Judy: The Unforgettable Story of the Dog Who Went to War and Became a True Hero (20 page)

Hartley—not properly trained and certainly not ordained—had become by default the padre of the British at Gloegoer One, and in that he had done a sterling job. Ensconced in the hold of the SS
Van Waerwijck
, he gazed at the large liver-and-white dog across the way from him, marveling at the incredible life she had led. All in Gloegoer had heard of their mascot's string of wild adventures—on the gunboats, in Singapore, and during her long flight to the POW camps—and it strengthened their determination to have her remain one of their number.

Now here she was again—smuggled aboard and miraculously still with them. Hartley thanked God that she had not been discovered. Having her there on that hellish ship was oddly comforting. Hartley watched the Gloegoer One mascot lay her fine head between her forepaws, as if to rest. Gradually, he felt his own eyes closing, the stultifying heat and the motion of the vessel lulling him to sleep.

Neither man nor dog would rest for long.

In the seas off eastern Sumatra, June 26 was a calm and sunny day. The
Van Waerwijck
steamed onward toward Singapore, her captain and crew remaining blissfully unaware that a British submarine had spotted her.

The first sign that Commander Robert Alexander, the captain of HMS
Truculent
, had detected of the small convoy was a plume of smoke on the distant horizon. Minutes later he'd spotted an aircraft circling overhead, forming some kind of an escort. He'd closed to within 3,500 yards, a range from which he could study the vessels properly.

As he hunched over his periscope, gazing intently at the enemy ships, the British commander realized he'd stumbled upon a small Japanese convoy. After he scanned the cluster of vessels from end to end, one—a twin-masted steamer with a single funnel churning out a dark plume of smoke—clearly presented the largest and most
juicy target. Unaware that she was carrying hundreds of British and Allied POWs, Commander Alexander unleashed four torpedoes, then dived, settling upon the bottom at 58 feet depth.

Onboard the
Van Waerwijck
Les Searle had just been called onto the open deck. It was a chance to grab a little fresh air. The sense of relief after the punishing conditions below was unbelievable—even though he'd been summoned to help with a decidedly unpleasant task, that of cleaning the ship's latrines. Midway through the work some sixth sense made him glance out to sea. He froze. Just below the surface were the unmistakable tracks of white turbulence formed by torpedoes. Four of them, and bearing down on them fast!

Les felt overcome with shock and disbelief, yet still he managed to yell out a warning. “Torpedoes! Torpedoes off the port side!”

His cry came too late for the ship to take any kind of evasive action. Moments later the first torpedo struck the SS
Van Waerwijck
, throwing up a geyser of white water high into the air. It tore into the ship's hull just to the rear of the forward hold and adjacent to the coal bunker. Those who were on deck knew instantly what had happened, and several threw themselves into the sea. But those packed into the rear hold had heard only a deafening thud reverberating through the vessel, and they couldn't know what calamity had befallen the ship.

As Les raced across deck to warn them, the second torpedo was ahead of him. The blunt-nosed projectile tore into the rear hold, where several hundred prisoners and one dog were packed like sardines. The explosion proved so violent that it buckled the deck, blasting several Japanese guards high into the air. Seawater began pouring into the ruptured hull.

The
Van Waerwijck
let out a tortured groan and started listing badly to port. In the forward hold the bulkhead that had separated the prisoners from the engine room collapsed. Blasted coal dust turned the air black as night as ghostly, soot-covered figures fought one another for a place on the ladder and the chance to climb to safety. On the deck above a chaplain was crying out Hail Marys
and Our Fathers at the top of his voice as he wrestled open the cupboards holding the life jackets and handed them around to those fighting to get clear of the sinking ship.

Drums, chests, and falling planks of wood crashed about the badly listing deck, trapping those who were struggling to get free. The ship was sinking stern first, and the water was already claiming its first victims. In the rear hold it was utter chaos. Figures clambered over each other to get access to the stairwell. As the ship heeled over still farther the wooden platforms disintegrated into heavy planking, massive splinters crashing down on top of bodies and trapping many. The huge covers for the hatches had been blown inward by the force of the explosion, crushing those below.

As the ship heeled over still farther, the packing cases that constituted the deck cargo broke free and crashed into the hold. Seawater swirled and gurgled as bodies fought to make their escape. Les Searle peered in through the open hatch, searching amid the mass of twisted metal, wood, and seawater for Jock Devani, Frank, Judy, and the others. He leaned into the darkness and hauled figures upward as he joined those trying to drag as many as possible out of that giant steel coffin.

But Jock, Frank, and Judy were nowhere to be seen.

When the first torpedo struck, Peter Hartley, Gloegoer's makeshift padre, had woken with a start. He'd gotten to his feet, a sense of panic sweeping through the hold, only to be blasted down again by torpedo number two. Moments later sounds began to filter into his numbed brain: rushing water, splintering wood, the agonized screams of those who were trapped. The harsh wail of the ship's siren rent the gloom while the floor beneath him rocked and shook as if an earthquake were tearing through the ship.

High above him he saw a square of daylight—the hatch—with figures clustered desperately around it. The ladder was besieged. There was no way he could make it out by that route. Instead, he began to climb up the jagged mountain of packing cases that had tumbled into the hold. If he could make the high point, he might just be able to attempt a leap for the open hatch.

For an instant he glanced across at where Judy had been sleeping, her head resting on her paws. The most amazing sight met his eyes. Frank Williams had hoisted Judy up and was trying to squeeze her out through a porthole. When the torpedoes had struck, Judy had been nestled comfortably between his knees. He'd known that there was no way he could carry her through the mass of men who had began to fight for the one escape route—the ladder leading out of the hold. Instead, he'd turned to the nearest porthole, wrenched it fully open, and lifted Judy toward it.

Trusting to the last, she'd allowed him to ease her head and forelegs through the opening even as the ship had begun her final death throes. She'd turned her head toward the stricken vessel, eyes searching for Frank, as if she'd expected him to be following after her.

Instead, he'd uttered a few encouraging words. “Out you go, old girl! Swim for it!”

With that he'd given a final push on her hindquarters, and Judy of Sussex had tumbled into the sea.

Chapter Seventeen

It was four minutes past two in the afternoon when the SS
Van Waerwijck
gave up the ghost and was claimed by the waves. It had taken just twelve short minutes for her to go down. But not all of the ship had disappeared. The stern was stuck in the mud, and the bow section remained likewise just above the waters. She'd broken in two, but she hadn't been lost from the survivors' view completely: there were hundreds in the water all around her, fighting for their lives.

Meanwhile, her nemesis, HMS
Truculent,
was doing her best to make her escape as the Japanese corvettes came hunting. A pattern of six depth charges was dropped, massive eruptions showing where they'd exploded deep beneath the waves. This first salvo hit wide of the mark, so the corvettes swung around to release a second, this one falling much closer to the British submarine. A third attacking run sent more depth charges churning up the waters around their target, the shock waves pounding out a deathly rhythm against the British submarine's hull.

But by now Commander Alexander had gotten his vessel under way, and he managed to creep away silently and make good the
Truculent
's escape. The British submarine left behind her a sea that was littered with debris and flotsam, plus hundreds of men struggling for their lives.

The
Van Waerwijck
had been sunk in the Malacca Strait some 500 kilometers north of Singapore. The shore was several miles
distant, and there were few who were able to swim for it. Instead, figures clutched on to just about anything that might provide some form of buoyancy—broken wooden beams, life rafts, scattered life vests. Amid the thick, oily scum that covered the water, crates of live chickens bobbed about, their worried clucking adding a surreal touch to the ghostly scene.

A flight of Japanese bombers with fighter escorts appeared overhead, searching for the British submarine, but to no avail. HMS
Truculent
had slipped into deeper waters just as stealthily as she had appeared. With the threat gone, the Japanese tanker ships steamed back into view, having moved closer to the shore in an effort to hide. Lifeboats were lowered, but the crew had strict orders to prioritize the rescue of their fellow Japanese and Koreans. The British, Dutch, and Australian prisoners would have to wait their turn.

Among the first POWs finally to be plucked from the sea would be Frank Williams. He'd been in the water for a good two hours, clinging to a lump of wreckage. For all of that time he'd kept his eyes peeled for a familiar figure, one that he was so desperate to spot—a liver-and-white English pointer dog-paddling through the oily swell.

When Frank was finally able to clamber up one of the nets thrown over the tanker's sides he was exhausted from the time he'd spent in the water, his eyes showing as white circles in his otherwise oil-blackened features. With a last despairing glance over the ship's rail, he allowed himself to be led aft to the galley. As he did so, he consoled himself with the thought that he had done all he could to save Judy.

It was in the lap of the gods whether she lived or died, though he very much doubted whether the Japanese would make much of an effort to save a dog, especially one that was a forbidden stowaway. His biggest worry was that she might have gone back aboard the stricken ship to search for him and had failed to get out before the vessel went down. After all, she'd gotten herself trapped aboard the
Grasshopper
, and only the spirited action of Petty Officer White had saved her.

Along with the rest of the rescued prisoners, Frank was given a ball of sticky rice to stuff into his mouth with his oil-smeared hands, plus a mug of tea. As more and more soot-blackened figures joined them, the deck became horribly crowded. There was only the open steel above the oil tanks for the survivors to squat on, and the afternoon sun was heating it up like a furnace. Soon it was impossible to so much as step on the deck without burning the soles of the feet. All the men could do was squat under the burning sun and suffer in a shocked and stunned silence as the search for more lives to save went on and on.

Unknown to those rescued prisoners, the greatest ever four-legged lifesaver was hard at work out there on the water. Les Searle had managed to escape from the stricken
Van Waerwijck
, whereupon he'd set out to swim for the nearest Japanese tanker. As he was stroking his way through the wreckage-strewn seas, he came across the most incredible sight of all. A finely shaped dark head was arrowing through the water, powerful forepaws thrashing at the surface. There was a figure at Judy's side, and he had one arm thrown across her shoulders as she pulled him toward safety.

Les could barely believe it. Why didn't the poor bitch shake him off? he wondered. Surely, under the dead weight of a fully grown man she'd drown.

But Judy made it to the nearest rescue boat—a local tongkang that had arrived on the scene—after which her shipwreck victim was hauled aboard. Yet still she wasn't done. With cheers of encouragement ringing in her ears she turned around and set off to find others. She helped bring in a good half dozen survivors before she became too exhausted to drag any more to safety, at which point she resorted to pushing lengths of driftwood toward those who were the most in need.

Eventually, she allowed herself to be hauled aboard the tongkang. Bedraggled and smeared in oil, Judy was more dead than alive. She was totally exhausted, her ribs showed sharp and angular through her emaciated sodden flanks, and her eyes were red-rimmed and smarting, but she was still very much the heroine of the hour.

Sadly, there was little opportunity to treat her as the champion lifesaver that she was. Instead, she had to be hustled under a length of canvas that had been used to cover the bodies of some of her most hated human oppressors: a pair of Korean guards who had drowned during the ship's sinking. Judy would have to keep those corpses company for the remainder of the voyage to Singapore—otherwise the guards might discover her presence and, remembering Captain Nissi's orders, unleash savage retribution.

One of the last men to be plucked out of the sea was a Captain Gordon of the Royal Artillery. He'd managed to swim to a native fishing trap set offshore and cling to it for several hours. From there he was picked up by one of the Japanese corvettes. Having thanked the ship's captain for rescuing him and many others, Captain Gordon asked the Japanese commander if he would be willing to make one last search of all the wreckage. He agreed, and by four-thirty that afternoon all the survivors had been plucked from the sea.

The convoy formed up and got under way once more, steaming south for Singapore. But with sundown the decks that had been boiling hot during the day were transformed into a freezing cold, icy bed for the night. Without any blankets and with many even lacking clothes—they'd lost them during the shipwreck—the survivors huddled as close together as they could, trying to share some body warmth. As a chill wind whipped across the exposed deck, the curses and shivers of the survivors mingled with the hollow, despairing cries of the wounded.

Among those who had escaped from the
Van Waerwijck
sinking were Les Searle, Jock Devani, Frank Williams, and Judy of Sussex, plus Gloegoer One's makeshift padre, Peter Hartley—but they were spread across various vessels. Ahead of them lay a journey during which they would be frozen at night, baked under the burning sun by day, and forced to bury at sea many of their comrades—the worst wounded, who would not survive.

By the time the battered convoy sailed into Singapore, most were too numb with shock and exhaustion to register anything other than a dumb recognition that they had arrived.

Over two years had passed since Frank Williams had served with his RAF unit here in Singapore, or since Les Searle, Jock Devani, and Judy had striven valiantly aboard the gunboats to escape the encircling Japanese, or since Peter Hartley had refused the order to surrender and made his desperate escape bid. The vessels that were carrying them chugged by the sunken forms of the wrecks that still littered the harbor before passing the sleek gray forms of a pair of German U-boats emblazoned with huge red-and-white swastikas.

The first ships pulled alongside an empty wharf. The reality of what had happened started to sink in for the shipwreck survivors crouched like naked scarecrows on the decks. Naked and smeared with oil they might be, but somehow five hundred of the
Van Waerwijck
's contingent of seven hundred POWs had survived. Dirty, bloodied, and bare they might be, but few felt ashamed now they were back in civilization.

Instead, they gave thanks for being alive.

But for one prisoner, 81A-Medan, the most life-threatening moment of this nightmare journey was still to come. The tongkang carrying Judy pulled into dock where there was a convoy of waiting Japanese Army trucks. A distinctive figure stood among the gray vehicles, looming head and shoulders above his fellow officers—Colonel Banno. After the horrors of Captain Nissi's rule, some of the prisoners—Les Searle and Peter the padre Hartley among them—almost felt glad to lay eyes on Gloegoer One's former commandant once more.

At first the colonel greeted their arrival with a smile. But it soon gave way to a look of horror as he surveyed the human skeletons clustered along the deck and the awfulness of what must have happened hit home. He was as changeable as ever, and the sight seemed to move him to a rare show of pity. He turned to his guards and began issuing orders, gesticulating wildly with his hands at the figures on the vessel.

The tongkang scraped its way along the concrete dockside and came to a halt. The gangplank went down, and volunteers were called forth to carry the wounded, including those Korean guards
who had jumped from the ship in the first seconds after she was hit, only to be caught by the shock waves of the second torpedo and suffering horrific internal injuries as a result. Then there were the prisoners from the rear hold, who had been injured in the explosion caused by the second torpedo. A few Japanese guards had jumped into the sea with a supposed ready-made life raft gripped between their legs—a length of wooden planking from the ship, perhaps—only for its impact to cause serious injuries.

With the wounded unloaded, the order was given for the able-bodied men to disembark. As Les Searle coaxed Judy out of hiding, he had no sack in which to hide her or any means to click his fingers and get her to dart inside. He had no choice but to lead her down the gangplank in full view. Together with Padre Peter Hartley he and Judy half stumbled the short distance, for they were in a terrible way. Hartley's legs and arms were cut to shreds from all the splintered wood that he'd had to fight his way through, and neither Les Searle nor Judy was in very much better condition.

But as soon as the three survivors made the quayside the Gloegoer One guards noticed Judy. The atmosphere surrounding the disembarkation changed completely. Two of the guards stormed forward, mouths spouting invective and arms jerking maniacally at the dog, at Les Searle, and then at the sea. The meaning was clear: they were threatening to throw Judy into the harbor and very possibly her human companions with her. Les Searle doubted whether he could survive another immersion, and as for Judy, even she was looking half beaten.

As the guards went to snatch the errant dog, a powerful cry rang out. Hands froze in midaction. It was the voice of Colonel Banno. Having seen what was happening, the colonel had barked out some form of counterorder. The guards jerked stiffly to attention and then bowed before the colonel before stepping away from the dog.

Colonel Banno strode forward. The guards bobbed their heads in cringing subservience as he tore into them. Then, rather than drawing his sword to bait Judy, he bent down to pat her oil-stained ears, clearly signaling that she had won her reprieve. In the eyes
of many of the prisoners, in that one moment Colonel Banno had atoned for many of the past cruelties that he'd visited upon them at Gloegoer One.

The POWs were formed up in ragged ranks. Many were completely naked, their only covering being a thick layer of greasy soot and oil. More trucks pulled up at the quayside. Head count completed, the men—plus one dog who'd won an eleventh-hour reprieve—were ordered to board the waiting vehicles. But beside one of the newly arrived trucks stood another familiar figure, and this one was far less welcome.

It was the dreaded Captain Nissi, fresh onto the scene. As Les Searle went to hoist Judy into the rear of one of the trucks, the captain let out a strangled scream of rage. A torrent of abuse shot forth from his lips. A pair of soldiers stepped forward, rifles at the ready.

In her appearance Judy was very different from her heyday on the Yangtze gunboats. She was painfully thin, her white coat was stained black with oil from repeated forays into the sea, her teeth were yellow beneath snarling lips, and her red eyes burned with hatred for those about to seize her. Yet just at the moment when they were about to strike, an older, more commanding voice rang out. It was Colonel Banno once more, and this time he was countermanding Captain Nissi's orders: prisoner 81A-Medan was not to be harmed.

Much as he hated having to do so, Captain Nissi was forced to give way. Before there could be any further attempts to do her harm, Les Searle bundled Judy into the truck and vaulted after her. Shortly they were off jolting along the harbor road, every man lost in a dark corner of the vehicle and entombed in his own thoughts. Not even the fact that they'd succeeded in frustrating Captain Nissi's murderous intentions could lift the men's sagging spirits.

The convoy roared through the streets of what had once been Britain's island fortress but had been transformed into a stronghold of the hated enemy. Just a short drive across the city, the trucks pulled to a halt. The prisoners were ordered out. They had been
brought to a new camp—or at least it was new to them—but a more dilapidated and dispiriting place they'd yet to imagine.