney Latham. He leads me down to the dock
and helps me on the ferry and finds a seat on some bag-
gage for me. At length the ferry moves away from the dock,
across the choppy water of the bay and draws up by the
lofty white side of the Asama. We peer upward and see
the faces of Americans looking down at us. These are men
and women brought from Tokyo and Korea.
On the ferry were the consular staff, also a few people
who had been kept in Kong Kong. These were mostly


280 HONG KONG AFTERMATH
There were eighteen wash-bowls for the use of about
five hundred men. The line started an hour in advance.
Word was passed along the lines, "Please do not use more
than two minutes for washing. Remember the other
fellow."
The close air gave me a feeling of nausea and I went
back up to the open deck. At seven, I returned and took
my place in line. Half-naked men filled the wash-bowls,
hastily doused their heads and feet in the water and threw
open handfuls across their bodies, then rushed away so
that others might have their places. A few stopped to shave
and this slowed up the line. Just as I got to the bath-room
door, the water went off.
"Well, what's another day without washing. We're on
our way home."
All that day we idled in the sweltering heat of the bay.
Although I could only see the dim outline of the shore,
others told me that they could see tiny figures standing on
the cemetery walls waving to us.
"Do you see anyone waving a red cloth?" I asked.
"No." The man of whom I asked walked away from me,
looking as though he thought me mad.
I could not go to sleep that night and walked the decks
long after they were deserted. Ben Furlong stopped to
talk to me as I stood at the rail. He put his hand on my
shoulder and we spoke for a few minutes of trivial things.
But soon the conversation drifted into serious matters, of
the things we had to do when we got back to America.
"I've made a promise, Ben, to all those people left be-
hind, and I feel too tired to carry it out."
"You'll have to keep that promise, Nick. And there are
a lot of other things you'll have to do. I've seen you fight
Bayne in the camp and I've seen you change. You won't be


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