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This story has been written to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People's War site by CSV Storygatherer Coralie, on behalf of Carol Norton (nee Shuttleworth). The story has been added to the site with her permission, and Carol fully understands the terms and conditions of the site.

I was born in Malaya in 1938, being the youngest of five children, my sister being the eldest; she was 10 years older than me. In November 1941, my father was transferred from Sarambin down to Singapore, and Dad being a Prison Officer, we lived opposite Changi Jail.

On February 4th 1942, he came home saying we were to pack just a suitcase each that we could carry, and were to go down to the docks leaving everything else in our home. On arriving there Dad found that they were boarding people in alphabetical order, and only taking women and children, no men. Our surname was Shuttleworth, but Dad said we were called Abercromby. With all the chaos no one bothered about passports. Dad was only thinking of our safety.

We left Singapore on February 8th, the 'Felix Rousel' being one of the last ships away with safety, and headed for India. We had to sleep on the decks as the ship was so overcrowded. When I think of what my parents went through, not knowing what was going to happen to each other, the trauma must have been truly devastating. My father was captured by the Japanese and was interned in Changi Jail for three and a half years.

On our arrival in Bombay, the Red Cross sorted out somewhere for us to stay until we could get another shipping. Later in February there was talk of us going to Australia or South Africa, but we were able to get on a ship called 'Strathnear' heading for England, arriving in Glasgow. We only had the clothes we stood up in, and the Red Cross were wonderful finding us suitable warm clothes. We stayed with various relatives until Mum could sort something out.

Prior to the war, when my mother and father came home on leave from Malaya, they both loved the West Country and lived in Church Cottage in Postbridge, on Dartmoor. Mum tried to rent this cottage again, but it was already let. She thought with having the four children (one of my brothers had died in the meantime), that if we could live down here, at least we would be away from a lot of the bombing. We were lucky and managed to rent a farm cottage on Dartmoor, at Pizwell, and that is where we spent the war years.

My two brothers and I went to the school in Princetown. My teacher was called Miss Allen, and our headmaster was called Mr Conjuit. We had quite a long walk down a lane, in all weathers, to get the school bus. How we loved our childhood days living on the moor, making our own amusement, and at Harvest time helping, in our own way, in the fields. Whatever food rations Mum wanted, my brother had permission to get at the local shop in Princetown, and we would bring it home on the bus. Very often we were told off because the crusts on the bread were eaten and there was a hole in the bag of sugar!

To get water into the cottage, we had to pump it up from a well, and we had no electricity — our lighting was with oil lamps. We loved all the seasons on the moor, even when we got a lot of snow. We used to try and keep the Dartmoor ponies in the garden when they came for scraps.

During most of this time, we didn't know what had happened to my father. Mum sent a message through the Red Cross, to say we were safe in this country living on Dartmoor. Although my father would never talk about his internment in Changi, he say one day that he was in the compound, and someone knocked into him hard dropping a tiny piece of paper which he put in his mouth. When it was safe he read — 'Wife and children safe on Dartmoor'. Likewise the Red Cross started issuing a magazine listing all the news, deaths and names of the captured, and we read that Dad was interned in Changi Jail.

Eventually, after three and a half years, Dad came home. I can remember going to Tavistock Station with great excitement to meet him. Once again the Red Cross had stepped in and given him a present for each of us children. I remember my gift was a big red cloth fish stuffed with sawdust.

Oh, how very lucky we all were to survive, unlike a lot of poor families who never got away from Malaya, and we owe so much to the Red Cross for helping us during those terrible times.

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