The tug was jockeying into position at 3.30 when Japanese aircraft came over. We didn't see them approach and the first we knew about it was when the water shuddered; huge sprays of brine leaped into the air, and a series of terrifying explosions resounded across the harbour. The small launch rocked and creaked and I was thrown against the bulkhead in the tiny galley.

The raid ended as abruptly as it had begun. A few craft were foundering round about us and a large junk had a heavy list, but apparently we were untouched. One of the ratings shouted: "Get a blinkin' move on!" And at last we were on our way.

I looked around my small galley. My principal qualification for the post of cook was that I knew how to work a Primus stove, of which there were four. There was plenty of good food, enough for a month, and a surprising variety. Victor Smith helped me to keep the stoves going, and I set to work to prepare a meal.

The sixteen people on the launch included a woman, two middle-aged men who were not expected to do very much work, three officers, and a rating. The rest were men from various Government departments. It was easy to pick out the workers from the passengers after the first hour.

Late in the afternoon the mine-sweeper started to give trouble as we reached the open sea, and the captain of the tug decided to abandon her in order to save the other craft. We hove-to until the tow-lines had been cast off, the other vessels made fast, and the mine-sweeper drifted away astern. Our launch was the last of the line, and we could see the craft bobbing up and down like corks, pulling the lines taut and suddenly letting them fall into the sea, jerking forward and then seeming to stand still until the next wave lifted them up to pull on the lines again.

We were doing a steady four knots as evening fell and we took to our watches. There was to be a look-out in the bows, one amidships, and one at the stern. The officers took watches at the helm. Lights were forbidden; and as there was only one cabin, which was occupied by the woman and an old gentleman who was stone deaf, smoking was out of the question. Most of the limited deck space was occupied by water barrels and drums.

Through the darkness the burning Island could be seen clearly, blood red flames fringing the coast-line and bursting into sudden flashes of yellow light as another oil tank or building caught fire. It was like sailing away from Hell.

When the evening meal was over I sat in the stern of the launch, chin in hands, and gave myself to my thoughts.

Little more than a year before, I had stepped on the lovely island of Penang, full of hopes and ambition; for a year I had worked and studied and built a home ready for the end of my first tour, when I could marry and settle down to a career in the East. All my clothes were there, my books, my lecture notes. Every photograph I had ever taken or had been given was there, every gift I had received from childhood. The souvenirs which I was saving to take home were there, wrapped up in a parcel in my car. In the new car which I bought in Penang.

I felt in my pockets and found the ignition key which habit had caused me to remove when I left my car. I tossed it overboard and it fell with a tiny splash into the sea.

Perhaps I could recover my bank balance when the war was over, I thought; that is, if the Japanese didn't destroy the records.

Sitting there in the cool night air, with no light in the sky save the dull red glow of burning Singapore, I revised my philosophy. Out of the chaos and the clamour came one single thought, a truth which changed my life. I realised that all those things that I had left behind meant nothing. They were the materials for living, the necessities and the luxuries, but they could be replaced. For I had something more precious than clothes and cars, books and gifts, and household goods. I had freedom, health, and strength, and the will to live.

And eight thousand miles away there was someone who was waiting for me, praying for me, thinking of my safe return. Pray God, I murmured inwardly, pray God I shall live to see that day.

By the time the middle watch had fallen due the launches were at the mercy of a heavy swell, and the cases in the galley and cabin began to slide about and bump against the bulkheads with a rhythmic thud, thud. It was a weird sensation to glide along noiselessly except for a steady bumping sound below, with no engines; lifting and dropping, rolling and pitching in the silent sea on a moonless night.

I was on the middle watch, and had to 'keep' amidships, patrolling on port and starboard sides within call of the watches forward and aft. The forward watch, the rating, asked me to tell the skipper that the tow-lines were surging, and I passed on the message. Examination in the darkness revealed very little, and when I was relieved there was apparently nothing to worry about.

An architect and I shared a blanket on the after-deck, with our feet pressed against the rail to prevent our sliding into the sea. We must have fallen asleep immediately.

We were jolted back into wakefulness by the skipper. The Panglima was bumping about, crockery was smashing below, the boards creaked.

"Get your kit together the tub's going down and we shall have to get on to the forward launch," the captain shouted.

As we collected such things as we could in the darkness we learned that the launch was opening up at the bows under the strain of the tow and the forward capstan was carrying away, pulling the timbers with it.

We hove to, and the forward launch was carried nearer to us by the swell. Someone threw a line, and it was hauled aboard and made fast.

"Have you got a heavy line there?" called the sub-lieutenant in charge of the forward launch.

"None except the four on the tow," was the skipper's reply.

"Then we'll have to pass you the anchor chain, we've nothing else."

They hitched the line to the chain, and it was hauled across and the end made fast to a bollard.

The distance between the vessels was variable, but about fifty feet. It was necessary to pull the anchor chain in until the space could be cleared with a jump by the woman and the older men. Six or seven of us took hands and hauled. There was no rail against which we could press, and the bows were about five feet across at the point where the chain was fastened.

For ten minutes we strained at the heavy chain, pulling in as quickly as possible when the launches lifted closer together, and holding on grimly when they fell away. The chain tore at our hands and jerked at our arms until it seemed that they would pull out of their sockets. As soon as we had gained a few links the rating tightened the chain on the bollard, and the vessels crept closer, closer. At one moment the sailor's hand was caught between the chain and the bollard, and we had to heave madly to keep the bight slack until he could free his hand.

At last we had managed to draw the vessels within a few feet of each other, and one of our men jumped across to lend a hand on the other craft, for there were only six on board, and they were exhausted. As he jumped the sea heaved under the two launches, and the gap which he had gauged for his leap widened two feet. He just managed to grab the corner post at the stern of the forward vessel as he fell, and he hung on there by one hand until the others could get down to grab his coat and shoulders.

We threw across our small articles of baggage, and took turns at the jump. The stern of the other launch was some six feet wide, and the whole beam was taken up by a small dinghy. We had to jump in pitch darkness from the narrow, heaving point of the bows, across the space, which varied from three to five feet, on to the dinghy. It was incredible that nobody was hurt. By five o'clock we had all jumped aboard, the last man had opened the Panglima's sea-cocks, and we cut her adrift to sink.

As the foundering launch fell away the lieutenant who had commanded her down Malaya's western coast-line, and who had tried so hard to keep her out of Japanese hands, called in farewell: "Well, good-bye, Panglima, by God!"

We awoke with the daylight on the Thursday morning and explored the new launch. She was almost ready for the sea, the engines partly fixed, and all the fittings in position. A refrigerator had been installed and only needed food to put into it.

The captain of this vessel had had no time to get any food. All that we had was a little corned beef, a few tins of condensed milk, and about thirty small biscuits. There was also half a tin of jam. Apart from about three gallons of water, there was nothing to drink. We could not get food from the forward vessels unless we all hove to, and they had not much to spare as far as we knew. The Panglima had had enough on board for everybody.

We worked out the rations, and agreed on one meal per day, at noon. Each of the twenty-two people would receive one biscuit covered with corned beef, and a second biscuit plastered with jam. A quarter of a cupful of water with condensed milk of the same quantity was the daily drink allowed. If our journey took more than three days we should run out.

One of the men asked if the water tank was full, and the reply was that, even if it was, the pump didn't work. For an hour two men tried to repair it, but they failed, and sat down dejected and oily. Somebody had an idea just as they were giving it up as a bad job; there must be a manhole or cover plate somewhere, and we could loosen the bolts and bale the water out if there was any in the tank.

After a search we found a circular plate about a foot diameter, secured by means of a dozen bolts. Another search, and we found a car spanner which one of our Mess had brought with other tools for emergencies.

The bolts were new, screwed very tight, and there was little working space for the hands. At last the twelve bolts were loosened slightly, and the problem of the heaving sea had to be dealt with. Once we lifted the lid off the tank, the precious water would splash out to waste. Five or six men crouched round the tiny manhole, with two buckets and cans by their sides, and teacups in their hands.

I removed the bolts quickly and lifted the plate from the manhole. We all dipped the cups into the pure clear water which completely filled the tank, and for those few moments the launch was steady, not a drop being spilt on the deck. We had water enough and to spare.

Sumatra's coast could be seen by the afternoon, and we were making better speed owing to the lightened load. Things were looking much brighter and everyone cheered up when land was sighted.

In the distance, on our port quarter, we could see a large convoy, and we stood watching the vessels bear down on our slow-moving line of three. They drew up on our port beam, and were probably a quarter of a mile away, steaming steadily onwards towards Sumatra, accompanied by a cruiser and a destroyer, when Japanese aircraft appeared.

We lay in the scuppers and watched the bombers dive on the ships. The cruiser and destroyer opened fire on them, but still they came, diving in a steep attack, swooping low, and letting loose their bombs. We saw the cruiser disappear behind a vertical wall of spray, and thought that she had been hit. When the view cleared, however, there she was, firing away for all she was worth, and still steaming on. The convoy had broken up, and only the two warships stayed to give battle. The destroyer was attacked, and she, too, was obscured for a moment, but came into view again when the spray cleared.

The aircraft must have used up their bombs, for they flew up and cruised round overhead. The warships made off, and it seemed that the destroyer had a starboard list as she steamed eastwards.

For ten breathless seconds we thought that the aircraft were going to let us have a few rounds from their machine-guns, for two of them dived low over us, and at the bottom of the turn they divided and flew off. We were glad that ours was a small, worthless vessel compared with those of the convoy, and had escaped notice.

In the meantime we had been steaming steadily on at four or five knots, and we came upon a Malay fisherman's house, standing on poles in the sea. The house was so far from land that we were interested, and examined the flimsy structure closely as we drew near.

Suddenly someone called out: "There are Europeans there!"

All eyes were turned more keenly to the shack standing on its four thin legs in the water. At the entrance, by the top of the tangga , were a number of figures in khaki. Near by was a launch, tied to the post at the front. The men waved to us, and after a few minutes two of them came across in the fisherman's sampan.

The tug and its charges had hove to, and whilst the two men were being brought aboard the tug skipper worked out his fuel and water balance. The position was serious, for the tug had used two-thirds of its bunkers and we had only come one-third of the way to the port where we hoped to refuel.

After a consultation the leaders of the line of vessels agreed to cut the launches adrift and ram them. We were told to carry the water-buckets, food, and our baggage across to the tug and then jump aboard.

Fortunately the sea was calm, and working in the daylight made the process fairly easy. After transferring the necessary materials, we dumped the forward two-pounder overboard, transferred the launches' machine guns, and leaped down to the low deck of the tug.

On taking stock we found that there was ample food, but that the water was only just enough if used for drinking and cooking alone. There were forty-six people aboard, including the women and elderly men, the Naval officers and ratings, a number of engineers from Thornycrofts and United Engineers, and Government officers ranging from architects to accountants.

The sea-cocks were opened on the ill-fated launches, they were cut adrift and the tug rammed them with its bull-like nose. We steamed away.

I was put to work in the galley, assisting a young boy who had been on the Prince of Wales. He was a cheerful lad, of Welsh origin, and had an amusing habit of sniffing at every sentence, with a sniff into which he put all the eloquence of nostrils and lips and lungs. Had it been less sibilant and more vocal it could have been called a snort. He was obviously amused at having an older man as his scullion, and I enjoyed his antics, accent, and nasal punctuations. We became firm friends in little time.

The captain called all the younger men to the bridge and gave us a clear statement on the position. Three ratings had been doing the stoking on the tug all the way from Singapore, and were all in. We should have to take our watches in the stokehold.

Snifty and I prepared a meal from tinned potatoes, tinned meat and vegetables, and soup. There was plenty of tea, coffee, and cocoa, and three jars of malted milk. The galley was about one yard square, with a coal oven across the far wall, and as we entered the steel-plated cubicle the hot air leapt out at us and brought beads of perspiration to our faces and arms.

The time for my watch in the stokehold came round, and I stripped to the waist and went below. It was my first experience of a stokehold, and I had no idea of the work to be done.

The tug, built for heavy work over short periods, had huge engines for its size, and only three fire-holes. On a continuous run the boilers were far too small for the cylinders, and a great deal of very hard work was required to maintain a pressure even of 100 lb. per square inch. Usually the gauge showed little more than 50 lb. The fires ate up the fuel as fast as it was shovelled in.

A pleasant New Zealander, a rating with stoking experience, was my mate, and he put me into the way. I can use a shovel with either hand, and that was very useful, but the rest I had to learn.

I think that the worst part of stoking is slicing, when the long chisel pointed bar must be slid down between the firebars to loosen the slag and stir the fire. The bar is hot, and has to be pushed along to the back of the fire, so that at the end of the stroke the stoker's face is about a foot from the door.

No air came down the ventilator shafts, and within half an hour we were covered with perspiration, to which clung the fine dust from the ashes which we raked out of the ash-holes. We drank copiously from the bucket of dirty water provided, and went above for air once every hour.

When I came up from the watch I washed myself down as best I could in salt water, and then had to return to work in the galley. There was no place to sleep except the open deck, huddled on a flat coil of rope.

Nobody who stoked on the tug will want to stoke again across the Equator on a breathless day, with no chance of a decent bath and nowhere to sleep or cool down afterwards, no clean, cold water to drink and no food to build up his strength for the next watch.

As night fell we were doing six or seven knots, sailing down the coast of Sumatra, with our fuel running out.

The comradeship amongst us was wonderful, and did much to keep up our spirits. We sat round the cook's table listening to the lower deck's version of the sinking of the Prince of Wales as interpreted by the young Welshman. Our light-heartedness made even the captain's weak attempts at humorous interjections seem worthy of a laugh, and we thoroughly enjoyed the lad's stories and his pertinent retorts.

Mealtimes produced quips and jokes as the inevitable stew, made from bully beef and potatoes, was dished out on the assortment of enamel plates which had to be washed hurriedly for the next man, and delicious hot tea steamed out of pint mugs, a saturated solution of sugar and condensed milk. The older men were washers-up, and soon mastered the art of filling a bucket with sea-water. This sounds a simple operation, but when the novice lowers the bucket on the rope, it bounces on the water and refuses to fill. When at last, at the risk of wrenching out his arm by the sudden pull of the current, the dancing thing fills itself, the next trick is to get the bucketful out of the water before it is struck on its side and emptied again.

The man who invents a soap which dissolves and makes lather just as easily in salt water as fresh water will reap the undying gratitude of the thousands of men who live on the sea. All we could produce was a greasy film which grated against our salt-soaked skins, to rub which was to create a sickly grey paste of soot, dirt, salt, and dead soap.

The following day was Friday the 13th. The superstitious amongst us were convinced that, if we were going to have any bad luck, that would be the day. Some super-pessimist worked out that we should be having another Friday the 13th in March.

In actual fact the day was almost uneventful. The captain called at Banka Island, lying off the north coast of Sumatra at its southern end, to ask for fuel. We were told that we could not fuel there, and so we turned and made for the mouth of the river leading up to Palembang.

As we approached the mouth of the river a Dutch patrol launch ran out to meet us and led us over the mine-field to safety. We dropped anchor and had a rest, forgetting everything in the rapture of deep sleep - the first for several days.

The rain stirred us, and dawn was breaking. A Dutch pilot-boat was anchored near by, and the captain spent half an hour ahoying and calling before the officer aboard could be roused. At last he came on the tug and we sailed slowly up the river.

It is a long river, with palms and swamps and Malay dwellings fringing its banks. The occupants of small sampans waved to us as they passed us on their way to the fishing-grounds. The water was flat and not very clean, carrying with it grass and earth from the swampy land, and refuse from the riverside dwellings.

The siren wailed somewhere ahead and we realized that we were getting near to civilisation once more.

Suddenly somebody called out: "They're here, coming straight for us!" We lay in the scuppers and craned our necks to see what was going on.

Three of the biggest aircraft I have ever seen were gliding quietly by the water's edge, at a height of not more than a hundred feet. They had flown from inland and were now going downstream on the east bank. In the distance we could hear the noise of machine-guns, but could see no other aircraft.

When the huge planes had passed us, we looked around and saw a Dutch merchantman bearing down on us from our port quarter. As the ship drew up on our beam an officer hailed us.

"Is there anything wrong there?" he asked, in moderate English.

"No; but there's an air raid on," replied our captain, not realising how funny it sounded.

"Look out for paratroops; the Japanese Flag is flying on the east bank downstream," the Dutch officer warned us.

We all laughed at the skipper's "Thank you very much," in spite of the bad news.

We had not gone much farther when one of the men drew attention to an R.A.F. plane which had fallen into the swamp on the west bank. Suddenly we saw something move in a tree. It was the pilot, waving to us for help.

The boat was put out, and the pilot came aboard. He was a Scot, about twenty-two years of age. There had been a big scrap over the aerodrome, he said, and he had had to make a forced landing owing to lack of fuel. Another fighter had crashed not far away, and had landed upside down. He hadn't been to see what had happened to the pilot, he remarked, with a bluntness which disguised his feelings; he was sure he was dead.

Soon we reached Palembang and tied up at the wharf on the west side. Some of the party hurried off to see the authorities, and returned to tell us that we could only obtain coal at the east side of the river, so we crossed to the other wharf. When we went ashore we were told the story of the Japanese Paratroops.

The enemy had landed parachutists on the oil refinery, and Japanese planes had succeeded in landing on the aerodrome. Dutch and British forces were trying to round them up, but in the meantime the position was grave. The police urged us to take the train to Oosthaven that evening, and let the tug go, for we could not hope to get out of the river again.

It was agreed that the Naval officers and ratings should remain behind to take the tug out should the Japanese be cleaned up. The rest would go by train as suggested.

We took our baggage to the station and were met by a twenty two year old police officer, who gave us tickets and put us in a carriage.

The station was crowded with Dutch women and children who were being sent away to safety, and with Javanese and Eurasian families. A number of Dutch and Javanese Volunteers - in their green uniforms and German-style helmets - were saying good-bye to wives and kiddies, and tears and embraces made the scene a trial.

The train started at 7.15, and we relaxed. We were filthy, unwashed, unshaven, reeking of salt and soot and perspiration; our clothes, which we had not changed since we left Singapore, were black from the stokehold and I wondered if we should ever get them clean again.

A number of young Dutch women shared the coach with us, and though they could speak little English and we no Dutch, somehow the conversation was developed gradually, and within an hour we were receiving chocolates and cigarettes, and telling them of our experiences, cracking jokes and feeling very much at home. The police officer bought a number of packets of Dutch cigarettes when we stopped at a station, and some sweets, which we devoured thankfully.

There was not much room to spare and I was dog-tired, so I stretched out on the floor between the two lines of seats and fell asleep. When I awoke it was dawn and we were still miles away from Oosthaven. The train had been stopped at many places to pick up troops and R.A.F. personnel. I was very sorry indeed for a squadron which had been sent from the Western Desert, and had disembarked at Oosthaven a few hours previously. They were heading for Palembang Aerodrome, but when it fell to the Japanese they had been told to go back.

The train drew into Oosthaven at ten o'clock on Sunday, after a trip of fifteen hours. A large Dutch liner was in dock, and I was amazed to see that it had contained troops who were off-loading their Bren-gun carriers and trucks, anti-aircraft guns, and equipment. Surely they were too late and would only lose their equipment!

Dutch police officers met us at the quay, and the young man in charge of us was told that he could not go back as Palembang had been taken by the Japanese, and the previous night's train was the last to leave. He had only the clothes he was wearing, very little money, but he decided to accompany us to Batavia.

The liner sailed at 5 pm. and the passengers were the strangest possible assortment. Rich Americans from the oil companies, Dutch of all stations, ragged, dirty Englishmen, clean Europeans for odd contrast, poor Javanese families huddled on the deck around the galley, wounded men lying on their stretchers, soldiers, evacuees, escapees, and even one or two deserters filled the cabins and the decks. We were put on the deck near to the Javanese, and had to queue up at the galley for food.

It was atrocious food. Dirty, nondescript curry and rice, with spices that burnt your throat and made you feel sick; strong tea in filthy cups, or reheated coffee with condensed milk, were supplied for us. At one time I saw some of the Javanese crew filling the ice-box with meat and vegetables and I resolved to eat no more. The meat was black and covered with dust. A cigarette-end was flattened against one side of beef, and I drew attention to it, but the Asiatics ignored me. Cabbages and other greens were brown and bad, fish was stinking and rotten; I felt sick, and helped myself to a long drink of cooling water from a communal tap used by passengers and crew alike.

Although the ship tied up at Tanjong Priok, port of Batavia, on the afternoon of the following day, there were so many passengers that the Immigration and Customs officials were overwhelmed, and we did not leave the vessel until ten o'clock at night. Rain was falling heavily, and we were drenched in our thin shirts and shorts.

The Dutch police took us into the station, and we waited patiently for an hour whilst arrangements were being made for our accommodation. Then we drove into Batavia to a large, impressive building, the Nederlandsche Handel-Maatschappij Factory. Upstairs, behind the Java Bank building, we were led into a canteen, and were met by a jovial lady of about sixty and her daughter, a large, jolly girl whose name we discovered was Marie.

They fed us on thick ham sandwiches and coffee, the first bread we had seen since leaving Singapore. We were shown our beds, and given two quinine tablets each before retiring.

The care with which the Dutch tended us and fed and accommodated us was exemplary. On the following morning a bank official came to collect our Malayan currency, and guilders to value were in our hands within an hour. One elderly gentleman had lost his baggage in the transfer from one launch to another, and had little or no money. Shorts and shirts mysteriously arrived for him, exactly his size. A set of white clothes appeared also, and then, as if they could not do enough, a huge assortment of boots and shoes was sent in for us to take as many as fitted us. A wireless was rigged up in the dormitory, and magazines were provided.

After two days, during which time we had changed and washed the clothes we had worn for six days, removed our week's growth of beard and had clean hair-cuts, we began to feel that we were imposing on the generosity of our Dutch hosts, and suggested that we should find accommodation elsewhere. They seemed hurt and asked if everything had been satisfactory. Of course it had ; it was perfection. Then why did we want to go ? they asked us. And so we stayed, thankful that they really wanted us to remain there.

Victor Smith and I spent our time walking round the shops buying the few things we dared with our limited funds, and calling frequently at the Consulate for information on sailings. We had one single idea in common: our work in Malaya was finished, we had lost our belongings and money in Singapore, and we wanted to get back home, where at least we had family and friends and a little money in the bank.

The atmosphere in Batavia was one of growing unrest, with British and Dutch troops filling the streets with their trucks and cars, the flow of evacuees, and the occasional alerts indicating to those who had seen the same thing happen before that this was the prelude to the fight. Buildings were painted a drab grey-green, and shops were boarded up to replace the glass.

Meanwhile the Consul had arranged passages for our party, and I was given a ticket for the steamship Marella, from which we deduced that we were bound for Australia.

On Saturday the 21st February we went aboard the Marella, and I was glad to see that my friends the R.N.Z.A.F. Constructions Unit were accompanying us. They had, after salvaging their plant all the way through Malaya, been successful in loading every piece on to a steamer in Singapore, when the last piece of bad luck overtook them. The docks were raided and their ship was sunk before she had sailed.

There was a scene on the wharf before we sailed which reflected the attitude of the Asiatic crew in a disturbing way. A number of Chinese and Javanese refused to work and walked off the gangway holding out their wrists demanding arrest. A small detachment of Javanese soldiers drew their ancient swords, but were unable to use them, and resorted to persuasive methods. These failed, and the R.N.Z.A.F. boys took the matter into their own hands, and their medium of persuasion, though a trifle rough and physical, was none the less effective.

The Marella left Tanjong Priok in the early afternoon and we sailed into the Sumda Strait. In this narrow and dangerous neck of water a convoy was mustered by the cruiser Exeter , and the strange assortment of ships sailed away in the evening, doing nine knots.

Our ship, formerly a German luxury steamer, was crowded to capacity with the R.N.Z.A.F. personnel, Malayans, and the wives and children of British and Dutch Colonials. Few had adequate clothes, and money was short. The reaction of the Chinese boys and the Javanese crew to this situation was reflected in their complete indifference, their anti-European attitude and their obvious refusal to do more than the very minimum of work

Three men shared our cabin: Victor Smith, a mechanical engineer from the P.W.D. named Watson, and myself. We were closeted in a small place aft, over the propeller shaft, on the lower deck. There was no fan, no blowers, and no ventilator. The port had to be closed by night for black-out, and we stifled rather than slept. Consequently our nights gave us no rest whilst we were in the tropics, and I began to wonder what it was like to sleep on a soft bed with air and quiet and nothing to disturb.

The experiences on the tug were bound to have their effect, and one man who had knocked his leg whilst aboard was unable to clear the blood of the poison owing to the bad water and food which had impoverished his system. I was confined to bed, shortly after leaving Batavia, with a mild form of dysentery which I was unable to shake off for four days. When I was up and about again the weather had cooled off a little, and a pleasant breeze was blowing to tone the blood and renew vigour.

We had left the convoy behind after a few hours' sailing, as the Exeter and an accompanying destroyer had left us, and there was no point in staying with the convoy unprotected, sailing at nine knots when our ship could run at twelve.

The atmosphere on board ship was vastly different from that on board the Narkunda when she brought me to Malaya in 1940. The hardships which most people had suffered broke down the artificial reserve which characterised my former trip. We were all broke, and knew it. All, that is, except a small group of Americans who had left Java with all their baggage intact. The service which these affluent men commanded attracted considerable attention, and not a few hard comments were passed on their behaviour. I could not help feeling that jealousy was the principal reason for the censure, but at the same time the Americans showed a distressing lack of tact, holding cocktail parties in their cabins, and carousing in the smoke-room whilst ill-clad and penniless fellow-passengers looked on.

Something happened amongst the women on board the Marella. It may be that they were suffering from nervous reaction, or that they had abandoned themselves to the future. Whatever it was, the exhibition was amazing. Some of the younger girls set about in earnest, mixing with the men, littering the blacked-out decks by night, offering themselves to any man who cared to bother. Many married women joined in the chase, and a walk on deck at night became a hazardous adventure. The ship never seemed to go to sleep. Rowdy parties broke up in the early hours of the morning, and some cabins became so crossed and intermixed that we were never sure who to expect coming out or going in. The situation became so serious that the ship's master made his disapproval public, and from that day became a most unpopular man. The women, generally speaking, had more money than the men, most of whom, like myself, had escaped with just the clothes they wore and the cash in their pockets. As a result of this, the men were treated by the women, and treated too well. One woman made a hobby of collecting males. They flocked around her, and the more there were the more she liked it.

She will live long in my memory as the only woman who ever made me a proposition. I was too disgusted to speak, and wondered what it was in a woman that could so degrade her before a man.

No attempt was made by the ship's company to keep the passengers entertained. The only deck game was quoits, and two pitches had to serve for all the passengers. Bridge became the chief source of relaxation, and I have never played so much in my life as I did on the Marella. When the weather was bad we started playing at ten o'clock in the morning and continued until eleven at night, with breaks only for meals. We proved that the game can be played with interest and skill without stakes for we had no money to spare on cards.

A few bold pianists and soloists entertained us one evening, and provided a most acceptable break in the tedium. And tedium it was - a deep, heavy, and oppressive boredom that grew and flourished in our anxious, worried thoughts. I started a letter home, ready for posting at our first port of call, but found that my mind was a blank, and my pen could not flow over the paper. We were the flotsam of war, the drifting stragglers, washing about the sea, not knowing, or caring very much, which would be the next port of call. We were escapees, the tramps of the campaign.

It was with deep relief that we saw at last the coast of Western Australia, where at least we knew we should be safe for a little while and could return to the normal routine of decent living,

The Marella tied up at Fremantle on a Friday, but it was not until Saturday morning that we were able to go ashore. Our first requirements were clothes for a temperate climate, and Victor Smith and I changed the small balance of our Dutch currency for Australian coin.

The sight and feel of British money, after using Malayan dollars and Dutch guilders, gave me an unaccountable pleasure. The Australian Treasury notes, florins, and small coin, though slightly different from the English values, were sufficiently similar to make me realise that I was once more in the country of the white man. There are no halfcrowns in Australian currency however, and the tiny threepenny bit is still in use, the modern and infinitely ugly English type not having been perpetrated in the Commonwealth.

When I counted my cash after changing all the guilder I had my total funds were ninety shillings. If only I had been able to get some of the money out of my bank in Singapore! The clothes rescued in my escape were shirts and shorts and very little underwear, suitable for the tropics only, and we had to buy coat and trousers and shirt and socks to protect us from the coming Australian winter.

To us the prices of clothes seemed appalling, even taking into account the rate of exchange, which is twenty-five shillings to the English pound. We had to be very careful if we were to buy enough. We sent cables home first, so that we could spend the whole of the balance on the articles required. The clothes we bought eventually were cheap and thin, but adequate provided the weather kept warm until we received our salaries.

In the afternoon Smith and I received an invitation to an evening in Perth from a fellow-passenger. We put on our new clothes and took the bus to town. There was one awkward moment when I discovered a gaudy price ticket inside the jacket lapel, but I was successful in removing the tell-tale unobserved, and searched furtively for any others I may have missed.

Two somewhat inebriated soldiers entered the bus, each of them carrying six or seven pint bottles of beer, which, they insisted on telling us, were only a start. After much fumbling and falling, to an accompaniment of oaths and incoherent exclamations, they succeeded in joining some friends at the back. A little farther on two more soldiers, with a couple of gaudy females on their arms, clambered in and scrambled their way through passengers and beer bottles and legs to the back seats. So this is Saturday night for the boys in Perth, I thought.

I was surprised to see a young army officer enter the bus, greet the soldiers, and fight his way through the by now solid mass of khaki and silk stocking to the rear. Once there, he started to organise a concert, and the bus resounded to somewhat discordant and certainly uncontrolled community singing.

The entertainment thus provided put us in the mood for our night out, and our spirits were not in the least dampened when, after a long trek round in the wet streets, it was discovered that every picture house was full. One of the party suggested that we go dancing, and I looked dubiously at my cheap Bata shoes. But there was nowhere else to go, and we caught another bus to the dance hall.

Our hostesses knew that we were penniless, and paid for admission without creating embarrassment. Inside we were introduced to a party of young men.

Perhaps it was because I had not danced since the previous December, or perhaps because the war seemed very far away, but I let myself go that night without reserve. The dances were fast and furious, there were scores of lovely girls who could dance perfectly, the air was warm and abandoned, and for a few wonderful hours life had no worries for me.

The dance was not over until well after the last bus to the docks, and we stayed the night with three of the boys of our party who had a flat near the Ocean Beach Hotel.

We awoke at 9.30 on the following morning and dressed quickly, remembering that we were to be guests at a bathing party at noon. After returning to the ship for a change and shave, we went back to the flat for a delicious, though unorthodox, meal of hot dogs; then changed for a swim.

The flat was very conveniently situated for the beach. One could change inside and walk across the road straight on to the firm, warm, silver sand. So convenient was the hosts' home that it had become a regular habit for friends to call in at random and use it as a dressing-room. The shower cubicle was littered with trunks and towels left by casual callers.

Victor Smith and I had often heard of Australia's famous surfbathing, and had seen films of Surf Carnivals at Sydney's Bondi Beach. Now we were to experience the sport.

The breakers rolled in with a musical roar, carrying with them hundreds of brown bodies as the bathers threw themselves forward in front of the waves and floated to dry land. We stood admiring the technique of the swimmers and the experts with surf boards until we had seen the way it should be done. Then we went in.

When I tried the first turn I was turned over and my head struck the sand, and I emerged rather breathless and very surprised. The second attempt was more successful however, and soon I was shooting down the waves to land smoothly on the moist sand. I tried another trick, standing to face the surf as it rolled towards me, and diving on to the top of each wave when it was almost breaking. I had only just recovered from one jump when the next roll was upon me, and at last I retired for a rest.

An hour later, salt-soaked, with sand in our hair and the effects of the sun producing a pleasant tingle over our backs, we made our way back to the flat for a shower and change.

We said good-bye to the friends we had made that week-end and returned to the ship. This, our first introduction to the hospitality of Australia, had been a huge success, and simple though it was, will live long in our memory.

Although it had been intended to sail on Monday, the Marella did not cast off until Tuesday morning. We had been given another cabin, a few passengers having left the ship, and this time we were more comfortable.

The next stage of the trip was uneventful, although the weather was rough across the Australian Bight, great waves breaking over the bows and flooding the crew's quarters, and a heavy swell rolling the ship from side to side. throwing chairs and carpets across the saloon to smash against the bulkheads. We steamed into Melbourne on 10th March to unload the frozen meat and tins of milk which had been loaded at the same port in November 1941, intended for Singapore, but which had never reached their destination.

Victor and I reported at once to the Malayan agent in Melbourne, who had been posted there to give assistance to escapees. He was a Malayan Civil Servant who had been on leave when the war started, and he listened with sympathy to our story. After establishing our identity, we were given five pounds each, and went into town to spend the money as carefully as possible.

Melbourne is a beautiful city, with wide, smooth-surfaced roads, the best shops I had seen since leaving England, and a comprehensive plan of lay-out. We walked for whole days admiring the shops, though buying very little, and sitting in the parks beneath English elms and willows, tropical palms and ferns, and Australian trees whose names I never knew, which seem to grow only in the Commonwealth.

The American Forces had just arrived. Shops were sporting window displays with Stars and Stripes mixed with Australia's flag, and cards inviting the Doughboys to come in and buy. "Welcome to Uncle Sam's Boys" shouted out from dozens of windows. Schedules showing the exchange value of American money and Australian currency were in all the larger stores, with the words ''American money accepted" - a privilege granted to no other nationality, and to our minds not very necessary, as there were plenty of banks where a man could change his money in five minutes without risk of being swindled.

We saw the American soldiers. They walked in twos and threes, smartly and quietly, dressed in a pale khaki uniform consisting of simply trousers and shirt of some silky material, perfectly tailored for ease and appearance. Their khaki or black ties - depending on whether they were Army or Air Corps - were tucked neatly into their shirts. Forage caps were piped along the edge with piping of varying patterns. There were no flashy buttons, badges, decorations; officers wore straightforward metal strips about an inch long by a quarter-inch wide, in brass or silver to denote rank. The men were sober, and an example of discipline and deportment. We were impressed at the sight of our new Allies.

As our ship was going to be some time in dock, we had to fill in the days as best we could with little money. We went to News theatres occasionally, to pass an hour in the afternoon, but soon tired of them when we realised that the same films were repeated at every place day after day. The films were far from topical, the only up-to-date one being Gordon Bennett's arrival in Australia from Singapore.

Reading the papers, we became uncomfortably aware of the growing anti-British attitude, suggested rather than directly stated, following the loss of Malaya. The public, who were uninformed except by the Press, assumed that the A.I.F. had borne the brunt of the battles in the East and had been let down badly. Once we were glad to observe that Winston Churchill had made a statement on the matter, and we felt that the Home Government knew the reason for Singapore's surrender. There was no shortage of food or water or supplies in Malaya; nor had the Australians gone into action until the Japanese were some fifty or sixty miles north of the Causeway. The injustice of the situation bore on us very heavily, but we knew that it was useless to argue, and certainly not the time to stop and blame anyone. The thing that mattered most was to pull together, forgetting the past and making full use of the knowledge gained by our mistakes. Instead, the public of Australia appeared to have turned away from England and looked towards America, not, we felt, because they were so pro-Roosevelt as anti-Churchill.

They seemed to be ignorant of the fact that Britain had had her back to the wall, fighting for her very life, and that if the Germans could have taken the opportunity and struck first, the country might easily have been in German hands today. Nor did they realise that their own whining and cries for help emphasised that, if Britain had fallen, Australia could not have stood alone.

We went to Sandringham one day, and were taken by a girl from the ship to meet an Australian family. The mother was immensely proud of her sons, who were serving in the R.A.N., and of her two attractive daughters. Her song of praise for her boys was understandable, but we could detect the antagonism towards us in her every word. Her sons, and the sons of other Australian mothers, were the only hope left for the Empire. She amazed us by disclosing her dread of the Japanese; her fear of the possibilities of an invasion; and I cast my mind back; to the days of 1940 when the British Public faced a similar threat with calmness and determination, inspired by the hard, straight words of the Premier. This distracted woman's one plan in the event of the arrival of the Japanese was to buy a revolver and shoot her two daughters rather than risk them with the invaders.

At the docks the Marella was still being unloaded. There was very little cargo, as the ship is a passenger carrier, and had been drawing on her cargo for three months whilst at sea. Two hundred tons of frozen meat and about the same amount of condensed milk and flour filled the holds. It took nine days to unload. Every few minutes it seemed that there was a break for tea or a smoke or just a rest. The British working man has long been a standing joke as a study of still life, but the Melbourne docker should be given pride of place in all fairness to his craft.

The general atmosphere in Melbourne was restless. The news was inclined to be sensational; the advent of the Americans had stirred the public; shops were being boarded up; everywhere were troops, R.A.A.F. and Navy; the enemy had bombed Darwin; and posters showed a Japanese soldier clambering over the Globe from the Equator, one huge hand outstretched towards Australia, and with the caption "He's coming South'' shouting out its panic stricken warning. The advertising posters for a paper contained two words only - "Coming Nearer". The first rumours of rationing were abroad. War had never been so near to Australia.

We were glad to leave the port on 18th March, and hoped for better things when we passed under the Sydney Harbour Bridge and tied up on the 20th.

Rain was falling heavily, and this was the subject on most lips, the war apparently forgotten for a time. This was the first real shower for seven years. The drought in Sydney had become a serious thing, water was very scarce, and hot baths were forbidden.

We reported to the Malayan Agency, but it was Saturday, and almost noon, so we were told to find accommodation for the week end and report again on Monday.

I had thirty shillings, Victor about three. We were told to go to the Metropole, which would be cheap and convenient. The room we were given was fitted with two beds, cost fifteen shillings a night, food extra. That left us three shillings for food for two days.

There is a certain independence about being penniless that cannot be felt in any other circumstances. We decided that we couldn't hope to pay our way until we received money on Monday, so with the little we had we went to the pictures at night, ate well and stocked ourselves with cigarettes.

Sunday was a problem. Fortunately the rain had stopped, and we walked in Hyde Park, sat on a seat reading a paper until we knew its contents off by heart, and walked round again. The sculptures in the Park are appalling and crude, nudity being the first essential, grace, pose and beauty the last. The statue of Captain Cook has two outstanding points. One is the huge hook nose which stands out in silhouette, and the other is the unfortunate way the figure is standing, with telescope in what I am sure is a most un-nautical position.

Sydney sleeps on Sunday. Apart from the couples sitting or lying on the grass, the very occasional tram-car that clanged and careered along the street, and the singing of the birds, the city was dead.

Monday meant reports and changing to more comfortable diggings, trams and long walks and parcels. We were footsore and very tired when at last the long day closed.

Our new home was in Macleay Street, at Potts Point, near to Elizabeth Bay and a wonderful view of the harbour. Once settled there, we took stock of our position regarding clothes and salary and our next move.

The prospect was not too bright. We had been warned that we might be given notice by the Home Government, but in the meantime could not take up any employment unless in a voluntary capacity. We resigned ourselves to the circumstances, bearing in mind our single aim - to get Home.

We were shopping when the rain started.

For four days it poured, sheeting down as heavily as in the tropics, and daily bulletins announced that the watersheds were flooding, that the Paramatta river had at last begun to flow. Victor and I, who were sharing a room, were drenched several times, and had to dry our clothes before we could venture out again. Gradually we built up our wardrobes, each purchase bringing back with a sharp pang the memory of the large stock of clothes we had left in Singapore, enough to last the whole tour of three or four years. The unaccustomed walking on hard pavements, and the cheap shoes we wore, rubbed the skin from our toes and heels, but after a week we were back to normal again.

Sydney has a city atmosphere of bustle and crowds and shops and cinemas more pronounced than Melbourne. The streets are far too narrow for the heavy traffic of trams, drays, lorries, buses, cars and bicycles. In peace time I imagine that life in Sydney could be pleasant, with plenty of everything to amuse and entertain, good services from the city to the suburbs, beadles at a convenient distance, a mild climate and beautiful views.

But in war time the trams are always full to overflowing, the shops close at six o'clock. Martin Place is disfigured by a hut and platform for recruiting and War Loan campaigns: the Post Office is hidden behind a wall of wood and sand and steel, reducing the already narrow pavement of Pitt Street to nil; windows are barricaded. Noisy soldiers jump the tram just in front of the next person, be it man, woman or child, rush here, rush there, don't stop to think. At the end of a fortnight we hated the prospect of going into the shopping centre, and spent most of our time surfing at Bondi Beach, or walking in the parks, or working in the privacy of our rooms.

Almost three weeks had passed and we had bought all the clothes we needed urgently. Time lay heavy on our hands and we felt to be needlessly wasting time. We decided to try to find a job of work.

I tried the Australian equivalent to my own Engineering Institution, and found I was not wanted. Victor fared better at the Architects' Institution, and returned to tell me that he was going to see a man at the Department of the Interior. Perhaps I should have better luck there, I thought, and agreed to accompany him.

Our interviews were not very satisfactory. It might have been that two young men trying to obtain employment without pay appeared suspicious. We were told to submit a letter pointing out our qualifications, covered by permission from the Malayan agent. Had we not been determined to do something to keep us in touch with our profession the humbug would have made us disgusted and we should have let the matter drop.

Several days later we reported to the Department. Victor was to work on camouflage; I was in the Civil Engineering Section. We spent the first day looking at files and plans, bored to tears but resigned to the ordeal of the preliminaries.

Victor was taken round the outskirts of Sydney to inspect certain sites that were being camouflaged. The man who was in-charge of the party was not a professional man, but a man who had found his way into the temporary war job and who, being now a Government official and proud of it, was making the most of his position. On arrival at each site he did not deign to introduce his followers properly, merely pointing to them and saying to the supervisor on the job, "This is a Cook's Tour."

On the same day I accompanied an engineer, a surveyor and camouflage architect to a large aerodrome several miles out of Sydney where we met the Resident Engineer and camoufleur. The engineer had worked in Malaya for some time, and we became friendly at once.

The day was spent in looking at sites for other works, each of the men having an interest in different aspects, and absorbing as much information as possible. It soon became clear that the actual work was not being done by the officials, but by a tradesman who had worked his way up to the position of foreman. In fact, a large number of valuable men had wasted a full day and several gallons of petrol without result. I was told that I was to take over from the Resident Engineer in a few days, and the prospect was not by any means pleasing.

When I arrived home at nine o'clock that night Victor told me of his day and expressed his disgust. We both thought of walking out and leaving the Department, but decided that that would be rather childish after the first set-back.

We went to the office on the next day to try again, and fared a little better. Victor requested to be given a worth-while job of work free from interference, so that he could settle down and be responsible only to the Head of his Section. The architect in charge, a very reasonable man who saw my friend's argument and recognised his ability, stationed him at a distant aerodrome. I appealed to my Head in similar terms, and was told that I should be stationed at a nearby site in charge of Aerodrome Construction.

The engineer who was controlling the work at that time, together with a large number of similar jobs at widely scattered points, was a Pomie, as Englishmen are called in Australia. He was a native of Salford, and seventeen years' absence had not erased his Lancashire accent.

We went to the work site, and I saw that a new hut had been erected on the job for my use. I was to be Resident Engineer.

Two men were in charge of the work as supervisors, and we were to work together. They were introduced to me as Olly, the Maintenance Officer, and John Dooley, known amongst his friends as Honest John.

I had at last started to build instead of destroy.