HOME BY CHRISTMAS: Memoirs 1940 - 1948
by Gerry Nolthenius
Published February 1998

Early in November 1944 rumours started to circulate through the camp that a group of P.O.W. was going to be assembled for some specialist work. We didn't know what to think of it but a change was not always an improvement. The whole business didn't appeal to me at all. I was in a sort I of a routine and could somehow feel at ease with the circumstances. I don't know what criteria our Nipponese masters were following but I found myself on their list. I've forgotten how many were in our group but if my memory is right there were about a dozen Dutch Navy boys.

Our departure was scheduled early in December (5th?). It was hard to be separated from my mates Sam H. and Harry Z. We had been through so much in the previous two years and nine months.

However, there was a consolation when I saw Dick M. in the same group. I was not as close with him as with the others but Dick was a good fellow, quiet but absolutely reliable.

We were marched off late in the afternoon after the usual counting rigmarole. It was dark when we boarded the ferry to Nagasaki. In the city another bout of counting and recounting and then we had to run on the double to the railway station. To our surprise we had to board an excellent passenger train. The best part of it was that the wagons were beautifully warm and the seats nicely upholstered. The windows were blacked out but the guards were quite an agreeable bunch. One fellow even handed out some smokes, an unheard of thing.

After a long wait we took off and traveled through the night but we had quite a few stops and waiting periods.

In the morning we came to a large railway station, apparently a junction of several routes. I don't recall the name of the place. We were herded into a large hall where we found another group of P.O.W. from other camps. It was exciting to meet up with other Navy boys and exchange news. I met up with an old mate from High school but for Dick it was very hard to hear that his brother Sictus died about eighteen months before. I knew Sic very well; he was my partner when we were running the ambulance in Surabaja in February 1942.

About midday we received the customary riceball with seaweed and hot green tea. We hardly had time to enjoy our lunch when we had to fall in again.

We were divided up in different groups but Dick and I managed to stay together. After an hour or so our group was marched off and we boarded a train again. Good seats and lovely heated. The windows in our compartment were not blacked out so we had an excellent view of the landscape. The train followed a very pretty coastline with little islands, lots of pine trees and small villages. Towards dusk the blackout blinds were pulled down and the guards became quite hostile when we tried to peep out.

About seven P.M. we arrived at a town, Fukuoka, as we found out afterwards. We had to fall in on the icy cold platform and were handed over to different guards again. These were really not very nice. Lots of shouting, hitting with rifle butts and kicking.

Anyway, we started marching again, in a snowstorm and boy, it was "COLD". About nine-thirty we arrived at a camp [Mushiroda] with a bamboo palisade around it, with sentry boxes and searchlights. The usual roll-call on a sort of parade ground and then we were addressed by a British-Army Sergeant-major with a very loud voice and an unsympathetic appearance. What I specially disliked about this individual was the fact that he was very well dressed for a P.O.W. Good boots (polished), great coat, gloves, even a swagger stick. A perfect example of a drill sergeant-major.

We were allocated into different barracks and Dick and I finished up as the only two Dutch amongst about thirty Aussies and thirty Americans. I spoke a few words of English, Dick almost nil, so the situation was not very bright. It was swim or sink. The sergeant in charge of our section was a lanky Australian. I only knew him as Lofty, but I really got to respect him for the way he was ruling the roost. He was very patient with the two "stupid" Dutchies but he was scrupulously honest, something I can't say about our American allies. They were civilian convicts captured on Wake Island and every single one of them had a rather colourful past of manslaughter, rape and so on.

The camp was very primitive and our task was working on a nearby airfield. The "carriers" were issued with a flat basket to be carried in front of your stomach. This was filled by a couple of prisoners and we had to carry it a few hundred metres, dump the earth and walk back for the next load. Gets sort of monotonous doing it all day long. Lunch was brought to the job, the usual binto with pickled "Daigon" (horseradish) and some hot water.

It was quite a dismal existence being in this camp. The only thing really outstanding in my mind is that it was very cold.

If one had to go to the "benjo" (latrine) during the night it was quite rigmarole. As soon as you stepped outside the door opening one had to bow towards the sentry who was standing about 50 metres away on a hillock. If you straightened up before he gave his consent you were surely in trouble.

One elderly American was caught and he had to stand at attention for the remainder of the night. Certainly not pleasant in sub-zero temperatures. Especially with a full bladder.

Another episode comes to mind. One morning I was detailed to carry nightsoil, together with an Aussie Digger. Poor "Snowy" was about a foot shorter as I am and whenever our "friendly" guard urged us on, the contents of our 15-gallon container started sloshing out and Snow generally copped the lot of the smelly liquid.

There was one particular Korean who was an absolute sadist. Personally, I considered him to be on the verge of insanity. One afternoon after our ordure carrying duty we came into our barrack and an American was sitting on his blankets repairing some clothing. Our Korean "Baboon" came in and went into a rage, called Brandy, the American, over and hit him hard over his head with his rifle. Brandy collapsed and "Baboon" screamed something unintelligible.

To me it sounded like sickbay something or other. So, I went over to assist our American and next moment I was flattened and "Baboon" pushed his bayonet against my throat. I really thought that it was the end, but the Japanese guard commander happened to walk in and "Baboon" was restrained. I got off with a couple of kicks and about a week later Baboon disappeared when half of our guards were replaced with a group of war veterans. They were partly invalids but generally speaking quite agreeable.

One thing what really struck us was the terrible corruption in the camp. Apparently, the Sergeant-Major, a Sergeant in charge of the cookhouse and half a dozen English cooks were running a flourishing black market in food to be exchanged for cigarettes or exorbitant prices in American dollars. Cigarettes were being sold for ten US dollars each.

Christmas 1944 was celebrated as good as circumstances allowed. The usual Red Cross parcels, one parcel per six or seven persons. The only difference was that we didn't see any corned beef or meat and vegetable tins. These were all confiscated by the cookhouse and were supposed to be included in our Christmas dinner. Very hard to check whether we received our share but it was more than a mere coincidence that there were quite a few tins on the black market the week after. Difficult to prove but it is true.

A few days after New Year there were rumours that we were in for another move. This proved to be true. We had the usual roll-call and they gave us ten minutes to grab our personal belongings and we were marched off.

Our new camp was new indeed [Hakozaki]. Brand new as a matter of fact. It was situated amongst pine trees and the barracks were very low. A trench about two foot deep and eight foot wide and on either side a platform of pine planks laying on the sand. The roof was quite steep and near the eaves about eighteen inches high. The cladding consisted of layers of bark. Not 100% waterproof but as it was snowing and freezing it didn't leak. Actually towards the end of January we had about a foot of snow covering the lot and it became quite cozy and warm inside.

Before we were allowed into the barracks we had to unpack all our gear and on this occasion my stamp collection was confiscated by Katsura the interpreter.

Early in February something happened with the cookhouse gang. I never found out what did happen but the whole lot got beaten up and were subsequently sacked.

The whole camp was called on parade and had to watch the gruesome business. The camp commander [Sakamoto] and Katsura marched along the lines and picked out a new team of cooks. Katsura grabbed me and said: "You speak Dutch and English and little Japanese, so you work in cookhouse". In a way I was not overly keen but had no choice.

In the kitchen we were familiarized with our work and I had to give the Jap cookhouse "hancho" a hand with the scullery jobs. Washing buckets from the guardhouse, pumping water, tending the coal fires and so on. It was altogether a pretty good job after the initial "training" period. Tending the fires was the hardest because the coal we were allocated consisted of dust and more dust. One could pick out the cooks straightaway; they all looked like chimneysweeps.

One set back was the amount of hours we had to work. I was generally woken up by a guard about 2 a.m. and had to start lighting the fire for an oven used by the Japanese to bake buns for the guards. But as I mentioned before, there were certain benefits. The guards were very well fed and generally there was sufficient left in the buckets to have a reasonable meal on the sly.

The cooks who were preparing the food for the P.O.W.'s were allowed the normal rations, but we are all human after all and some pilfering happened, of course. But there was definitely no "black market" in food I was aware of. We all had our turn going around the barracks registering the number of sick, who were supposed to receive only half ration. We could generally arrange in the cookhouse that these half rations were near enough to full rations.

The biggest problem, however, was the official little camp hospital. All sick and no workers and when the Jap "hancho" checked up and found the hospital buckets too full it was roaring and slapping of course.

A few episodes come to mind, some not very nice. One day when a working party came back they were searched as usual and one South-African was caught concealing some potatoes he had pilfered, the Japanese commander held a speech haranguing the party and declaring that it was a criminal offence to steal food from the hardworking Japanese farmers and he was going to punish the culprit as a warning to the others. The poor South-African was tied to a bench and two soldiers were positioned on either side and had to administer fifty hits with baseball bats on his back, each hit a bit lower till they reached his ankles and back up again.

It was horrible and when one of the soldiers didn't hit hard enough he was in turn punished by the guard commander with kicks and hits in his face The Japs went sort of berserk. When it was over the South-African was taken to the camp hospital but he died a couple of days later.

This camp commander was transferred about three months before the war ended and his successor was a slightly better type but he was a man who liked his "sake" (rice wine) and when he had a bit too much he was liable to wander through the camp and paying attention to all sort of little things. Subsequently, he "lecture" the involved prisoner about it (slaps and kicks).

It was a week or so after the above mentioned cruelty that I was approached by one of the doctors who asked me whether I was willing to donate some blood for a patient in the hospital who was critically ill. I was in a reasonable healthy condition so I agreed. I had to lie on a table and the recipient was on a straw mattress on the ground. Doc pushed a blunt needle in an artery in my arm and so we were connected by a tube. All I know about the other fellow was that he was English speaking and the whole procedure was in vain because he died the next day.

Actually, the general atmosphere in the camp was not good. We all had a feeling of insecurity. In Nagasaki we had grown into a familiar routine which was bearable despite the hunger, dirt and cold. We all had our mates and we were taken prisoner as a group and we knew each other from pre-war happier times. In Fukuoka I it was a real hotchpotch of nationalities and people of all levels of society and worst of all, the criminal element was well represented.

In February, I think, we were ordered out of the barracks late at night and we were put to work unloading some trucks. These trucks contained a few hundred American Army officers. Hardly any of them could walk and they were absolutely filthy and lousy. I'll never forget the stench. These poor fellows came from the Philippine Islands and they were survivors from the Death March from Bataan. Subsequently they were transported by ship [Oryoku-maru] to Japan. A few of them survived torpedoing and floating in the sea for a week or so. The journey from the Philippines to Japan took almost a hundred days. Water was rationed to a canteen cup (about a pint) of brackish fluid between three men per day. Hardly any food either.

They were put in separate barracks and the death toll amongst them was horrific: ten, fifteen per day were taken out by horse and cart to be cremated.

Percentage-wise Fukuoka I had some grim statistics. If I remember right the maximum number at one stage was 680, but at the end of the war there were about 280-300 left over.

Amongst the American officers were some tragic cases: One fellow was absolutely starved close to death. He was a skeleton when he died. I had to help loading him on to the death cart. I guess that his weight wasn't over 40 kilos and yet when we took his belongings to the camp administration we found two tins of corned beef and a bar of energy chocolate (ex-American Red Cross) kept over for a rainy day as the saying goes.

Fukuoka I was outstanding in the oversupply of vermin. Bedbugs galore, everyone was cultivating an abundant crop of body lice but worst of all became the fleas when the weather started to warm up. I found myself a good sleeping spot amongst the rafters where we normally kept our personal belongings. I could only sleep there when I knew that Winky (a Jap veteran with one arm) was on duty to wake me up at 2 a.m. That was about three nights a week. I used to jump down, grab my clothes and make a dash for the kitchen with only my G-string as covering. In the kitchen I grabbed a ladle and poured water over my legs to wash off a layer of fleas about 3.5mm thick. I don't know how the boys could put up with it for a whole night. I never slept much when I had to sleep on the platform.

One night I was fiddling around trying to open up the kitchen door when I heard the sound of an aircraft pulling up out of a dive and then: whoosh! The ground shook and I saw a long torpedo-shaped thing laying about five metres away behind me. Next thing I remember was panting while lying on my stomach near the boundary fence at the opposite site of the camp. I must have broken the world record of the 200 metre dash, but nobody timed me so I didn't finish up in the records book.

Of course, it was panic stations for the whole camp. The kitchen area was declared out of bounds and there were guards everywhere. As soon as it was daylight a truck came into camp and a few Navy types surveyed the situation. One fellow stalked the torpedo bomb and squatted down and after further examination started unscrewing some contraption and removed something and then his nerves apparently gave in, because he ran away from the bomb in quite a hurry. Nothing happened so after a while the truck backed up and the Kaigun boys loaded the bomb onto the truck. Quite a job because the thing was around 1300 lbs. in weight.

If the bomb had landed a few metres to the left it would have finished up in the Jap bathhouse and the water could have triggered the delayed action and quite an explosion would have resulted.

We presumed that the target was a power station [Najima] about half a mile downstream across the river and a railway bridge right next to it. The bomb was a delayed action time-bomb, which was activated by a device which dissolved in water.

We could sense an increase in activity, lots of air raid alarms. Often we could see the vapour lines of the bombers heading over. It generally started as early as 7 a.m. and lasted well into the afternoon. We had our dugout air raid shelters but we didn't like the ventilation holes in the earthen covered roofs because right next to it were forty-four gallon drums with fuel. We actually spent only a couple of nights in the shelters. The first time nothing happened. A fortnight after we had an incendiary raid on the nearby city of Fukuoka [June 19 air raid]. No more raids in our vicinity after this, because Fukuoka was finished.

It would have been late in July when I was working behind the cookhouse. Our water pump was mounted on a platform and the water ran through a bamboo pipe into a square tub in the kitchen and it could be directed into the bathhouse as well.

I was pumping away and all of a sudden I had a very uncomfortable feeling. Looking up l saw a big round red spot centrally situated on a wavelike profile and realised it was a single engine plane (Corsair F4U) diving toward me. I dropped off the platform and when the plane roared past I saw the American star on the side of the fuselage. Either the pilot was out of ammunition or he hadn't noticed a person standing on a five foot high platform.

Practically every day we saw activities which showed that the war was getting nearer to the Japanese homeland.

It was early August that I witnessed a funny episode: Scotty the camp bugler and Paddy Cavanagh were great cobbers, always arguing but inseparable. The Japanese camp commandant had a coop with half a dozen chickens and a nice big rooster. Scotsman, Irishman and chickens, indeed a dangerous combination. One very early, dark morning I was doing my chores, washing the buckets behind the cookhouse when I heard some muffled mutterings, certain curses with an outspoken Scottish accent. Looking up, behold, there was Paddy, holding head and neck of a great white rooster and Scotty, limping and stumbling behind, struggling with the wings and legs. Truly a joint effort with split second execution of a well planned expedition. I don't know what the normal reaction of the commandant would have been, but it happened after Hiroshima and before Nagasaki and our esteemed landlords were in a somewhat dazed condition and had more important matters on their minds than an unfortunate rooster.

It was around the same time when a prisoner of war was brought in who happened to be an old acquaintance of mine from Nagasaki. He was Bertie F. who was lightweight boxing champion in 1940-41 on Java. He was involved in a fight with a Japanese civilian in the dockyard, was court martialled by the Kaigun (Navy) and sentenced to two years jail. He was in a way very fortunate it happened in Japan. The Japanese Kaigun had some respect for the Dutch Navy boys and treated us more correctly as we could expect from the Rikugun (Army). On the islands Bertie would have been beaten to death or bayoneted for the "lucky" (?) ones.

Anyway, Bertie was taken to a civilian prison and when his time was up he was taken to Fukuoka I to await further transport to Nagasaki. He was kept in the dogbox in the guard house and received his ration straight from the kitchen.

We didn't have much chance or time for conversation but when the invalid guards were on duty we could exchange some news items. In jail he was forced to do hard labour, working for an employer who was contractor to empty out toilet cess pits. He was forced to carry overflowing wooden containers (about 10 gallons) on his shoulders, the nights were spent in concrete cells with minimum covering in wintertime, only company Japanese or Korean criminals. During those two years several more Caucasian prisoners were brought in, but they were forbidden to contact each other. The majority went insane within a few months or died. The only good thing Bertie got out of it was an exceptional good understanding of the Japanese language.

It was he who told me on the evening of the sixth of August that the Japanese were very upset about a disastrous event which destroyed the city of Hiroshima with hundreds of thousands of casualties. Three days later he said something similar had happened to Nagasaki. I didn't see Bertie any more after this. I don't know what happened to him.

Very early in the morning of the 15th one of the invalid guards told Joe Truey (a Cuban who was sometimes "too" friendly with the Japanese) that the Emperor (Showa) was going to have a speech over the radio. All kinds of rumours circulated in camp of course.

Sometime after lunch I was off as usual to go to the barrack to have a short afternoon rest (Because of my very early start I was allowed to do it). My mind was in a turmoil because of all the rumours and I forgot completely to make the usual bow for a sentry (being the representative of the Emperor) and was well past him before I realized that he didn't challenge me. I just couldn't resist the temptation to go back to him and I asked him straight out: Senso owari-ka? (Is the war finished?). He looked at me and bowed with his head: "Hai!" (yes).

I was absolutely flabbergasted and didn't know how to react. I just walked off and sat for a while on my bunk before it really sank in properly. The rest of the day was like a dream.

We had to provide food for the evening meal, but things somehow didn't seem right. We were allowed to give extra fishmeal and soybeans and the Jap kitchen hancho didn't show up.

Next morning a live pig was brought in for the P.O.W. kitchen and Paddy was appointed executioner (he claimed to be a butcher by trade) but what a horrible mess did he make. He tried to stun the poor thing with a hammer but it didn't work too well and when he tried to cut it's throat Porky jumped up and floored Paddy. A couple of other cooks grabbed the animal and he was soon dispatched. Horrific squealing and blood everywhere but after all we produced a very nourishing stew for the fellows.

The second day after V.J. Day (17th August) it was very quiet. I wasn't called for kitchen duty and slept rather late. We discovered that the guards had disappeared. Our senior officers decided that the P.O.W.'s were going to do our own sentry duties and they tried to draw up some rosters. Not very successful as most of the boys just went walk-about.

Our Wake island Americans tried to catch some of the guards but I don't think they had much luck as the Japs just melted away amongst the population. I was feeling a bit off colour and the doctor decided that I should have a few days off. I turned quite yellow after some days and the prognosis was yellow jaundice. That was the end of my career as cook.

One morning (day three) a Japanese motorbike roared into camp with a couple of American Airmen. They had landed on the nearby airfield, commandeered a motorbike with sidecar and proceeded to the P.O.W. camp which they had spotted on a previous reconnaissance flight. They were absolutely mobbed as everybody wanted to know what was going on in the world. They informed us that we had to put clear P.O.W. markers out so we could be supplied by air with food and further necessities.

About the 20th August we had the first airdrop. What a beautiful sight: Three Liberator bombers roared low over the camp and on the second pass down came all coloured parachutes with containers with all goodies. Lovely tins of everything, boxes and drums with underwear, shirts, trousers, boots, medicines, vitamins and so on. Too much to take it in at once. Part of the drop landed outside the parade ground and fence and the boys rounded up youngsters and women from the Jap village to help carry the loot into the camp. They were rewarded with chocolate and cigarettes and so an excellent relationship was established.

Everything was just stacked in a big heap and everybody could help himself. Nobody bothered about the kitchen anymore. The boys formed groups of four or five and started their own "messes". We had absolutely an abundance of everything.

Two days after the first drop we had another "raid". This time only two Liberators. Something went wrong however. Some boxes and drums came apart from their parachutes and one box landed in such a way that it decapitated Joe Truey our "Jap friendly" Cuban.

It is typical of the attitude of the average P.O.W. that hardly anybody was really upset. Some even commented: "It serves him right". Another: "No need to court-marshal him now".

I went outside to watch the planes when they came over and when I went back to my place I discovered a hole in the roof and a large drum with boots laying on top of my bed. At that time it was considered that I was just a lucky fellow. Now, fifty years later, I realize that I was kept safely in the Lord's hand as happened more in my life. The Lord has a purpose for everything and I still cannot understand why I am richly blessed over the years.

A lot of our boys went sightseeing. They just left camp, commandeered Army vehicles (no civilian ones around) or went to the railway stations to travel free of charge all over the country. A couple of fellows got as far as Tokyo-Yokohama and reports filtered back that when they called at Military Police headquarters our "esteemed" interpreter Katsura reported himself back into the US Army. He was executed on the spot according to one informant. I doubt whether this story was true but in those first weeks after the Jap surrender everything was possible.

I still cannot understand the total reversal of the attitude of the Japanese. Wherever we showed up the people were overly polite and accommodating. When we happened to meet some military men we just had to look at them sternly and we were accorded full military honours (saluting, bowing, etc).

One story comes to mind: There were a couple of Dutch Navy boys; one with the name of Roosevelt and the other was Donkelaar. They decided to have a look at a different camp "Fukuoka 17". They traveled by train, first class, of course, and on arrival at the destined town they walked out of the railway station and were accosted by a Military Police Patrol consisting of some ex-P.O.W., from camp 17. They had to give their credentials and state their business to be on the loose. Well, Roosevelt gave his name and the MP said: "You are a liar, the President died a few months ago. You are under arrest". Next Donkelaar gave his name and he was arrested being AWOL from camp 17. His twin brother happened to be an inmate from camp 17.

It was hilarious, but at the time it was not funny. They were brought as prisoners to camp 17 and had quite a hectic time convincing the camp authorities that they had told the truth. The Donkelaar brothers had their reunion but the next morning Roosevelt and "our" Donkelaar escaped and told the story about the poor fellows in 17 having such an horrid time with their own overlords.

We were certainly fortunate that in our camp the situation was different. A couple of English officers and Sergeant Major J. tried to re-introduce us to the strict pre-war discipline but they soon realized that it is very hard if not impossible to drill a mob of Aussies and American convicts. Regarding the Dutch, it was a matter of "No Understand" and a dumb look. The Dutch officer was a medical man who couldn't care less as long as his patients were treated well. So the British Army gave up.

A lively black market developed. Red Cross supplies were in overabundance. A couple of Americans knew of a Japanese Army dump nearby and we soon had a few truckloads of Army blankets and other clothing "liberated" and the civilian population was very keen to obtain some warm merchandise for the coming winter. Our boys were after "kimonos" and other artifacts. Some started collecting "samurais" (swords) from Jap officers on the loose. It is still a wonder that nothing serious developed. If an officer was reluctant he was threatened with General MacArthur's name and rewarded with a signed chit that he had surrendered his weapon to "Captain Bullshit" or worse.

On the 31st August we had another airdrop which was a "special". It was the birthday of Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands and our small group of Dutchies were spoken to by our Doctor and we sang the Dutch Anthem. Soon after the grocery plane arrived overhead and down came the "gifts". There was one parachute, an orange one, which was very conspicuous, orange being the colour of the house of "Orange" (Dutch Royal Family). The orange container was hauled triumphantly to the sickbay and

the Doctor read the message printed on it. I forgot the wording but it was a congratulation for all the Netherlands servicemen and the box contained a special gift from such and such squadron to enhance our celebrations. The box contained prophylactics and condoms. As you can imagine it caused a lot of hilarity amongst our Allies but we didn't appreciate the joke at the time.

Anyway, life in camp was very pleasant. August is a beautiful month, also the groups, messes, all had their territory staked out amongst the pine trees and we all slept outdoors and dined "all fresco". The barracks were simply impossible to live in because of the vermin.

It was toward the middle of September that word came through that we were to be evacuated by train. On the 15th of September we were all transported by trucks to the railway station. What a complete reversal: as P.O.W. we had to run, encouraged by savage Army men with sticks, rifles and bayonets. Now as "victorious" men we were very politely helped on board of the trucks and the Army fellows couldn't do enough to help us carry our gear. We were very "generous" and rewarded them with smokes and weren't they flabbergasted.

We boarded a very good train with windows we could see through, not blacked out and the countryside we traveled through was quite pretty. As soon as we approached a town or city, however, we could see a lot of damage caused by bombing.

But when we approached our destination we saw how horrendous war is. We entered the precinct of Nagasaki and I can remember a peculiar smell. A stink of burning and carrion. The train went rather slow, the rails were not damaged as they were below normal ground level, but it gave us the opportunity to see what has happened. We were travelling through a desolate wasteland, everything looked like pulverised dust and on the hills on either side of the valley were skeleton-like trees all flattened out and pointing away from us. On the low wasteland were curious looking things like hardened lumps of cement. We realised these were skulls and bones and other remains which weren't obliterated completely.

Despite our excitement about going home most of us quieted down. We slowly moved on and approached a makeshift railway station put up by the Americans. The platforms were still in good order and the ruins of the buildings were bulldozed away and the US Seabees had erected a reception centre especially for the ex-prisoners of war. As soon as the train stopped everyone jumped out and what a reception we received.

A large Navy band burst out in the diverse national anthems. First the American, next "God save the King" and finally "Wilhelmus" the Dutch anthem. We were quite a hard bitten lot (otherwise we wouldn't have survived) but this was too much. Men were unashamed crying like children.

There were dozens of American Navy girls and Red Cross women and they couldn't do enough for us. They handed out doughnuts and Coca-Cola and we were really sort of mothered. After a while we were gradually shepherded into lines for registration and that gave some light-hearted moments as well. Everything had to be done in English and that was quite difficult for those Dutchmen who didn't have much of the British language. One fellow's name was Corporal so he was registered as corporal Rudy (he was a sailor 2nd class) the next sailor's name happened to be "Admiraal" so the registering clerk jumped up and said: "You better go over there Sir, that is the reception line for officers". We had a good laugh about it.

Next we were ordered into a passage between rooms and told to discard all our clothing and things and to put personal things of solid matter like spoons and other metal articles into little metal crates to be fumigated. Everything else was going to be incinerated. There went our nice new uniforms ex-airdrop, there went all the Kimonos the boys had bartered for their sweethearts. Samurai swords, Japanese pipes and so on were 0.K.

We had to walk through successive showers, lukewarm, gradually warmer and we were grabbed by a couple of medical orderlies who gave a good scrub down, shampoo and so on. Rinse and another couple gave a rubdown and drying off. A couple with powder puffs and then we were ushered into another cubicle where medical doctors gave us a check over. For some boys it was quite embarrassing as some doctors were females. Something unheard of in the pre-war services.

After the final 0.K. we went past counters to be dressed and outfitted again. Underpants size such, singlets size so and so on. Three of each, shirts, trousers, caps, the works. All brand new American Army issue.

When we emerged into the "clean" section of the recovery building we were ambushed by more Red Cross ladies who supplied us with "comfort bags", a bag containing articles normally kept in a toilet bag: comb, shaving gear, hair oil, container with soap, shampoo, flannel. Then again past tables carrying food, drink, snacks.

It was really too much at once. It was a world totally different to what we were accustomed to. Our previous masters were real slave drivers, everything had to be done in a hurry, on the run. We were always on the alert, looking over our shoulder to see whether anybody was chasing you up. And now this was like a very leisurely Sunday afternoon. Take your time, mate, help yourself to whatever you like or fancy.

However, everything comes to an end and we were very gradually guided to an entrance ramp of a medium size aircraft carrier: "USS CENANGO" which was moored close by the reception centre. What really made a big impression on me was that there was not a Japanese in sight. Everywhere American men and women in uniform.

On board we were directed down into the hangar deck and this was completely refurbished with hundreds of camping stretchers with pillow and blanket each. Over the Tannoy (P.A. System) were announcements about the mealtimes and the location of the different galleys and heads (toilets). It was a bit confusing for a lot of the Dutch, but there were sufficient English-speaking Navy men who could translate and explain to their fellow ex-POWs.

It was great to meet up with my mates from Fukuoka 2. Harry Z. was in Fukuoka 2 till the end of the war and he told us about the actual "Bomb". The camp was well outside the direct danger zone but buildings facing the direction of Nagasaki had walls collapsing and roofs blown off. A ferry boat on the way from Nagasaki was completely lifted out of the water and finished up about 120 metres inland. The boys were not allowed out of the camp because of the radiation danger and they were very surprised that we had been adventuring all over the countryside.

Herman H. (Sam) was transferred to a coalmine about two months after I left and he had quite a difficult and dangerous time working in the mine on very low rations. Thankfully we all survived and we soon had our stretchers re-organised so we were together again.