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My father, Mervyn Sheppard, returned to Malaya in 1940 and immediately enlisted in the Volunteers. The Japanese invaded Malaya — not, as expected, via the sea-front of Singapore [the guns had all been re-sited to point out to sea, in anticipation of the invasion] — up country. They landed and walked up from the beach through people’s gardens, wheeling bicycles, which they then mounted and pedalled off to head south, and take the British forces from the rear. As they moved so unexpectedly, and so fast, almost no opposition was encountered. Some British men, specialists who were knowledgeable about the people living in the jungle, were sent to live in the jungle and operate behind the enemy lines. Some remained there for several years [see ‘The Jungle is Neutral’ about this experience].
Meanwhile, as a token force, the carriers ‘Prince of Wales’ and the ‘Repulse’ had arrived in Singapore. The Admiral determined to sail up the east coast of Malaya, to show the Navy was there, and ‘show the flag’. Despite being advised that the Japanese were in the area, he set off without air cover, and with all the lights blazing from his ships. People along the coast looked in disbelief at the bright display as the fleet sailed slowly past. The tragedy that followed was utterly predictable: Japanese planes dropped torpedoes, and hit the Prince of Wales. My mother’s cousin, Harry Reid, was a Lieutenant on board. The Admiral believed that all officers should stay with their ship: he refused to give the order to abandon ship. The officers stood, saluting, on the deck, with their captain. The ship listed, and began to sink. A senior officer begged the Admiral to reconsider, and to give the order, and only at the last possible moment did he agree ‘abandon ship’. The officers made for the rail and jumped over. Harry Reid hit his head on the bulkhead as he fell, and was probably dead when he entered the water — but for years his mother suffered nightmares imagining that he had been eaten by sharks — it was not until many years after the end of the War that a sailor managed to trace her to tell her the detail of her son’s death.

My father volunteered to carry radio transmitters into the jungle, and go behind enemy lines, to deliver them to loyal Malays, who would send reports of enemy movements. He carried radios on a number of trips, until he succumbed to a virulent ‘Japanese river fever’ which nearly killed him. He had fortunately managed to stagger into a Malay ‘kampong’ before collapsing: he was nursed by the villagers to their own considerable risk. He survived, and although appallingly weak he did not want to continue to be a hazard to the villagers, so he managed with their help, to make his way to Singapore, where he was admitted to hospital. There he was nursed, but as he began to recuperate, Singapore fell.
The British administration wished to surrender with dignity, and arranged to march through Singapore to surrender themselves to the Japanese army commander, before being admitted to prisoner-of-war camp. My father had no wish to be carried into prisoner-of-war camp in a hospital bed, so he arranged to be released into the care of the Governor, and with his household, he marched in the column which surrendered. Some of the crowd who watched this column of the conquered chose to spit at them, but the majority watched in silence, and in sympathy — shocked no doubt to see their employers, with the Governor, each in his formal uniform, marching past to surrender.
My father remembered and wrote down an account of his time in Changi Gaol: as did my Uncle, Rowland Oakeley. The privations were considerable, and hard to bear for most of the inhabitants. He told of the pooling of the insulin — not all the diabetics had brought their supply with them, so it was shared among the many who needed it: and of the awful slow death that followed, since the Japanese refused to allow any Red Cross parcels into the camp. My father wrote to everyone he could think of, begging for supplies of insulin to be sent to those who were dependent; he never forgave the Red Cross, because he believed they had not responded. Although parcels were sent by so many loving people from New Zealand, England, and Australia, they were seized and the contents sold or destroyed.
He undertook grass-cutting duties, which would allow him to smuggle messages between the men’s camp and the wives in the women’s camp. These messages he hid in the grass-cuttings, which were then collected by another prisoner who had access to the other camp. One day, a new ‘collector’ gathered the note ineptly, and was spotted by a Japanese guard. The prisoner was too slow to hide the scraps of paper, and both he and my father were taken away to be interrogated by the ‘Kempetai’ — the Japanese secret police. They were tortured: cruelly treated, subjected to ‘Water torture’ and other appalling treatment, beatings, solitary confinement, and constant interrogation. My father survived this, though it marked him for life: a few others could not stand it, and preferred to jump to their death from an upstairs window.
He told me of the Bishop of Singapore, who with his wife kept a wonderful ministry to the prisoners, and died in prison. He told, too, of the entertainments that the prisoners managed to put on: morale stayed high due to these Concert Halls. He had enjoyed Gilbert and Sullivan while at Cambridge, and had memorised all the librettos: his contribution was to put on a performance of each of the operettas.
The food they were given by the Japanese guards was scanty, typically a soup made from the outside leaves of a cabbage, and a handful of rice. The men lost weight, and only kept alive through buying extra small supplies from the Chinese who came to the perimeter to bargain over the occasional skinny fowl, or a few beans. When they were released, my father weighed under 6 stone — though he was 6 ft tall.
Almost the hardest thing for all of them was the belief that the Red Cross had almost completely ignored their pleas for medicines, and for supplies. They did not know that these had been sent, air-dropped, brought by any means, and almost every single parcel was seized and cynically kept by the Japanese guards.
During this time, correspondence was kept to a minimum.
My mother did not know that my father was alive for nearly TWO YEARS.
They were allowed to write a short message, on a small square of card, which was — of course- censored. My mother wrote as often as they were permitted, and used a code (which they had agreed before my father returned to Malaya) which allowed some news of the political situation, the progress of the War in Europe, to be sent to him.
The few precious tiny cards, conveying such love and hope and sheer courage, are still in my possession. My mother told me that the whole village knew when she had a card, and discreetly rejoiced with her.
At the end of the war, when the Japanese had surrendered, the prisoners were released and repatriated on ships as soon as passages could be found. This was arranged alphabetically — and there were few available ships, since so many had been sunk. My father knew that he would have a long wait, since his surname began with an ‘S’. He discovered, as he waited in Singapore, that the Japanese Generals had almost all escaped before the Allies arrived in Singapore, and had made their way south among the Riau Islands. So he went to see the High Command. They were not really interested, having huge administrative problems on their hands, and very few fit personnel.
It seemed to my father that it was a huge injustice to all those who had died, that the Generals should be permitted to escape, and he was not prepared to let this happen. He struck a bargain with a Chinese smuggler, to borrow his fast motor-boat. He then went back to High Command and persuaded them to give him an armed guard — with this tiny support, he set off to search for the Generals. His small supply of fuel did not allow for a wide search, so he focussed on a tiny area: as he prepared to leave the last island he noticed that the village ‘go-down’ where the communal rice-harvest was stored, had a brand-new padlock on the doors. He ordered this to be struck off, when the headman declined to unlock it, and inside was a further door. He opened this, and found crates stacked inside. Ordering the closest of these to be forced open, he put his hand inside and pulled out some of the Regimental Silver of his own brother’s Regiment — the Scots Guards. As he had arrested several Japanese Generals, it was possible to order the village headman to mount a guard over the ‘go-down’ until soldiers could return to collect the crates of Regimental silver.
In Singapore, the High Command were prepared to allow my father a slightly larger guard to return to the Riau Islands in search of further Generals. By sheer nerve, and subterfuge, he convinced a larger group of Japanese that he had a large force with him — and took his prisoners back to Singapore. The third trip was made on a naval vessel with a number of soldiers, and with them my father arrested a further group of Japanese Generals, who hoped they had escaped from the Allies.
At this point, my father received his ticket to sail for home, and the welcome which awaited him. It had been very difficult for my mother, who had watched the village celebrate the return of all the other Allied soldiers, sailors, and airmen. The streets were hung with bunting, flags hung from every window, and the streets were lined with people waving and cheering as the men came home. But the bunting was put away, and still my father did not come. Other families settled into a new routine, getting used to one another again after their separation. My mother continued to wait, writing to people who might know what was happening, and where my father was. She was fearful: had he become ill, what had happened? No-one seemed to know.
Finally, the news came: he was due to arrive at Southampton. She took me to meet him: a strange meeting for each of them — my father conscious of unfinished business with the escaping Japanese, my mother bursting with unanswered questions; both of them aware of his delayed return.
I do not remember the home-coming, I was told of the village welcoming him with the bunting hung out for his coming, and the streets lined to cheer him. I do remember the strange man in a household unused to any men. The feeling of intrusion as someone in uniform entered the bathroom where I was, and tossed a composition ‘goldfish’ (which I still have) into my bath. This strange figure was persuaded to crawl on hands and knees around the sitting-room while I rode on his back — but we were both awkward, despite my mother’s loving encouragement, and it was not long before my father was off to London. He worked hard to be allowed to return to Malaya: long before his leave was over, he had arranged to go back to begin the long struggle to rebuild the country.
For my mother, having waited so long for her husband to come home, it was a bitter blow: she had dreamed of his return for 4 long years, imagining their life together as new parents. It was not to be. She packed, and we followed on the next ship to start a new life in post-war Malaya — in a lonely, rat-infested house surrounded by jungle...

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