The devils circle, p.16
The Devil's Circle, page 16
The Bhurtpores had lost their regimental identity upon joining the INA. They were known simply as the 2nd Provisional Battalion. Most of the officers of the 2nd Battalion were Habibullah’s old comrades from the Bhurtpores. A smattering of junior subalterns from other regiments joined them. Other troops had been inducted into the 2nd Battalion from different Indian Army units. He had to work hard to win the respect of these newcomers. The Bhurtpores accepted him as their leader; there was no reason why the others should. They had no real feeling of loyalty to India, which was a political aspiration rather than a country. The only reality remained the regiment. They were orphans, shorn of their regimental allegiances and severed from their parent formations, most of which were still fighting the Japanese. Even the 1/14 Punjabis retained a shadow existence in the British forces, having been amalgamated with the remnants of the 5/14 Punjabis into a composite battalion. The Bhurtpores were the only regiment that had no rump still on the British side. How the others would perform when faced with their old regimental comrades-in-arms was a matter of grave concern.
There could no longer be any question of remaining aloof from the fighting. The INA was allied to the Japanese, not subordinate to them. This was what they had been told, and Mohan Singh tried his best to remind the Japanese of it. To many of the Japanese officers, the Indians were only good for menial tasks like road-repair. It was important that the INA should behave like an allied army and not as mere hangers-on. Mohan Singh insisted that his men be kept together as formed units and not employed as labourers. Fujiwara supported him. They got their way, but it was plain that they were not fully trusted by their new allies. Few guns were issued, despite the fact that there was Chachiru kyoyu aplenty after the debacle at Slim River.
The local Chinese resistance had been helping themselves to the guns and ammunition left behind by the British, even fishing weapons out of the water. The locals were untrained and inexperienced, but that didn’t stop them taking to the jungle. There were a few men who had been hurriedly trained in Singapore at the 101 Special Training School and sent back to Malaya. These men, mostly Communists, formed the cadre of the Malayan Peoples’ Anti-Japanese Army. They would have been formidable if there had been more time and proper instructors to teach them the niceties of irregular warfare. Their enthusiasm made up for their lack of training. Raids were made on isolated targets. But these were uncoordinated and amateurish. Even the second-line Japanese units had some battle experience and beat them off with ease. The resistance fighters suffered grievous losses and soon withdrew into their jungle fastness to lick their wounds and consolidate.
Some British stay-behind parties were active. These proved more effective, though on the strategic scale they counted for nothing. The rail line was repeatedly cut by small explosive charges near Tanjong Malim in Perak. The damage was always repaired quickly, but it happened with irritating regularity. The Japanese had little sense of rear-area security. They travelled at night in convoys with headlights blazing. A blind man could have seen them coming miles away. They were asking for trouble and soon found it. A small convoy was ambushed in a cutting outside Kuala Kubu Baru. A few nights later a staff car was shot up not far away. The locals of all races took secret pleasure at the discomfiture of the invaders. The Kempeitai, in the customary way, was let loose to find the perpetrators. They got what they needed to know using their tried and true methods. Their information was that a small party of British soldiers had made a base in the mountains around Fraser’s Hill. It was impossible to track them. The Main Range stretched down the spine of Malaya for hundreds of miles, all of it covered with dense jungle. Anyway, the fighting troops were in Johore, pushing the British steadily back. The burden of dealing with these distractions fell on the second echelon units and the INA.
The task of garrisoning the line of communications around Tanjong Malim was assigned to Habibullah’s battalion. Operationally, he was placed under the command of the 5th Division. His task was simple: stop the sabotage. It was no easy task for unarmed troops. The battalion was dispersed in small penny-packets at major road and rail junctions. He gave orders quietly that they should keep their heads down if there was any shooting. The Japanese may have believed in suicide charges, but that wasn’t his idea of warfare. The closest his men got to real action was when a group of saboteurs blew up the rail line for the umteenth time near Kubu Road. The INA guards spotted them and alerted the Japanese. The raiders were much larger and heftier than the local Chinese. It plainly wasn’t the MPAJA. The small local garrison was called out. They came rushing up the road together with the Malay police and ran straight into another ambush. The British had scattered lengths of bamboo all along the road. When the leading truck passed over one, a cord was pulled and the improvised mine went up. Grenades followed. The Japanese took casualties and the saboteurs melted back into the night. The reaction came quickly. The garrison was beefed up. They started patrolling in larger groups, in company with the INA and the local police. Kampongs and estates near the jungle were raided. Reprisals were savage if there was even a suspicion that the locals had helped the raiders. There were no more incidents for some time.
BY 31 January the Causeway had been blown and the great fortress of Singapore was invested. The talk among the jawans was of a long siege. Everyone believed that Singapore was invulnerable. They themselves had passed through the docks, piled high with war matériel, on their way up north. The tale of the gigantic 15-inch guns grew in the re-telling. There was no eagerness to test the defences of the island. However, no one told the Japanese that they weren’t supposed to be able to storm the citadel just like that. They made plans to cross the Johore Strait. It was a gamble. Yamashita was running out of supplies. If it hadn’t been for what the British left behind he would have had to stop at the border of Johore. Now was the time to push the defenders over the brink. He couldn’t afford to let them catch their breath and rebuild their morale.
To Habibullah’s relief, he was ordered to form a company of able and intelligent volunteers to cross with them. Rear area security was not what he had signed up for. He wanted to march on Delhi. The road to India led through Singapore. He made a call for volunteers. There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The faithful Nisar Ahmad stepped up. “I go where you go, Sahib,” he said simply. His example shamed others into doing the same. Soon Habibullah had his hundred men. In the normal Japanese Army fashion the detachment was called after its commander, but since the Japanese couldn’t pronounce his name properly they compromised by referring to it simply as H Kikan. They were finally issued rifles for the task, but only 10 rounds of ammunition per man. There were no machineguns, mortars or any sort of support weapons. The Japanese did not wholly trust the INA. They had switched sides once; they could do so again. Habibullah knew that they were on approval.
The assault on Singapore Island was led by the veterans of the 5th and 18th Divisions while the Imperial Guards made a feint in the east around Pulau Ubin. Despite heroic resistance by the Australians and the Chinese irregulars of Dalforce, by mid-morning on 9 February the Japanese had a firm foothold. 22nd Australian Brigade ceased to exist as a fighting unit. The Australians were brave fighters but lacked discipline. Once the line broke they streamed back without orders. The gaping hole was ripe for exploitation. The INA volunteers were ferried over to start working on 44th Indian Brigade, whose right flank was exposed by the destruction of the Australians. They had discarded their Fujiwara Kikan armbands and wore their Indian Army uniform insignia on the orders of 5th Division Headquarters. It bothered Habibullah. This was a breach of the customs of war. The British would have been well within their rights to shoot anyone whom they captured as a traitor. But there was no time for expostulation. The war did not wait upon nice legal arguments about the proper interpretation of the Geneva Conventions.
They had some success with the shaken troops of 44th Indian Brigade. Some were persuaded that resistance was futile; they laid down their arms with relief and were despatched under guard to the rear. Others were tricked into withdrawing by false messages carried by the INA. Habibullah bumped into Narayanan briefly after landing on Singapore island. The man was still dressed as a civilian, but he was armed with a revolver and carried a radio transmitter. There was a brief exchange of greetings. Narayanan was in the frontline, identifying the units for the INA to target. He was the link between the various INA detachments. His stock rose in Habibullah’s eyes. This was a man with the courage of his convictions, not a rear-area wallah. He did not survive to see the surrender, though. Somehow, the British located him and took him out.
After the rout of the Australians, the Malay Regiment took up the burden of defence in western Singapore. Habibullah’s contact with Malays in Kelantan had been with farmers and fishermen. It was a surprise to him that the Malays were warriors too. He had met men of the Johore Military Force, who had fought to defend their state. When the British pulled back across the Straits of Johore, the Sultan had thrown in the towel. He chose to stay with his people instead of being evacuated to Singapore and thence to India. His ordered his troops to lay down their arms. Some of their officers had been trained in Dehra Dun. They had acquitted themselves well. The Malay Regiment had been recruited from all over Malaya. They fought as well as their compatriots from Johore. When 22nd Australian Brigade evaporated, the Malays held the line along Reformatory Road. They were pushed back and dug in on the high ground at Pasir Panjang, at a place called Bukit Chandu. H Kikan were called in to get them down.
Habibullah did a quick recce of the position. It wasn’t going to be a cakewalk prising them from the heights. There was a problem with language. The Indian troops all understood Hindustani; the Malays didn’t. That ruled out the usual ruses. A frontal assault would have been suicidal; certainly not with ten rounds each. The Japanese might have done it for their Emperor but no Indian in his right mind would have tried something so tactically idiotic. Habibullah decided that subterfuge would be necessary. He ordered his men to form ranks and sling their rifles. They would walk into the position as if they had every right to be there. The order was given. There was some hesitation, but the havildars and jemadars put paid to it in short order. They marched up the hill with weapons slung, Habibullah at the head. Nisar Ahmad insisted on marching right behind him. His mouth was dry. It was the first time he was facing the prospect of action. His stomach was in knots. He prayed fervently that his courage wouldn’t fail.
It seemed to be going well at first. They got within a couple of hundred yards of the position without attracting hostile fire. He could see the Malays standing up in the trenches watching their approach. Then, suddenly, he heard someone shout that they were with the Japanese. He froze momentarily. The game was up. The next thing he knew the Malays had opened fire all along the line. He gave the order to charge. Men were falling all around him. It was an impossible task. He was blind with the rage of battle. If only they had grenades … The men broke and fled for the rear, under the sneering eyes of the Japanese. The taste of defeat was bitter. He had failed the first challenge.
THE following day, 15 February, Lieutenant-General Percival marched up Bukit Timah Road to the Ford Factory and surrendered Singapore to Lieutenant-General Yamashita. 90,000 Empire troops were captured by a force less than half their number. Habibullah and the others could hardly believe it. All their lives they had been told over and over that the British were superior. The master race were just men after all, mastered by an Asiatic foe in a humiliatingly short time.
Most of the POWs were Indian. They were segregated from the white troops. The European officers of the Indian Army units were separated from their men and marched off to Changi. Habibullah and his men were detailed to guard the prisoners. The men looked on with mixed feelings. All had been astounded by the seeming ease with which the Imperial Japanese Army had routed the British and Australian armies. Some were openly contemptuous. A few spat at the prisoners as they walked by. Habibullah put a stop to it immediately. “Enough,” he commanded. “They are not dogs to be spat at in the street.”
Nisar Ahmad was at his side. He watched the procession with narrowed eyes. “They are killers of civilians, innocent men and women,” he said. “Shall we find the murderers, Sahib?”
Habibullah shook his head. He had been practically consumed by hatred of the white man after Parit Batang. The rage had died down to a hot smoulder. Despite himself, he could not help feeling some admiration for the dignity with which the officers conducted themselves. Their heads were held high and they marched as smartly as their ragged state would allow. “Leave it,” said Habibullah to Nisar Ahmad. “Inshallah, justice will find the murderers, if not now then later.”
THE Indian officers, VCOs and jawans were paraded at Farrer Park the day after the surrender. They stood in their ranks on the field of the stadium, grouped by race rather than unit: Dogras, Sikhs, Punjabi Muslims, Baluchis, Rajputs and all the martial races of the Indian empire. There was a balcony high up in the stadium where a microphone and loudspeakers had been set up. A senior British officer appeared at the microphone and brought the parade to attention. The massed ranks obeyed with a resounding stamp of boots. The British colonel announced that they were all prisoners of war and as such they now belonged to the Japanese. From henceforth they under the orders of the Imperial Japanese Army. With that, he turned to the Japanese officer on the balcony, saluted and handed over command of the Indian regiments. Major Fujiwara, the Japanese officer, accepted the handover. The British colonel then withdrew, to join his comrades in Changi. Fujiwara turned to the Indians, still standing ramrod straight at attention on the field, maybe 40,000 of them. He made a speech in Japanese, which was translated into Hindustani. He spoke of the crusade to free Asia from the tyranny of the white man. He said with apparent sincerity that it was Japan’s hope and wish to have a free India at her side in this endeavour. At the end of his short speech, he turned to General Mohan Singh and handed over command of the assembled troops to him.
Mohan Singh was a stirring speaker. There was no need for translation. He spoke directly to the troops in Hindustani, addressing each one of them directly. He proclaimed that a new dawn had broken in Asia. The moral claim of the Britishers to rule India, based on the myth of racial superiority, had been exposed as a hollow sham. A new, free India ruled by Indians for Indians was the shining goal. Come and join in this great endeavour, he invited. He spoke with conviction and a clear sense of purpose. The words found receptive ears among the troops, so recently beaten and now abandoned by their British officers. Jai Hind! Victory to India! cried Mohan Singh. Azad Hindustan zindabad! Long live India! responded the masses. If there were any voices who were less than wholly enthusiastic, they were drowned out by the din. Habibullah was there in that balcony, wearing his best uniform with the white armband of Fujiwara Kikan. It was heady stuff.
THE Indian POWs were housed in camps all over the island, at Nee Soon, Kranji, Bidadari and Seletar, under their own Indian officers. Although the INA had recruited a large number, the majority of the 50,000 or so Indian prisoners had not yet chosen to cross over. The Japanese were treating them with kid gloves. The INA were given the trappings of an allied army. A large bungalow was put at their disposal at Mount Pleasant, grandly designated as Supreme Command, INA. As a race, the Japanese were polite. They maintained a scrupulous courtesy when dealing with their Indian counterparts, whatever their private thoughts may have been. Their major failing was a total ignorance of other cultures. They were aware only dimly of the differences between Hindu and Muslim, Sikh and Christian. These nuances were incomprehensible to them, used as they were to dealing with culturally homogenous people like the Koreans and the Chinese. There was a curious lack of inter-cultural empathy in the Japanese, almost a blindness to the fact that others were different. When coupled with their disdain for a beaten foe, this could lead to incidents of wanton cruelty, often inflicted through sheer thoughtlessness rather than actual malice. They were like schoolboys plucking wings off flies or frying ants with a magnifying glass.
Now that they were on Singapore Island, the 2nd Provisional Battalion were billeted in the former British Army barracks at Alexandra. Habibullah knew that there was a dairy herd at Bukit Timah. He put in a request for some dairy cattle so that his men might have fresh milk. The Japanese were remarkably ignorant about other people’s dietary habits. They could not understand that Indian troops did not eat only rice and fish as they did. They would deal out curry powder and expect the Indians to consume it sprinkled on rice, as they did with their dried fish. They had some vague notion that some Indians didn’t eat beef while others wouldn’t touch pork. Milk-drinking wasn’t part of their culture. A hapless young officer turned up with a herd of scrawny bulls in tow. Habibullah’s quartermaster Lieutenant Chaudery took delivery.
“These are bulls,” said Chaudery.
The Japanese officer looked blank.
“He-cows,” repeated Chaudery slowly, “no milk from he-cows.”
“No milk?” asked the Japanese.
Chaudery shook his head. “Milk come from she-cows.”
“Not even little little?” he persisted, as if he might convince Chaudery of the error of his ways.
“Not even little little,” answered Chaudery. “You go get us she-cows.”
The young man left with his herd, looking downcast. The cows went back to their pasture. Presumably they met their fate when food shortages on the island grew more serious.
The Japanese were not so solicitous about the local Chinese. Colonel Tsuji Masanobu was a member of General Yamashita’s staff. He was one of the band of militarist fanatics that had dragged Japan into the war in China. Tsuji had served in Manchuria. He knew how implacably opposed to Japan the Chinese were. The experience of the resistance upcountry confirmed his view that there was no way to reconcile the local Chinese population to Japanese overlordship. He had a cold-blooded plan to break any resistance in Singapore before it got started. Within a week of the surrender, orders went out that all Chinese males were to congregate at designated spots. There they were screened in the most arbitrary fashion. Members of the volunteer forces, Communists, gangsters, the English-educated – they were picked out almost at whim and driven away to be shot. The Sook Ching operation claimed thousands of victims. Nobody knows to this day exactly how many died, not even the Japanese themselves.
