During World War II, the Japanese were portrayed as brutal, subhuman savages—the hordes of Attila or Genghis Khan. Certainly they did terrible things, but I was fortunate enough to see something different. It is called "chivalry," which the Oxford Dictionary defines as a "medieval knightly system, with its religious, moral, and social code; ideal knight's characteristics." I see it as compassion and magnanimity toward a beaten enemy.
It was 1200 on 28 February 1942. HMS Encounter, the 1,300-ton destroyer in which I was serving as second lieutenant, had just secured to a buoy in Surabaya harbor.
The Encounter, after service off Norway, in the Atlantic, and in the Mediterranean, had arrived at Singapore on 1 December 1941. She belonged to the hastily put together Allied Far Eastern Fleet, soon to be drastically reduced by the sinking of the Prince of Wales and Repulse on 10 December. After two somewhat uncomfortable, but not especially eventful, months we had escorted a convoy out of Singapore on 13 February, two days before its fall, and, by the skill of our captain, Lieutenant Commander E. V. St. J. Morgan, had arrived unscathed at Tandjong Priok, the port of the city then called Batavia, now Djakarta. We then formed part of the ABDA (American, British, Dutch, Australian) Force under the command of a Dutch admiral.
The ABDA Force's objective was to delay the clearly intended Japanese invasion of Java by attacking the troop transports that were massing for the landing and protected by a very powerful fleet. Our orders were brief and to the point, if somewhat ambitious: "Attack the enemy until he is destroyed."
We had no air support, and the ships of the four nations had never worked together; our defeat was probably inevitable. Those involved acquitted themselves honorably, and I pay respectful tribute to our American, Australian, and Dutch allies, many of whom gave their lives. It all seemed a sad waste of men and ships, but it may have delayed the Japanese advance a few days, thus helping to save Australia.
The Battle of the Java Sea started on 27 February and continued intermittently until 1 March. On 27 February, HMS Exeter was damaged by a shell in her boiler room, and her speed seriously reduced. We were ordered to escort her to Surabaya. On the way, we managed to rescue 115 survivors from the Dutch destroyer Kortenaer, which we had seen sink in about a minute after she had been torpedoed. Thus it was that we found ourselves in an almost deserted Surabaya harbor on 28 February. Inaddition to the Exeter and our ship, there were five World War I U. S. destroyers. The atmosphere was deeply somber, and we watched with emotion the special funeral party from the Exeter, which took the ship's dead ashore for burial.
During the battle on 27 February, we had fired our torpedoes, and, along with the Exeter, we had expended a considerable quantity of ammunition. There were no torpedoes to be had in Surabaya and, as far as I recall, no ammunition either. Soon after our arrival, four U. S. destroyers sailed. We understood that they were going east, through the Bali Strait, and then making for Australia. Only the Exeter, Encounter, and the fifth U. S. destroyer, the USS Pope (DD-225), remained in Surabaya. The unfortunate Pope had been selected for this dubious honor because she still had a full complement of torpedoes, but at that time we had no idea what was going to happen. On board the Exeter, the engineers were working furiously to repair the damage from the previous day's battle and get her ready to sail, even at severely reduced speed. Oil fuel was still available, and the Exeter and Encounter were able to top up.
Much of the Allied fleet had been sunk on 27 February and the following disastrous night. The cruisers, the USS Houston (CA-30) and HMAS Perth, made for the Indian Ocean via the Sunda Straits, between Java and Sumatra. They were sunk during the night of 28 February/1 March, but even if they had escaped that would have had no bearing on our fate. By the evening of 28 February, there would have been, in any event, no Allied ships in the Java Sea.
At teatime that Saturday afternoon, our captain came into the wardroom and told us that he had received sailing orders. They read something like this: "You are to sail at 1800, 28 February under the command of the Exeter. You and the USS Pope are to escort HMS Exeter to Colombo. You will first proceed due North, then alter course to the West in order to pass through the Sunda Straits."
The captain explained that the Japanese fleet was thought to be close inshore, covering the invasion of Java. It was hoped that by sailing due north before turning west, we might escape detection, because the Japanese warships would be concentrating on the landings and looking south. But we had no aircraft available to help us, and the Japanese maintained an almost uninterrupted air reconnaissance of the surrounding waters. If we had sailed east from Surabaya we might have had a tiny chance; going west we had none.
However, at the time, the captain's news made little impact on me. I was 23 and, like many young men in the war, I believed that nothing could happen to me. It was just as well; it made life easier. All of us—the whole ship's company—had great faith in our captain. The old-time British sailor was a special sort of man. He kept his optimism and sense of humor, even when cooped up for years, with only brief interludes of release, in an uncomfortable little tin can, that rolled up to 30° either way and pitched like a cork in a heavy sea. He took bombing, shelling, cold and heat, and the endless, dangerous, deadly monotony of the convoys with a wry joke and a bit of gallows humor.
At 1800 on 28 February 1942, the Exeter, escorted by the Encounter and the Pope, sailed from Surabaya. The damaged Exeter could only make 12 knots, instead of her normal 30.
There was a beautiful sunset, and it was a perfect, calm, tropical night. The phosphorescence from the ships' bow waves and wakes was brilliant. Our cockney bosun's mate had piped us to action stations with the following words: "Hands will go to action stations at 1900 hours, and stay there all night, and like it. Hands to supper."
My action station was in the director of the gunnery control tower, abaft and above the bridge. Slowly, we sailed on through that glorious night. For a long time, we saw nothing, and everything seemed peaceful. There were four men in that director's crew. The rate officer was responsible for reporting the enemy's course and speed. The layer and the trainer aimed and fired the guns. An important member of our team was the range-taker, who manned the rangefinder, which was abaft and above us. The information that we provided went to a simple transmitting station below, which determined that our four 4.7-inch guns were pointing in the right direction and were at the correct elevation to hit the target. My job was to spot the fall of shot through my binoculars and make necessary corrections. To a generation reared on radar it must seem miraculous that we ever hit anything. But we did, from time to time.
The rate officer, who sat beside me, was a charming Canadian reserve sub-lieutenant. He came from British Columbia, from a town with the improbable name of Chillawak, to help us fight the war. He chatted away unconcernedly, and time passed not too disagreeably. From time to time, my friend the doctor brought cups of steaming cocoa to us. He always cheered us up with his original views on everything and his iconoclastic sense of humor. The torpedo control officer, who was stationed on the bridge very close to us, was also able to interject an occasional word. He was a civil engineer when there was no war and another cheerful, lighthearted companion.
We were a frivolous lot, and the captain found us a little hard to take. He was about ten years older than we and more aware of the seriousness of life. He once remarked in exasperation that all we thought of was going ashore. He was right, of course, but our opportunities for doing so could hardly have been less frequent. As for us, although we often behaved like a bunch of cheeky students, we knew the name of the game, and I think we did as Horatio Nelson would have expected of us.
Then, at about 0400, far over the horizon ahead of us, we saw one solitary starshell, enough to bring us to an intense state of alertness, and to cause the Canadian to cast doubts on that starshell's parentage and morality. But the vessel that had fired that stars hell did not appear, and the starshell slowly died. We relaxed a little and drank more cocoa, while Doc gave us a little lecture on the evils of exercise, his pet aversion. And so we passed the night, and, whatever we may have been thinking, there was little serious talk.
I always find tropical dawns dramatic, particularly at sea, and 1 March 1942 was more dramatic than most for the 170 men on board the Encounter. In the sudden transition from dark to light, we expected to see at least one, if not many more, Japanese ships. But there was nothing, only a wide horizon, an empty sea, and Doc's cheerful voice announcing the arrival of breakfast—a duck egg, a chunk of bread, and a cup of tea. We altered course to the west. For a little while, we almost believed the crazy story we had been told about the Japs looking the other way. We were piped to defense stations, which gave the ship's company a brief break, with half of the crew members standing down.
Then we saw the masts slowly rising above that sharp, clear horizon. But they only belonged to one small ship—a destroyer. The Exeter opened fire at extreme range; the destroyer made off at full speed and disappeared. Emptiness again. Next came one reconnaissance aircraft. It seemed almost to hover for a while, just long enough to report our exact position, course, and speed, before flying away. The masthead lookout started reporting in earnest: "Ships bearing Green 20" (off the starboard bow). Soon we could see four destroyers in line ahead, slowly converging upon us. Next: "Ships bearing Red 30" (off the port bow). This time, the masts revealed themselves as belonging to two Mogami-class "light" cruisers, 8,500 tons and carrying 15 six-inch guns—fast, hostile, efficient ships. We hardly had time to take this in before the lookout reported again, "Ships bearing Red 150" (off the port quarter). It was two more Mogami cruisers.
And so the stage was set. Absurdly, I thought back to my amateur dramatics, when I used to recite Stanley Holloway's "Sam, Sam, pick up tha musket." This classic of the Battle of Waterloo ended with the words, "Let battle commence." The destroyers were still too far away for us to engage, but we trained on the second ship in the line and waited to close the range.
The Exeter signaled: "My speed now 15 knots, am engaging enemy cruisers." The range must have been about 25,000 yards; our brave old Exeter started to fight for her life, with six eight-inch guns, against 60 six-inch guns, and there was worse to come.
The range-taker reported, "Range 15,000 yards, closing." This was our maximum, while that of the enemy destroyers was probably a little longer. The captain ordered, "Open Fire." I heard the calm voice of the young sub-lieutenant beside me reporting enemy course and speed in his soft west Canadian accent. I saw the flashes from the enemy guns and the splashes from our first salvo, which fell in line, but short. The chief bosun's mate, who was the director layer. and old enough to be my father, said "You need to go up, Sir." I had the same thought and ordered "Up 400, shoot." And so it went on, and the range slowly closed. We hit the enemy, but our 4.7-inch shells struck no vital spot and failed to inflict serious damage. Meanwhile, we altered course continually and laid smoke screens around the Exeter to confuse the enemy gunfire, for radar was still in its infancy. The Japanese could not hit us.
Then a storm came up and hid us from the enemy and them from us. The firing stopped. It was uncanny. We were suddenly silent and alone, with the teeming tropical rain and dense cloud. We could not even see the Exeter, while the Pope was farther away from us, to port of the Exeter. It seemed like a miracle, and we hoped we could disappear under cover of the storm. The ocean, even an enclosed sea like the one we found ourselves in, seems wide and one does not feel so hemmed in as a surrounded army must. While we could still sail, there seemed to be hope. I felt relaxed and relieved.
But the storm was all too brief. It cleared as suddenly as it had come. There they all were, those stark, menacing Japanese ships, the destroyers to starboard, about 10,000 yards from us, and the four cruisers to port, perhaps 20,000 yards from the Exeter. But, on the starboard quarter, we saw looming up over the horizon, two Nachi-c1ass heavy cruisers. Their reported tonnage was 10,000, but they were closer to 15,000 tons. Their main armament consisted of ten eight-inch guns. The score was now: Japanese- 20 eight-inch guns, 60 six-inch guns, 20 five-inch guns; our side-6 eight-inch guns, 4 4.7-inch guns, and 4 four-inch guns. Yet they still could not hit any of us, and the battle went on and on. We could see the shells coming, like footballs, in tight salvoes with a small spread, falling all around us. Good gunnery, but not good enough. All three Allied captains dodged the lot. After the war, I heard that a Japanese report stated that the two heavy Nachi-class cruisers fired 8,000 shells in one and one-half hours, without hitting us. The other eight enemy ships were also firing all the time. I could not see what was happening on the bridge because I was concentrating on my own task, but I can clearly imagine it. The captain was completely cool and impassive. He would watch the enemy fire and then swing the Encounter around like a dodge'em car. He then conceived the idea of carrying out a dummy torpedo attack on the heavy cruisers, taking the Pope with us; we believed she still had her torpedoes. We would have had to close to about 4,000 yards from the cruisers and would have forced them to turn away, thus giving the Exeter a chance. She could now make 25 knots thanks to fine work by her engineers.
Then nasty things started to happen. The Exeter, under the concentrated fire of sometimes six and sometimes four cruisers (the Pope and our ship were paid a little attention from time to time), was finally hit by shells in the boiler room. She stopped and was torpedoed. She signaled, "Am abandoning ship; proceed independently." This presented our captain with a terrible dilemma. Should he "proceed independently" at our full 33 knots, which might conceivably have gotten us away as we were a small and difficult target, or should he try to rescue the Exeter's survivors? After the sinkings of the Prince of Wales and Repulse, the Japanese allowed the escorting destroyers to pick up survivors and return to Singapore. They might have done the same with the Exeter: They had won their victory but the captain never had to make that decision. An eight-inch salvo straddled the ship without hitting us, but the explosion lifted the whole ship out of the water; the next moment we stopped. All the guns, except a gun forward, reported ammunition expended.
The chief engineer came to the bridge and reported that a lubricating oil pump had been damaged and would take two hours to repair. We could see the Exeter sinking not far to port. The enemy then concentrated all his fire on us. We were motionless, with one gun firing and surrounded by ten Japanese ships. It was miraculous that we were not hit. The captain made his decision: "Gunner, sink the ship." Then, as soon as this was in hand: "Abandon ship."
I remember that moment clearly to this day. I left the director and joined the captain on the bridge. He was completely calm and asked me to get him a lifebelt, which I did. Fortunately, he dig not hold with the old idea that a captain should go down with his ship, which has always struck me as pointless. Nevertheless, I think I can understand this happening, because, for one brief second, I did not want to leave the Encounter. A ship is a living thing to those who sail in her and, I imagine, especially so to her captain. The Encounter had been our home for two years and was now lying helpless. However, another near miss from an eight-inch salvo brought me to my senses and, together with the captain. I made for the motor boat. We started to lower it when it was hit by a small shell and rendered useless. At the same time, a shell splinter took away my binoculars. which were hanging round my neck. I jumped into the Java Sea.
This was the worst time of all. The Encounter seemed to take a horribly long time to sink, and the enemy fire continued unabated. Shells were exploding all around us, and the concussion was intense until, after a terrifying eternity, the poor Encounter rolled over and sank. The shelling stopped. Someone spoke in praise of the captain and called for three cheers for him, which were given loudly and enthusiastically. One of the lifeboats and some of the floats had been successfully lowered and were undamaged, but there was not room for everyone. I found myself in a small group of six hanging on to a float, on which one man could lie. About an hour after the Encounter went down, the Pope was sunk by dive bombers. Allbut one of her crew members survived.
Then came the Japanese destroyer, flying her huge Rising Sun battle ensign. She came very close and trained her guns on us. We waited. Nothing happened. The destroyer sailed away. We looked around and took stock of our situation. There was no lifeboat in sight, and we were 150 miles from land, with no food or water. There were no Allied ships in the Java Sea, and the Japanese had left us. It took a little time for these fairly stark facts to sink in; I was still feeling relieved that we had survived the battle and had not been machine-gunned in the water. I nourished the entirely absurd idea that some Dutch flying boats would rescue us. How this could be possible when the Japanese had complete command of the air and sea and were in the process of occupying Java, I did not stop to think. It was hope, and that was enough.
The Java Sea is warm and that was the one blessing we enjoyed. There was no sign of sharks, although they inhabited these waters. I understand that they do not like noise and probably had been frightened away by the sounds of the long battle. After dark, it got cooler, but no worse than we could endure. However, we were assailed by an unpleasant and unexpected hazard-oil fuel. It covered us completely, got in our eyes, temporarily blinding us. As the night wore on, the wind rose a little and blew the oil slick away. We were able to wash our eyes in the clean sea water so we could see again. In spite of the odds against our surviving at all, this was a great relief.
During the war, many people must have been in apparently hopeless situations and been saved by some quirk of fate. I make no claim to being unique and do not wish to exaggerate our predicament, but the facts I have related do speak for themselves. The hour before dawn is a gloomy time when the vitality tends to be low, and by then my optimism was beginning to flag. I thought of a girl in blue by a castle in Denmark, the garden at home on a summer afternoon, and the kindness of my mother and father, who worried about me too much. Doc and I talked a little, and I found this a comfort. Without ever having been particularly religious, I have always hoped that there might be an afterlife, and on that occasion I was slightly consoled by the thought that r might meet my grandfather. But on all counts, the thought of dying at the age of 23 was not particularly enticing.
Dawn came on 2 March 1942, beautiful, clear, and dead calm. We had been in the water about 18 hours, and there was nothing to be seen. We waited in silence and watched the sun climb in the heavens . Doc had his medical kit with him, complete with syringe and enough morphia to finish us all off. By that time, according to all logic, there was no hope at all, and yet only one of our number asked for a shot. Doc rightly refused and persuaded our colleague to give it a bit longer. It grew hotter, the sea was calm and shimmered in the sunshine. We became drowsy; I recall that I felt neither hunger nor thirst.
It must have been about 1200, for the sun was vertical and we were just south of the Equator. About 200 yards away we thought we saw a Japanese destroyer. Was she a mirage? We all saw her, so perhaps she was real, but our first emotion was not joy or relief, for we expected to be machine-gunned. There seemed to be a great bustle on board that ship, but the guns were trained fore and aft. The ship's sailors were lowering rope ladders all along the side of the ship. They were smiling, small brown men in their floppy white sun hats and too-long khaki shorts. The ship came closer. We caught hold of the rope ladders and somehow managed to scramble aboard. We were covered with oil and exhausted. The Japanese sailors surrounded us and regarded us with cheerful curiosity. They took cotton waste and spirit and cleaned the oil off us; they actually did this for us, firmly but gently. It was—extraordinary as it is to relate—a friendly welcome.
I was given a green shirt, a pair of khaki shorts, and a pair of gym shoes. Then we were escorted to a large space amidships and politely invited to sit down in comfortable cane chairs. We were served hot milk, bully beer, and biscuits. After a while, the captain of the destroyer came down from the bridge, saluted us, and addressed us in English. I do not recall his exact words, but it went something like this: "You have fought bravely. Now you are the guests of the Imperial Japanese Navy. I respect the English Navy, but your Government is very foolish to make war on Japan."
If that fine officer is still alive, I would like to meet him and thank him. He searched for survivors all day, stopping to pick up even single survivors, until his small ship was overflowing. An awning was spread over the foc'sle to protect us from the sun; lavatories were rigged outboard; cigarettes were handed out; and, by a biblical type of miracle, our hosts managed to give us all food and drink. (There were about 300 of us.) The only order we were given was not to smoke after dark lest ''English submarine" should see a lighted cigarette. The Japanese did not know, it seems, that there were no "English submarines" in the Java Sea. Yet they had continually stopped to rescue every man they could find.
Thanks to this destroyer and other Japanese ships, the Encounter only lost seven men and the Exeter a surprisingly small number also. The survivors from the Pope were rescued by a Japanese ship two days later.
The Aftermath
We were transferred from the Japanese destroyer to a hospital ship, the Op ten Noort. This took us to Macassar, Celebes, now Sulawesi, where our life as prisoners began. We marched through crowds of jeering Indonesians waving Japanese flags to the barracks that were to be our camp. Conditions there were tolerable, although the Japanese sergeant in charge was a sadist, who could not sleep if he had not beaten up a few prisoners during the day. We named him "Gold Tooth," and he was a little monster:
Our first thought was escape. Our little group consisted of a U. S. submariner, a Dutch mate from the KPM, the local Dutch shipping line, a Dutch naval officer, a shipmate of mine, and myself. The Dutch naval officer claimed he had connections outside the camp through which he could obtain a Prahu, an Indonesian fishing boat. With this boat we could sail through the islands to Australia. Luckily for us, we were too late. A Dutch group tried the same thing before us. The Indonesians turned them over to the Japanese, and the prisoners were beheaded. It became clear that .escape was impossible. The Japanese told us that if anyone else tried to escape all their barracks mates would be beheaded with them. My commanding officer forbade me to escape, but I would not have done it under such circumstances in any case.
I was in five camps altogether in Celebes and Java, some worse than others. At times we were left in peace, and I managed to learn six languages. I had great good fortune. Once a Japanese guard with fixed bayonet came up to me and placed his bayonet by my heart. We stood and looked at each other for what seemed to be an eternity. Then he suddenly laughed and walked off. Another time a group of us were lined up for a cursory inspection before being shipped to Japan. I had a bandage around my toe, which a guard had banged with the butt of his rifle the previous day. This saved my life; I was rejected as unfit for Japan. That transport was sunk and all the prisoners drowned.
Finally, we ended up in a camp in Bandoeng, Java, the "Opvoedings Gesticht," which had been a reformatory prison for delinquent youths. It was built for 200. There were 4,000 of us. One day we were all set to dig trenches outside the prison for ''air raid shelters." Most of us did not know at the time that these were our graves. All prisoners of war were to be exterminated in the event of an Allied landing on Java or on 1 November 1945, whichever came first. Not unnaturally, I belong to the school that believes the atom bombs saved many more lives than they took, my unworthy one included.
There was, of course, a secret radio in the camp so we knew When the war was over. At first the Japanese showed no sign. Then the officers were sent for and the camp commandant addressed us in English.
"Gentlemen. The Emperor has decided that in order to prevent further bloodshed, the war should end. Gentlemen you are free." He paused, then added with a broad smile, "Next time we win!"
Sir Falle joined the British Navy in 1937. He served in HMS Royal Oak, HMS Kent, and HMS Encounter. From 1942 to 1945, he was a Japanese prisoner of war in Celebes and Java. In 1948, he retired from the navy and joined the Foreign Service. From 1948 to 1978, Sir Falle served in Iran, Lebanon, Iraq, Malaysia, Aden, Kuwait, Singapore, Sweden, and Nigeria. In 1979, he retired from the Foreign Service and joined the European Economic Community (EEC). From 1979 to 1982, he was an EEC representative in Algeria. In 1983, he worked for the EEC as a development consultant in Zambia. He retired in 1984.