Escape from the Japanese: The Amazing Tale of a PoWs Journey from Hong Kong to Freedom

By Ralph Burton Goodwin

Trapped in the depths of Japanese-held territory, it was rare for Allied prisoners of war to attempt escape. There was little chance of making contact with anti-guerrilla or underground organisations and no possibility of Europeans blending in with the local Asian populations. Failure, and recapture, meant execution. This was what Lieutenant Commander R.B. Goodwin faced when he decided to escape from the Shamsuipo PoW Camp in Kowloon, Hong Kong in July 1944 after three years of internment.With no maps and no knowledge of the country or the language, Lieutenant Commander Goodwin set out across enemy territory and war-torn China. Because of the colour of his skin he had to travel during the hours of darkness for much of what was an 870-mile journey to reach British India. Few of his fellow prisoners gave him any chance of succeeding, yet, little more than three months later, he was being transported to the safety of Calcutta. For his daring and determination Lieutenant Commander Goodwin was awarded the Order of the British Empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781848329317

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Introduction

On the 25th day of December 1941 the rich prize of Hong Kong fell to Japanese invaders. The furious sounds of battle grumbled to a grudging silence, and all was still. There could be no Dunkirk for the beleaguered troops, the enemy was all around, and the survivors of the garrison became prisoners of war (PoW).

Before the event it was my belief that every prisoner would automatically begin to plan his escape, and that a bid for freedom would be the best contribution he could make towards the enemy’s defeat. Yet circumstances cloud the issues. When an escape by one or two individuals may bring severe reprisals against those left behind, the course of duty becomes confused; and when men have been weakened by systematic starvation for months, and years, thoughts of further suffering are apt to loom in distorted menace.

The merits of attempting an escape were debated long and heatedly in the prison camps in Hong Kong. From the point of view of the escaper the problem was clear-cut and simple. Success meant freedom and a return to battle; failure meant torture and execution. For those left behind the problem was confused, unpredictable, and therefore the more terrifying. Anything could happen, from a spate of tortures and executions of individuals, to a mass starvation of the whole camp. On the other hand, the Japanese might not take any of the threatened reprisals, though there were few who believed that anything but sadistic cruelty would follow an attempted escape.

When the mutterings and subdued thunders of the Second World War finally burst on an expectant world, a party of ten temporary sub-lieutenants of the New Zealand Division of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve sailed from Auckland to begin their war service with the Royal Navy, based at Singapore. It was my fate to be included in that party, and it was my ambition to be detailed to a motor torpedo boat. The Navy had other ideas, and I was told that my thirty-eight years made me too old for such an assignment. Almost two years of routine sea service followed, first in a minesweeper, then in an asdic patrol ship, and finally as first lieutenant in the naval tug St. Aubyn, which was delivered from Hong Kong to Aden.

From that trip I reached Singapore again late in September 1941, and after a week in HMS Kedah, a small armed merchantman, I was sent to Hong Kong to join the 2nd Motor Torpedo Boat Flotilla. Two months later Japan entered the war, and when Hong Kong surrendered it was my misfortune to be in hospital, suffering from a leg wound.

Five MTBs were still afloat, and on Christmas night, with a party of officials and all the fit personnel of the flotilla, they made a dash up the coast to Mirs Bay. There the boats were destroyed, and, guided by the Chinese Admiral Chan Chak, the party made a successful journey across China, to Chungking and freedom.

It was not until the end of February 1942 that I was fit enough to go to the overcrowded North Point Camp. That horrible place was vacated in April, when most of the men went to Shamsuipo (also referred to as Sham Shui Po) Camp in Kowloon, and most of the officers went to the Argyle Street Camp, also in Kowloon. That was to be our home for two years, and then we too were sent to Shamsuipo.

After two months in Shamsuipo I escaped on the night of the 16th-17th July 1944, and after crossing South China to Kunming, I was sent home to Auckland on leave.

Three months were spent in complete relaxation, and then I reported for duty with the MI9 Branch at British Pacific Fleet Headquarters in Sydney. That appointment gave me an opportunity to follow the fortunes of the prisoners of war in the Far East, and when Japan surrendered I went to Hong Kong with the relieving force as MI9 representative with the Prisoners of War Recovery Party.

The ships of the relieving force, under command of Admiral Sir Bruce Fraser whose flag was flying in HMS Indomitable, steamed out from Subic Bay for Hong Kong. A light breeze put dark blue colour on a smiling sea, from which the enemy had gone. But had he? We knew the fanaticism with which he fought towards the end, and there could be no carelessness yet. Aircraft flew from the carrier’s deck each day, and at the end of one of those exercises we saw how easily a man could lose his life.

A fighter came in, landed heavily, and broke the arrester wire. Other incoming planes were waved off until repairs were made, and then another came in to land. The day was perfect, and the pilot made a perfect landing. His tail-hook picked up the wire, but then something went wrong. Instead of running out evenly from both sides the wire ran from one side only, with the result that the fighter slewed across the deck as it slowed down. One landing-wheel ran along the scupper for some distance, and when almost stopped the plane toppled over the gunwale. Quite slowly it settled on a twin anti-aircraft gun, almost stopped there and then slipped down, nose first, into the sea. It did not sink, it floated there with its tail in the air, but for some inexplicable reason the pilot did not appear. Under a blue sky and a calm friendly sea he drowned there, one of the last casualties of a war that was already over.

We came to anchor in Hong Kong Harbour on the 30th of August 1945, and the next day I visited the Shamsuipo Camp. There all my old PoW friends were gathered, and there also was Colonel Esao Tokunaga, who had been commanding officer of all prisoner of war camps in Hong Kong. That individual, who had early been christened the White Pig, revealed the site of the graves of five prisoners who had been murdered, and he began a long justification of his own harsh treatment of the prisoners. He was most insistent that he was merely putting into practice the orders of his senior officers, and that he personally was not to blame. However, when he discovered my identity, Tokunaga’s inventions dried suddenly at their source, and I took the opportunity to express some of my own views of that arrogant creature’s actions.

The Japanese interpreter present was the same lad who had been on duty at the time of my escape, and when he realised to whom he was speaking, the shock which registered was ludicrous to behold. All Japanese personnel attached to the camp had suffered severe punishment, and some time afterwards this interpreter had said, Neffer; as long as I live; vill I forget that name of Gootvin. Apparently he had come in for his added share of trouble, and one could almost feel sorry for that unfortunate youth. He was a poor, weak creature, partly crippled, and invariably he was bullied by all and sundry. To the inmates of the camp, for some unknown and obscure reason, he was known as Deadly Nightshade.

My friends took great pleasure in recounting the happenings at the camp on the day following my escape. At the nine o’clock muster the roll was checked over and over again, and when the Japanese at last found who was missing they searched the camp from end to end. That went on for several hours, until every possible hiding-place, and every impossible one for that matter, had been examined several times over. When finally convinced that neither I nor my body was still inside the wire, the camp commandant had the unpleasant duty of reporting the loss of a prisoner.

The two officers who slept on either side of me, Lieutenant (E.) Chown, RNVR, and Lieutenant Trapman, 12 CRRA, were arrested for interrogation, as also were my two closest friends, Lieutenant Glover, HKRNVR, and Lieutenant Thomson, RNR. Others were also called for brief interrogation.

Lieutenant Thomson recalled a scene when the four who had been arrested were sitting on the ground outside the guardhouse. Dr. Saito, senior medico and most hated of the Japanese, stopped when he reached the prisoners. Looking at Chown, he asked, How old are you? Chown replied, Twenty-five. Saito hissed S-s-so; you have a long time to live.

Saito then asked Thomson the same question, and on being told Fifty-one, he merely grunted. Thomson, in his own inimitable way, said he had fully expected Saito to hiss, "S-s-so; you have not very long to live".

However, no one suffered any very severe beatings, and reprisals against the camp were very much lighter than they might have been. Any further escapes were made much more difficult, because the Japanese enforced an order that every hut should maintain a sentry at the door from dark to dawn. No one could leave a hut without being identified, and any prolonged absence would be the signal for a search. The result was that after my departure no other escape was attempted.

Now, since many of my fellow prisoners did have hopes of escaping, they can measure their preparations and theories against the realities which confronted me, and they can assess their chances had they been able to take the initial step.

It so happened that Opportunity knocked on my door first, and following the only course that seemed possible in the circumstances encountered, it was my prerogative to put a plan to practical test. I can claim no personal credit for its success, for you will see, as you follow the story, that Luck played all the winning hands.

Lieutenant-Commander R.B. Goodwin OBE, RNZVR

Chapter 1

War Comes to Hong Kong

The dawn was glorious. Soft pearly mists enveloped the harbour of Hong Kong on the morning of the 8th of December 1941, and as the sun rose a warm glow tinted the brown sails of junks as they drifted with a strong tide. Smoke from ferries and steamboats hung in long rich brown streamers in the still air. Passing launches left fleeting pencil lines of wake.

Nature, the supreme artist, ever conscious of intensity of drama in violent contrast, prepared the stage with consummate skill. Even as pale mists melted imperceptibly to the touch of morning sunlight, a storm broke; a storm of hate and passion that was to sweep the East with a searing flame of terror and of agony that was to plunge the lives of millions into misery and despair.

On that particular morning I was enjoying breakfast in the dining-room of Kingsclere in Carnarvon Road, Kowloon, when a Chinese boy opened the door to announce, Telephone call for you, Mr. Goodwin.

For days past war with Japan had been momentarily expected, and the reason for that early morning call was a foregone conclusion.

That you, Goodwin?

Yes.

Kennedy here, there are some important signals in; you had better come down as soon as you can.

Right; I’ll be there in ten minutes.

Lieutenant Kennedy, RNVR, was duty officer at the Motor Torpedo Boat Base at Kowloon, and it was he who had received the fateful signals. Britain and Japan were at war, and at the Base preparations were already under way to evacuate the flotilla to its war station at Aberdeen, a sheltered fishing village on the southern shore of Hong Kong Island. While the latest signals were being discussed in the MTB office there came a distant c-r-ump, c-r-ump of bursting bombs, and the first attack on Kaitak Airfield was in progress.

For the next seventeen days the air about Hong Kong was vibrant with the ceaseless thunder of war. Nights were illumined with the lurid glow of fires, and with the vivid flashes of gunfire and of bursting shells.

The 2nd MTB flotilla was called upon for a multiplicity of duties. Attacking enemy warships, attacking landing-craft, carrying despatches, collecting wounded, evacuating troops from the mainland. In addition the flotilla maintained dark to dawn patrols to seaward of Hong Kong to forestall any surprise attack from that direction.

During the battle three boats were totally destroyed, many casualties were suffered, and the remaining five boats were all more or less damaged by bombs or shellfire. I had been assigned to MTB 10, under command of Lieutenant-Commander Gandy, RN, the commanding officer of the flotilla, and my own active participation in the war came to an untimely end on an exceptionally noisy morning three days before the surrender of the colony.

The gunboat Cicala, Lieutenant-Commander Boldero in command, was shelling Japanese positions in Deep Water Bay when heavy mortar fire forced her to withdraw. There was little room to manoeuvre between the wrecks of sunken vessels, and as she went out stern first a flight of bombers unleashed their loads upon her. Stick after stick fell about the little ship, but after each salvo, when the columns of spray had slowly fallen, there she was, still afloat and steaming. Fresh waves of planes came over, and finally three bombs scored direct hits. Cicala was mortally hurt, and, with her boats holed, with her steam-pipes broken and her hull shattered, the gunboat was abandoned to the sea. As she slowly sank MTB 10 went alongside to take off survivors.

The hand of Fate was then moving swiftly in my direction. When Cicala’s crew had been landed at Aberdeen we prepared to load torpedoes to replace two that had been fired on the previous night, and when that operation was in full swing a field gun opened fire on us from a hill above Deep Water Bay.

The gunners’ aim was high at first, but they were rapidly reducing their range and, in imminent danger of following Cicala to the bottom of the sea, we cast off from the jetty to zig-zag out through Aberdeen Channel.

Those gunners were very good indeed, and a shell burst close alongside. As I stood against the wheelhouse there came a violent blow on my right thigh, and at the same time the flesh was hauled forward until the skin burst and the strain was suddenly released. A jagged steel splinter had passed through my thigh, and while its entry was marked by only a small puncture, its exit made a hole that could easily accommodate a closed fist. The splinter dropped on deck after hitting the side of the wheelhouse, and it was so hot that it burnt my fingers when I dropped it into my pocket to keep as a souvenir.

MTB 10 was soon out of range, and after field-dressings had been applied to my damaged leg I was landed and carried to a casualty clearing-station at the Aberdeen Industrial School. My recollections of that journey are somewhat hazy, because I was unconscious for varying periods. Shells from the mainland were bursting along the road to the Queen Mary Hospital, so it was almost dark before an ambulance could set out to take a full load of wounded there. Apparently it was not quite dark enough, for shells suddenly began to burst close ahead of the vehicle, and it pulled in violently under a high bank. Then the firing ceased and we went on again, the vehicle crashing and bouncing into the broken road surface. One could forgive the driver his haste to pass the danger zone, but the ambulance was suffering from the strain. After one particularly fierce bump the doors flew open and my stretcher, one of the top tier, began to slide out the back. By grabbing a rail I staved off the immediate danger of being dropped in the road, but the remainder of the journey was completed with almost half of me swaying about in the twilight outside.

The entrance to Queen Mary Hospital was littered with wounded, for all the staffed wards were full and new arrivals had to wait until a new ward was opened up. It was cold there in that draughty foyer, and time passed slowly. Morphia had deadened my senses to such an extent that I was only half conscious, but after what seemed to be two or three hours I was lodged in a spotless bed on the fifth floor, there to pass a restless, feverish night.

Next morning my wound was treated at the operating theatre, and afterwards, back in the ward, I received a great surprise. When serving aboard HMS Harrow at Singapore I had had a vivid dream. I was lying in bed in a hospital ward, and coming towards me was a young probationer nurse. She was very plain, with a pimply face, and my thought at the time was: When there are so many pretty nurses in the world, why should it be my luck to strike this one? Then, twelve months later, when the effects of the anaesthetic were wearing off and my eyes opened, there was the identical scene before me. It had been my privilege in Singapore to have a preview of one little incident in my life, and it made me wonder if we would ever find the key to the master plan, so that all the future could be seen.

Queen Mary Hospital was reserved for more serious patients, and on the following morning my name was called in a draft to go to the University. All day long, shells and bombs were bursting near the hospital, their thunderous explosions combining with the crash of guns to make the building shake continuously. Night brought relief from most of the uproar, for no more planes came over, and the bark of the anti-aircraft guns was stilled.

Sleep had almost won the day when someone rolled me out of my nice warm bed and carried me down to lie on the floor of a motor-truck. It was a glorious night of black velvet sky and brilliant stars, but it was cold lying there under only one blanket, after the warm comfort of a bed. When fully loaded, the truck drove over dark deserted streets to the University. The road wound along steep hillsides which afforded perfect sites from which hand grenades could be dropped on moving targets, and when buildings were approached the danger from fifth columnists increased. There had been shooting from upper windows, and our escorts talked in hushed whispers when we halted under a high bank overhung with trees. Figures moved silently in the darkness, hurried conversations took place, conversations pregnant with nervous tension, then silence settled down. It was cold waiting there in the dark, and it seemed that we were deserted.

At last the voices came back and we were lifted out, to be carried up hundreds of steps. The wards were all full in that emergency hospital, and I found myself in a corridor on a stretcher made of sacking. That was to be my bed for a week of intense discomfort. Because of the sagging fabric the only position in which I could lie was on my back, and again because of the sagging it was inevitable that I should slide into the same place. The result was that the pain in my leg was completely nullified by a much greater pain that developed at the base of my spine.

All night long cries and groans of pain rose from the floor of the main hall where Chinese casualties were placed. One man who went out of his mind made the nights hideous with his terrible screaming.

On Christmas Day brilliant sunshine streamed from a cloudless sky, but the beauty of the day was rudely shattered by the uproar and pulsing tumult of battle. Shells from Kowloon whined continuously over the University to burst among buildings at a higher level, and with my bed against the front wall I fervently hoped that none of the shells fell short.

The noise died down during the afternoon, and towards evening a strange quietness prevailed. One of the VADs, a vivacious little French girl, came over with eyes streaming tears to announce, They’ve surrendered.

That was how I heard the news of the fall of Britain’s first bastion in the East. For the past two days surrender had been hourly expected, yet when that simple announcement was made my stomach contracted violently and it required all my strength to resist being physically ill.

From Fort Stanley the 9.2-inch guns continued to thunder distant defiance until eight o’clock p.m., when the commanding officer was finally convinced that the surrender had really been signed. There remained a profound silence, broken only by the occasional crack of a rifle as some looter was discovered at his work.

Into the silence came a muffled throbbing roar, full of significance for me, for I knew that that came from the motors of the five surviving MTBs, tuning up for their last run. The sound faded and was gone. With it went my last link with the free world; I was a prisoner of the Japanese.

What that might mean was quickly taught, the subject of our first lesson being the little lady who had told us, with her tearful voice, the sad news of surrender. She set out one day to find the grave of her husband who had been killed in the fighting, and night was closing down by the time she approached the University again. We heard shots ring out along a nearby road, and later we were to learn that the girl had been raped and brutally murdered by Japanese soldiers. All the tragedy of war had been heaped upon her bright spirit within a few short days, and her passing was the first of a series of incidents that fanned a smouldering resentment into a burning hatred of our captors.

Doctors were far too few, and serious cases fully occupied the time of those available, so for a week my leg was dressed daily by a VAD. One morning she became interested in some gauze adhering to the wound, and after tugging away at it for some time without results, she began to ask a few questions. I suddenly remembered that there was a hole in the back of my leg also, and her attention was drawn to that. There also was a piece of gauze that would not respond to tugging, so the nurse went off to find a doctor.

It had not occurred to me that they did not know the nature of the wound, and after it had been explained the doctor said Oh! that must be a gauze plug. She thereupon seized the said plug with a pair of forceps, and gave me a rather painful surprise by dragging it right through my leg. My condition was not improving at all, so after a week I was sent back to the Queen Mary Hospital. They kept me there only three or four days, and then sent me on to the Royal Naval Hospital. That was the turning-point for me, for from the day when Surgeon-Commander Cleave, RN, took me in hand the wound healed rapidly, and I was soon walking with the aid of crutches.

The Japanese rarely visited the hospital, so we were surprised and somewhat apprehensive one morning when a large staff car and two truck loads of marines arrived in the compound. With great formality an officer unfolded a paper and, in Japanese, read out a long statement. While that was in progress the marines took station in the wards and corridors, and within a few minutes an order was issued that everyone was to pack at once. The victors had spoken to the vanquished. That day the hospital was to be evacuated entirely.

Patients on the road to recovery, which included me, were sent to St. Albert’s Convent at Rosary Hill, while the more seriously hurt went to Bowen Road Hospital. By that time it was possible for me to walk with the aid of one crutch, and we soon settled down to life in our new surroundings. The Japanese gave orders that no one was to leave the hospital compound, but they put no guards round the area and we had a great deal of freedom. Clouds frequently settled down almost as low as the hospital, and under cover of their thick folds those patients who were fit enough went foraging on the battlefields along the top ridge. Large quantities of clothing and equipment were gathered, and a certain amount of canned goods to augment the rations of the lucky finders.

There were other more gruesome relics of the fighting too, such as a party who had been roped together and then bayonetted to death, and frequently a burial party would set off to perform its sorry task. One day I had crossed the main ridge and was