Singapore II

I had originally expected to post twice from notes I took about a decade or so ago during or shortly after my visits to Singapore. However, having found more notes than I recalled having written and seeing that they contain history that is relevant but not well known, I will be posting a few more items on Singapore.

My notes do not pretend to be scholarly from a historical, sociological, or any other “expert” perspective; they were written by a layman who appreciates the subject and believes it to be worth remembering and pondering.

While working in Saudi Arabia, I had the honor and privilege of meeting the Singaporean ambassador stationed there at the time. He and his wife were very gracious to me and were intrigued to hear how all my narratives centered around the historical sites and the stories thereof and some of my encounters there. They appreciated that my interests were similar to theirs. 

He said, “It is unusual for visitors to care much about these matters.” To which I replied, “And that is unfortunate, isn’t it.” He agreed.

His grandfather was Scotch and had died in the prison camps. His father survived and so did his house. But the roof had damage from Japanese shelling. As a late adolescent, he asked his father why he had never gotten around to repairing the roof. “Because I don’t want to ever forget what happened,” was the terse reply.

The ambassador told me about the visit by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher to the Kranji War Memorial and Cemetery in 1985. He was a young member of the diplomatic corps at the time and he formed part of the delegation accompanying Mrs. Thatcher. He told me what impressed him was that most visitors of state just go to the memorial in the center of the place. Mrs. Thatcher did that, of course. But then she began to walk all around the cemetery, pausing long before the many tombstones, many with crosses engraved therein, and reading names and dates of birth and dates of death, and sometimes commenting, “He was only 18,” or “He was 22,” etc.

He asked me if I had also walked around. I told him I had indeed, and that I was deeply moved.

Then he offered to lend me his books. I requested Thompson’s The Battle For Singapore, because I was about to buy that one during my last trip there, but had hesitated and lost the opportunity. He lent it to me [a year later, I bought my own copy after returning to Texas].

The Kranji Memorial (also known as The Singapore Memorial) has over 24,000 names of Allied men and women inscribed on its walls. They memorialize those for whom no remains or graves could be identified, plus those killed in Malaya, where their bodies remained. 

British, Australian, Indian, Chinese, Sri Lankan, Netherland, and New Zealand soldiers, marines, airmen, nurses, and more are buried or memorialized here, as are those who were killed in the Singapore Hospital in the early days of the Japanese occupation. Over 400 of these latter are memorialized in a mass grave.

The courage of the men and women during those terrible days is exemplified by the actions of nurses who were evacuated shortly before the British surrender. This is excerpted from The Battle for Singapore.

“One of the surgeons, Colonel Thomas Hamilton, waved goodbye to the remaining nurses who were leaving…that day in HMS Vyner Brooke. None of them had wanted to go. ‘Smiling wistfully, they fluttered tiny handkerchiefs to us from the open doors of the ambulances as orderlies and doctors lined the drive to cheer them on their way,’ he says. …. From the hospital lawn that night he watched the Vyner Brooke, an ugly little coastal freighter, sail out of the harbor against the backdrop of a vivid scarlet sunset.”

[The captain managed to elude the Japanese for a couple days, but on the 14th of February his ship was spotted by 6 Japanese planes. The ship was bombed and machine-gunned despite displaying the red cross of a hospital ship. On one machine-gun run, the nurses ran to the deck and threw themselves over the wounded soldiers who could not move. All survivors had to abandon ship. Vivian Bullwinkle, 26-years old, from South Australia, kept a diary from which Mr. Thompson gleaned some of his descriptions.]

[A great uncle, brother of my grandfather, was a medic whose hospital ship was strafed and sunk, along with hundreds of wounded soldiers and a score of nurses off the Philippines in 1942 — RMB]

[Matron Drummond was another survivor, who had been wounded, but helped ashore. The survivors were joined the next day by 20 British soldiers from another stricken vessel. “Without food, clothing, or medicine, the group elected to surrender….” A naval officer went off in search of a Japanese patrol.]

“On 16 February the naval officer returned with a Japanese patrol…. The Japanese officer ordered those who could walk, including Chief Officer W. S. Sedgeman and Second Engineer J. J. Miller, to march around a small headland, where they were bayoneted. The wounded were then bayoneted on the beach, although one English private crawled unseen into the undergrowth after being stabbed through the chest.

“The 22 nurses, including the wounded Matron Drummond, were ordered to walk into the sea. It was around midday and the water was warm and tranquil, the palm-fringed setting idyllic. Matron Drummond, supported between two nurses, said, ‘Chin up, girls, I’m proud of you and I love you all.’ When the water reached waist height, the Japanese opened fire with a machine gun, raking them back and forth from behind. All of the nurses were killed except Vivian Bullwinkle, who was shot above the left hip. The bullet knocked her over and she floated for some time before raising her head. ‘All my colleagues had been swept away and there were no Japs on the beach,’ she says. After passing out again, she came to on the beach. ‘I was so cold that my only thought was to find some warm spot to die. I dragged myself up to the edge of the jungle and lay in the sun where I must have slept for hours….’

“The following morning Vivian had just enough strength to find fresh water in a spring close to the beach, which kept her alive for the next 48 hours. On the third day, she went down to the lifeboat, looking for food, and heard a voice call out, ‘Where have you been, nurse?’ Private Kinsley, already wounded by shrapnel, had been bayoneted in the chest but the blade had missed his heart. Vivian dressed his wounds and helped him into the jungle.”

[They eventually made it to Muntok (Sumatra, south of Singapore) and, making sure their wounds were covered, they told the Japanese they had been shipwrecked, arousing no suspicions. They were imprisoned and, in hushed tones Vivian told her story to a few other nurses. She knew she would be executed if the Japanese discovered she had survived the massacre. Private Kingsley was placed in a crude hospital but died a few days later.]

Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher visits Kranji in 1985 (Source: Ministry of Information and the Arts)

Young man dead at 22 in 1943. Memorial at Kranji Cemetery

Kranji Memorial and Cemetery, Source: Wikimedia

Singapore is on the top left; Muntok is not listed but was on Banka, the small island off the coast of Sumatra, to the south of Singapore.

When Leaving, Go Via London

When on work assignments, I’d often write journals, hoping to share with friends and family later on in life.

At the end of an assignment in the Arabian Peninsula, my departure took me via London. Having seen recent, disturbing reports from there, I thought you would like to read my personal impressions and interactions as I returned to the United States in 2015.

London, 2015:

The cab driver said, “I’m sure Dallas is a fine city. But I’ve travelled much, and I’m even what most would call ‘a right winger’, but, to me, London is the best city in the world.'”

You do not have to agree with him, but you certainly can understand his sentiment. We can at least agree that London is a fine city, whose Christian capital has endured far longer than I would have estimated. I cannot imagine it can last much longer, absent another Reformation. But, for now, if you gave me a choice between Dubai, New York, Singapore, and London, I’d go for London.

I’ll have more about my conversations with two cab drivers further below.

Visiting the famous Burlington Arcade I saw that several stores had “disappeared”, including Pickett, the fine leather goods store. However, I was happy to learn that Pickett had merely moved outside, between the Arcade and Regent Street. I bought a portfolio there. The one that Arthur Andersen had given me finally bit the dust after 33 years of service. Good things, if cared for properly, will last half a lifetime, or more.

Regent Street is known as a “shoppers paradise.” Since I am not a shopper, it’s not paradise to me, but it is a nice street to walk and observe peoples from all over the world and laugh at little children tugging at their parents to get out of Burberry’s and go to Hamley’s.

Hamley’s, founded in 1760, is five stories of toys. Being Saturday, it was pandemonium. On the fourth story they had “snack bars” of cotton candy, sweets, chocolates, shakes — just the sort of thing to keep the little kiddies quiet for Mommy and Daddy. It was a circus: vendors loudly proclaiming the wonders of their flying machines, magic lights, boomerangs, plush animals. They should have filmed Jingle All The Way here.

One major disappointment, though not surprising: almost everything was made in China. Even the London double decker toys and the England history toys and the die cast English vehicles. I saw a few things made in Belgium and one thing made in France. But nothing made in England. Of course, I did not check “everything” (I would have still been there!); but it was sad. What? Westerners can’t make toys anymore?

When you say “Let’s go to the food court” to an American, they’ll imagine you mean the Dallas Galleria, or, when in Puerto Rico, the Plaza Las Americas. However, to a European, “Food Court” conjures up a completely different scene. I had a light lunch at a sidewalk cafe in a food court off Regent Street: caprese salad with homemade bread dipped in olive oil.

And there is Berkeley Square, dating back to the 1700’s. Used to be only residential. Today only one residential block remains and it’s not cheap but flats rarely come up for sale anyway. No, I didn’t hear a nightingale, but I’m sure it sang in Berkeley Square, because Nat King Cole heard it there once.

The cab driver who drove me to London Center was of Indian heritage. We talked about how quickly subsequent generations forget their own history. His children know nothing about “the largest migration in history”, which occurred a mere 70 years ago, at the time of the partition of India. He said that about 130 million migrated from India to Pakistan or vice-versa. In addition, many hundreds of thousands, if not millions, left the sub-continent altogether. Including his own parents, who came to London, where he was born.

“And about 10 million were slaughtered,” I added.

“No,” he corrected me, “20 million.”

I do not know if his figures are correct; but I do know that is an ugly part of modern history of which we hear very little. It is also a blot on British colonial (mis)government. There was no need to succumb so quickly and so pathetically to calls (including calls from the U.S., I might add) for “de-colonization now!” But they supinely did so. And now they are criticized for mismanagement of the event. You never win in these situations.

But, back to London. The cab driver went on to tell me how the younger generations simply do not care. They’ll take fish and chips over Asian spice; English over Urdu; hip-hop over Punjabi; etc.

That last one is truly tragic. But I understood where he was coming from and sympathized with him.

“Even I myself have begun forgetting my history; not to mention my descendants. They forget their religion, their history, their food — now it’s fish and chips and Irish beef.”

As we drove by the Ritz, I noted, “I understand that Prime Minister Thatcher lived here towards the end of her life.”

“Yes she spent the last 6 months of her life here. She died here. But she was content. Many of her friends would come and visit her. She was content. She and Ronald Reagan were the best political partnership in our time.”

I also spoke with the cab driver who took me back out to the hotel in Terminal 5 at the end of my visit.

He too said, “Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher were the best partnership ever. And George W. Bush and Tony Blair were a disaster from which we still cannot recover.”

He buys his shoes at Church’s, although he did not know they had been acquired by Prada. I warned him the shoes were now looking more and more “ritzy.” He was disappointed. He has been married 29 years and still uses the Church shoes he bought for his wedding day. “I always wait for a sale. Sometimes a GBP300 pair of shoes is down to GBP 90!” That’s about $480 down to about $234.

He’s been driving a cab for 29 years.

He owns a house in Cyprus (in addition to his home in London); he buys his shoes at Church’s; he visits Cyprus 3 or 4 times a year. And he has 4 grown children; all doing him proud. Yes, he and his wife are thrifty and his children too.

Earlier, upon arrival in early morning, I had breakfast at the Heathrow Terminal 5 lounge. Then I did a bit of work in the business lounge area and once again saw the TV preachers on screen. Their hair styles were cute and their smiles were sweet and, depending on their audience, one wore a neat leather jacket, like Marlon Brando in The Wild One, and another looked like he had just stepped out of Saks Fifth Avenue. The musicians gave the impression they were performing on some night show.

I remembered that as I pondered my conversations with the cab drivers.

The mass migration facilitated by our politicians, both in Europe as well as in the United States, can overwhelm and transform us negatively. But it need not be so.

The Church, the masculine Church, can also make it a great and grand opportunity, much as the Puritans did when the Crown was sending its criminal element to our shores. Our fathers would meet them at the docks and instruct them in the Bible and in colonial laws.

If later generations forget where they came from, as the cab driver said, then why can’t the Church tell them where they can head to, in Christ? We possess a great arsenal. We must use it to advance God’s Kingdom. And, simultaneously, we would be defending our own culture and country while also helping those who arrive.

Interestingly, both cab drivers I interacted with, one of Indian descent, the other, Anglo, had similar outlooks. Decent outlooks. I would proudly call either a friend and wish I had had more time with each.

I enjoyed dinner at La Belle Epoque, a fine restaurant at the hotel. It was not as expensive as others, but, again, we must note that elegance is not “ritziness.” It is simplicity; it is as little clutter as possible, even on the dishes.

Regent Street, London, 2015

Hamley’s, London, 2015

Food Court off Regent Street, London, 2015

Berkeley Square, London, 2015

Pickett, Outside Burlington Arcade, London, 2015