How Rabaul's Civilians Met Their

Fate

A .1 kA w,. , , - , ... .

A Tribute to the Many Who Died by One of the Few Who Escaped „ 7 ... .

Written for PIM by Gordon Thomas, editor of “ Rabaul Times.” He was one of the handful of Rabaul civilians who survived — all the remainder ol the 300 perished.

1_ .

T was one., evening towards the end of May, 1942, that we received an unexpected visit from the prison camp commandant.

The four of us (McKechnie, Ellis, Creswick and myself) were seated at the long, metal-covered table In the Rabaul m r aTch P r , b wh C ?n er / h T 0 , 1 ?; playlng PORer fO 5

Srw or.Ss? £ non-commissioned

officer entered and barked out a sharp «A*+?l ma l- ‘ presumed it meant Attention. , so we stood up to face the heavy-featured commandant, who had ■•MLsnTni eb 'fr a nm to the Fascist leade? !a&l resemblance “All men to-morrow will an to the canip You he° said in broken Enehsh 1 -Iri the mornin? you understand? h I come for vou” he added y ’ h We ’indicated that we understood the order. He bowed- we bowed and he left us to ponder as’to what new developments were in the offine • IT was four- months since we had been detailed by the Jap Army to work rw f r 1 eeze , r . and tbe p °w. e r House- Our central location had enabled us to -l Australlan civilian pnsoners, who daily were engaged on worx- VQhnnffc wharves to the m b r 556 for the Japanese southward push. In-

variably, there had been cargo Tor the Freezer, and on such occasions we had been able to exchange a few hurried words while the work was in progress.

“Any news? ... Is it true that Singa pore has fallen? . . . When are our troops coming? . . . What new chaps have come into the camp? ...” Such were the hurried questions we used to fire at our comrades from the camp; and the answers would come in jerky, secre tive sentences in order that the guards “(many of whom understood English) might not hear.

What topsy-turvy days they were when we, the one-time masters of Rabaul, toiled under the rule of the arrogant Nips at tasks previously performed by our one-time indentured native labourers. But it was a job which had to be done; and, to the annoyance of the Nip guards, the jobs were carried out with a smile, and a studied disregard for the indignities which each man suf fered in one way or another.

Many a time have I seen Ross Field and Orton Townsend wrestling with a heavy case, laughing merrily and, to all appearances, in excellent health, despite duodenal ulcers and dyspepsia. For one thing, they were entirely free of all re sponsibility; their high executive positions in the Administration now gave them not a bother in the world. So was it with a score of others whom I saw un

loading ships or loading lorries.

When fatigues visited the Freezer we would contact, for the most part, the younger men of old Rabaul and Kavieng: Frank Venning, Artie Schmidt, Alec Strathearn, Fritz Haslam, Harold Ross, Ron Wayne, and many another of the younger men. But always we were anxious to see the others, with whom we had spent those first nerve wracking days , following the fall of Rabaul. And now . . . to-morrow we were to proceed to the camp. For what?

SOMEWHAT apprehensively we boarded the truck early next morn ing with the commandant, and pro ceeded to the prison camp, located in that area off the Malaguna Road, where the 2/22nd Battalion had encamped in pre-Pacific war days.

Our reunion with so many of our old friends was an event I shall never forget.

Four months ago I had said a hurried farewell, before being detailed for work as cook at the Freezer. That was when all the civilians occupied the rear quarters of the Shui Loon store in Chinatown when, day by day, new faces appeared amongst us: straggling groups of refugees picked up from out along the Warangoi, Kerawat or Toma way.

Now, their number had grown to four times as many as in those days, and to ten times the number that took refuge in the Gully on the night before the Japanese landing.

My first contact was Dickie Bird, look ing rather important, wearing a very conspicuous arm-band, with weird Japanese characters signifying he was an interpreter. He did some excellent work in the camp, so I was told, acting as a liaison between the civilians and the Jap guards. Then came Ron Wayne, who had from the first, with Mr. Pearce, of

the Methodist Mission, been singled out as clerk of the camp.

They were all looking fit; a trine thinner, naturally, but none had lost his sense of humour, and the greetings were cordial and cheerful. There was an atmosphere of excitement everywhere.

It was then that I learned that the camp, with all civilians and military per sonnel, was being handed over by the Army to the Navy. Later, of course, we realised the Army was making its final arrangements before preceding on to Australia (as the Japs said), via Buna!

I spent a good half-hour before the parade fell in, shaking hands with all and sundry. Times there were when I had to look twice in order to recognise some old friend. Ray Youlden, grown con siderably thinner, had cultivated a beard; school teacher Voss had a flaming beard, which was the envy of them all; while Artie Schmidt’s dark moustachios gave him quite a cavalier appearance.

But the majority of them had managed to preserve their own pre-war appear ance. By some means they had managed the necessary shave, and one and all still retained that most valued asset of the white man amongst coloured races—self respect, notwithstanding the indignities and humiliations each and everyone had had to endure. rrtHE muster was long-drawn-out ordeal. This can be easily under stood if you have ever witnessed a Japanese calling a nominal roll of Euro pean names which has been written phonetically in Japanese characters and then pronounced with a Jap accent.

Really, it was amusing; but no one dared laugh. The Jan has a very poor sense of humour. Some of the tongue-twisters for the Jap officer were Strathearn, Brms ton, Hoogerwerff, and Gascoigne; while

the name McKechnie was a complete knock-out.

The civilians were lined up on one side of a square, while officers of the NGVR and the 2/22nd formed another side; NGVR and 2/22nd other ranks consti tuted the third side. The delay in the* roll-call gave me a good opportunity of seeing everyone in the camp, and it was from this muster we were able to com pile our list which afterwards proven so valuable.

AFTER the parade everyone was able to relax, and it was then that Jt went from hut to hut meeting old friends. Ernie Banks and Dick Moore— both showing their years—were still op timistic and making plans for the future.

Ernie was asking Jim Ellis (the elec trical contractor) to find the number on his refrigeration plant in the Pacific Hotel, in order to obtain some spare parts for future use. Ted Hawnt appeared about the same, .and was repairing a camera belonging to a Jap officer; while Jerry Renton, the life of the camp with his Cockney humour, was busily em ployed making something or other out of galvanised iron. . ..

“Nobby” Clark, who all through the piece had been a tower of strength in maintaining the morale and filling the role of OC camp, had lost considerable weight, but there was the same bright twinkle in his eye. We spoke together for some time, holding a post-mortem on the fall of Rabaul, and speculating as to the future. “Surely it can’t be long before our troops come,” we said. Little did we know!

Harold Page showed little change, save that he was thinner and appeared wor ried. He felt, somehow, that he was re sponsible for the deep gulf that lay be tween the civil administration and the Army prior to that fateful 23rd of

January. But it was not his fault—l assured him of that, little knowing at the time that the same lack of co ordination was being demonstrated in Port Moresby to even a greater extent.

It was then that Page related to me the story of his radios to Canberra in an endeavour to utilise the Norwegian vessel to evacuate all the civilians, and of Canberra’s refusal to allow such a measure. That is still a skeleton in some body’s cupboard; but the location of the cupboard, I should say in view of sub sequent events was Melbourne and not Canberra. . , Harold left me eventually to make a foursome at bridge with C. H. McLean, Freddie Mantle and one other, whom l do not recall. Both C.H. and Freddie were showing their years, but their fighting spirit kept them going. 1 PASSED on to other groups. I, found dear old George Murray (who had arrived in camp, 'much to the amuse ment of the guards, in a bowler hat), expostulating at the restrictions. Jerry Hogan was there, calm and aloof as ever, though his usually well-fitting clothes were hanging loose about his limbs. But Jerry was happy; from somewhere he had discovered some detective novels he was greedily devouring, as w^ s . j l ' l3 wont of old. I saw Ivan Shobndge thinner, but still his natty self, despite the wear and tear of his uniform. Phill pott and Goodwyn—pre-war inseparables —were doing a good job of work in the hospital, and were too busy to find time to think of anything else. Here, too, McEwan, of BP’s, fussed about in his usual energetic manner.

But the busiest of the medical section was Major Watch who, despite his years had done a powerful job at Vunapore at first, and then, later, at the camp He battled on, notwithstanding the fact that

he was, in appearqjnce, a sick man him self.

Cyril Gascoigne had faded away to a shadow, but was cheerful; and young Ivan, his son, was a source of comfort to him, for the Japs were treating the lad well. He was young, and my experience of the Rabaul Japs was they gave con sideration to extreme youth and old age.

Many were the cigarettes, Ivan told me, he received from the guards, and handed on to his dad. fTIHEN there were others whom I met JL for awhile: Phil Coote, little changed physically, but worried—he had worked out a scheme for the post-war rehabilitation of the BP interests in Rabaul, so he told me, and was so sure that everything would come right even tually; Jan Hoogerwerff had lost weight and looked older than ever—he was worrying about purchasing some pipe cleaners from Chinatown. He must have pipe-cleaners, so he said he couldn’t possibly smoke a pipe without pipe cleaners !

Charlie Barnes, quiet and unobtrusive, said little. “Things are not so bad,” he remarked when I asked him how the world was treating him. “We don’t have to worry about ‘The Rabaul Times’ now, do we?” and he laughed sadly. Jack Edwards was still a ball of energy, help ing the lame dogs over jthe stiles as usual, and doing everything possible to make life easier for the older men.

Hamilton (of WRC) had fallen away to a shadow of his former self, yet was hopeful of “something turning up.” Clive Green, optimistic and cheerful, despite the awful ordeaf he had experienced at Keravat in the early days,' when he was made to dig his own grave and faced the firing squad then to be liberated at the last moment.

AND there were dozens of others with whom I spoke as the day wore on; re-living that last week of January, ’42; conjecturing as to the future; dis cussing bits of news that certain parties had been able to pick up through—shall we say—“underground” methods.

But throughout the camp there was an air of optimism, notwithstanding the colossal number of Jap troops and sup plies concentrated in Rabaul, the unin terrupted Jap advances and the fall of “impregnable” Singapore. It was only a matter of time, each one of them thought, when our own troops would swoop down and drive the little yellow men into the sea, and raise again the Australian flag.

Hope, sustained by wishful thinking, kept their spirits up and enabled them to live their imprisoned life with a smile before the Jap guards.

Later that afternoon the four of us were returned to the Freezer, waving a cheerful good-bye to those in the camp.

Little did we think it would be the last time we should ever see them all to gether.

About a month later we heard, from various sources, that all had been em barked for Hainan, or Japan, with the exception of some technicians who, like ourselves were detailed for special work.

These men were; Messrs. Fitzgibbons, Cameron, Chauncey, Badger, Beaumont, Sherman, Ostrom and Bachmann, and they were under the guard of the Jap Navy. Later, Albert Evensen and Bill Korn were brought in from Pondo, and placed in the same camo. So far as I am aware, their fate is unknown. * ♦ ♦ IN the lifetime which I lived during those 3S years as a prisoner of war in Rabaul and district, there was no which impressed me .more than that day of my visit to the prison camp; the reunion, for a short while, with so

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many of my old, old friends; the cheer fulness and the courage they displayed under such trying circumstances; and the hopefulness which buoyed them up, but which, alas, was so soon to be.shattered.

This I know, from my observations of their demeanour in the camp, that when the time came they faced the issue bravely and maintained the fine tradi tions" of their adopted country—New Guinea. Their passing is yet another deed to be engraved upon New Guinea’s well-filled honour roll. There is nothing surer than that those civilians —from every walk of life—played a highly im portant part in war strategy, that Aus tralia might be safe. Their very presence in Rabaul was proof of that.

May God give to the sorrowing rela tives a strength to bear their loss, and may a material Government make due provision for each and every dependant of that gallant band who met the foe on Australia’s first line of defence.