The Japanese took her father prisoner during World War II. But the ordeal didn’t diminish his faith in the future.
Every Remembrance D
ay I place a poppy on my father’s grave. And give thanks.
He was a veteran of the Second World War. A Prairie boy who signed up at the ripe old age of 20, fully expecting to go to North Africa, Germany, France. He was sent to Hong Kong instead, to fight the Japanese.
Ill equipped and under trained, his group was outfitted in combat boots and heavy military garb and expected to fight in humid, jungle-like conditions; meanwhile, their enemies were wearing running shoes.
He was captured by the Japanese on Christmas Day 1941 after participating in a two week impasse at Wong Ne Chong Gap for which he was awarded the Military Cross. During the hold off, he was hit in the leg by a piece of shrapnel (many years later when I was a child, he would occasionally roll up his pant leg and show us the scar … the metal shard still visible under the skin).
When he and his men were captured they were tied together with telephone wire and made to march several miles to the camp where other prisoners were assembled. My father forced himself to march in spite of his injury because the wounded and those who couldn’t walk were being shot on the spot.
Bridge on the River Kwai and Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence are movies he felt most accurately portrayed his experiences. The stories you hear about rats and insects as dining fare are fiction, he maintained. They were given rice once a day and occasionally they ate chrysanthemum leaves.
When h
e arrived at the prison camp he was taken to a hut and interviewed by a Japanese officer. Dad was asked why he was fighting Japan and he answered something like, “I didn’t sign up to fight you, I signed up to fight Hitler.” On that note, he was given a wry smile and promptly sent from the hut.
Dad was held captive for close to four years. Conditions were deplorable. They built an airport. They were starved and suffered from Beriberi, parasites, and countless tropical diseases. The experience was said to have added 10 years to their lives.
I am thankful that he didn’t try to escape. That he made it home safely and built a family with my mother. That after all this and more, he still had faith in the future.
Photo Credit
Mum and Dad c. 1940; photographer unknown, courtesy of Margaret Blackwood
Recent Margaret Blackwood Articles:
- Leave Beacon Hill Park Alone
- It's the Thought that Counts
- Being Thankful
- Looking Forward, Looking Back
- Don't Call Me Ma'am
Thanks so much for your comments and replies. I have added it on as my ‘Facebook’ avatar until November 11th, and use it in the greatest of respect for those lost in days gone by, and the Canadian soldiers we have lost in recent days, as well, WO Patrice Vincent and Corporal Nathan Cirillo.
Margaret, you have made a very valid point here about the PTSD. As a child, I could never understand why my Dad wouldn’t talk about those days in the war. Occasionally, we would hear a ‘cute’ little story about something that had happened on base, or a ‘caution’ – usually about the dangers of riding motorcycles! – but never anything having to do with the active duty.
As a child, part of me wondered, and then believed that it was because he felt badly about killing the enemy, never really understanding that he had many feelings and emotions that he didn’t know how to cope with, or to express – so he kept them inside. We just knew he didn’t want to talk about it, and respected his wishes – but those thoughts did ‘eat’ at him from inside, too, as stress always does.
I know he hears me now when I say, “It’s ok, Daddy – I understand.”. Thanks again for sharing your story, and bringing these memories to the surface for me. I appreciate it.
What a beautiful story! I would like to ask your permission to ‘use’ your poppy picture (above) as my ‘avatar’ from now until November 11th, in honour of Canadian Veterans.
My father also returned from World War II, with his time spent in Holland. Daddy had lied about his age to enlist, and believed he would be sent to the South Pacific, according to a letter he sent to my Grandmother.
My Dad was never able to talk about those years, but nonetheless took great pride in wearing a Canadian uniform and fighting for freedom. Today, we would have known he suffered from PTSD – we just didn’t know what to call it then – it stayed with him until he passed in the 1980’s. Lest we Forget…
Hi Bobbi,
Thank you for your touching comment. I agree, PTSD most definitely affected the survivors, and I’m convinced it affected their relatives and loved ones as well. It was so hard for those on the home front who had very little communication, if any, while their loved ones were at war, and the survivors were like ‘walking wounded’ when they returned.
The poppy was something that Life as A Human editors added in, so I’m not sure if it is available or not. They are aware of your request and hopefully will respond.
thank you again and all the best
Margaret
Hi Bobbi,
Usually, we have credits at the end of every post. We must have missed this one or, I ‘suspect’ that this image is what would be called ‘fair use’. One appears here though it looks like it is pretty widely spread out.
http://www.brightonbarntheatre.ca/shows/show-archive/2003Season/2003-northumberland-calling-normandy
If you are using it to honor those who gave so much for us, I am sure no one would take umbrage!
Hope this helps!
Cheers,
Gil
Thanks. Maggie. Very sweet if I can say that.
Thanks, Chris,
It’s hard to do justice to a life altering experience like this. I’m glad I had the opportunity to write something for Remembrance Day.
Dad often felt that the facts of the Hong Kong experience were poorly or inaccurately reported and
I was tickled pink, as you can imagine, when he approved of the film “Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence” (with David Bowie!).
Maggie