The young soldier rammed the blade of his shovel into the ground, placed both hands to the small of his back, stood erect and stretched. Arching his back and rolling his shoulders backwards in an attempt to relieve the ache, he let out an impressive and very loud groan. Sweat poured off his shirtless torso and brow and his pale English skin had taken on a reddish colour; The sun in this part of the world was brutal, especially on the white-skinned Englishmen. Water, where was his water? Digging was hard work at the best of times; Thirsty work.
The young boy sat at the edge of the hole the soldier was digging watching him toil in the hot sun whilst his skin went redder and redder. These British were crazy, he thought, always digging; They'd no sooner dig one big hole and then would start on another, and another.
He was sure they didn't like it, the digging, but they kept doing it - They got yelled at by a stern-looking man with a big moustache when they stopped - And so they didn't stop...Unless the big man wasn't looking. They looked funny too, these digging-men. White at first, then pink and eventually red with sunburn and heat.
He liked watching them work though and he spent hours doing so; In between digging they would talk with him sometimes, a little at first and then more as the days went by. The boy's father forbade him and his brothers from speaking anything but English at home and so he could speak with the soldiers - Broken english as he was still learning, but well enough to have a conversation. Learn to speak english boys, and you will go far, his father would say; And so he did. Learn.
The boys English was getting pretty good for a five year old. The soldiers were teaching him some new words too, but they told him only to use them around the soldiers and not at home. He'd wondered why at first, then found out the hard way; He once used one of those words in front of his father and received a thrashing, one so hard he couldn't sit for the rest of the day, so he decided not to use them at all. The boy was a quick learner and understood that the soldiers had taught him some bad words amongst the good.
He jumped up from his cross-legged position when he saw the soldier stop and stretch knowing he'd want some water. The soldier turned to him and smiled, "you got that water little Mowgli?" He said with a fatigued, but friendly, voice.
The boy knelt and pulled aside a couple of large jungle leaves to reveal a bucket of water and small wooden ladle. The bucket was heavy and the rope handle hurt his hands but he picked it up and struggled down into the hole the soldier was digging, half falling most of the way, but proud not to have spilled any water. The soldier grabbed the ladle and started scooping mouthfuls of water allowing some to run down his chin onto his chest. After he was sated he dropped the ladle into the bucket and ruffled the boys' hair, "that's a good lad, nice and cool. You put the leaves over to keep the sun off again?"
The boy grinned, happy the Englishman had noticed. "Yes boss." He said with pride.
When the soldiers first came the boy was wide-eyed with wonder, and just a little overwhelmed with excitement. They'd marched into the village in long lines along the dusty road and he yelped with joy, ran along beside them, with his young friends. Some of them handed out sweets, dry biscuits and chocolate - Their pockets seemingly a bottomless-pit of treats; There was no complaining. They made camp in the fields and over the next few weeks became less of a spectacle, more of a routine. The boy thought it was the most exciting thing ever.
Most of the boy's friends were shy, probably because they didn't speak English, but he wasn't. He walked right up to them and introduced himself with a broad grin and outstretched hand. Before long he was running errands for them, cleaning their boots, bringing them bananas...And learning bad words of course - Good ones too though. He had become the official water carrier for a small group of them and he was proud of his job working hard to do his very best at it. src
The young boy knew there was a war going on; His father told him that there might be trouble but the British were there to protect him and his brothers. The boys' father was the Postmaster for the British Postal Service, a respected and valued position in the town, so he should know the right of it the boy had thought. The Japanese invaders wanted to get to Singapore and his town stood right in their path but the boy wasn't worried; His father told him not to; Anyway, these burly, tough soldiers would stop them. His dad said that too and so it would be.
The young boy in this story is my father and the year is 1941. The place is Malacca, in Malaya, now Malaysia. The Japanese were working their way down the Malayan Peninsula slaughtering any who opposed them, so everyone. They waged a brutal sort of war did the Japanese with seemingly no regard for civilian lives. The British [and their allies] were desperately trying to dig in and fortify with the goal being to repel or at least slow the enemy advance.
My father was a boy of five years old and was not only an intelligent fellow but had a social streak in him a mile wide! He quickly became a favourite of the British soldiers and could often be found helping to dig, or carry, or clean and when not at school or doing homework [he was incredibly studious] he was with the soldiers.
They thought of him as a little brother or cousin calling him things like, little mate, little bruv (brother), Tarzan, Mowgli, old mate, and just about everything but his actual name. The name Mowgli referred to the little boy in the Rudyard Kipling book, The Jungle Book written in 1892, and was the most popular name for my dad with the soldiers. They loved him though, his spirit and kindness, his unceasing work-ethic and the little bugger could draw too! My father would draw pictures for the soldiers that they'd pin up or send home to their children or families: Palm trees, jungle, tigers, snakes, the beach. Just about anything they wanted. He became something of a mascot for the troops, a favoured little mate and he loved it!
In exchange for the work he did they fed him, sent rations home with him for his family; Much needed rations as there wasn't much to go around for the locals. They also helped him with his English language-skills which assisted him to excel later in his young life. (More about that some other time though).
My grandfather, as one of the town's influential people would have British officers home for tea or dinner and my grandmother, an outstanding cook, would create dinners as best she could with the limited supplies available. Even the officers knew my dad and would comment when they were over at my grandparents house: The little boy who was always running this way and that with their soldiers carrying a bucket, a shovel or sometimes a rifle for them. He was a little celebrity with the British and allied soldiers. source
Of course, it was a difficult time for everyone; War often is. The soldiers my father was carrying water for were digging gun emplacements, defensive trenches, weapon pits, rigging communications and fortifying the town against the marauding Japanese who were on their way. The town was becoming fortified and beneath the surface, the lighter moments, the military knew they were in for a fight when the Japanese arrived.
It wasn't long after my [five year old] father carried that water bucket down into the hole for that soldier that the town would fall.
Most of the soldiers would be killed or captured and my father and his family would be living under Japanese occupation. It was a brutal time. My father witnessed many atrocities: British officers summarily beheaded by the Japanese, captured enlisted men used for bayonet practice in strange bravery ceremonies by the Japanese soldiers. Beatings, both soldiers and the locals, rapes of the women and of course the abduction of many of those women to be used for comfort women by the Japanese military. There were privations too; Food and water restrictions. Punishments for unacceptable behaviour. It was a brutal and precarious few years for my father and his family but they survived somehow.
My father would often wonder about this soldier or that; Did he survive the war, did he not? Of course he could remember vividly the ones that didn't - Those executed in front of the townsfolk. Sadness punctuates my dads stories and yet there's also a sense of life; Happiness. They knew the situation they were in, and simply made the most of it. That's the dichotomy of war I suppose.
It's funny...With the Japanese in occupation of his town my father was every bit as popular with the soldiers and officers as he was with the allied forces. He was the same convivial little boy he always was; It was simply his nature. The Japanese respected him for the same reasons the British did and he was their little brother or cousin all over again. Again, the dichotomy of war; Two opposing forces, but the same really. All human with human qualities. However the Japanese would have made a brutal example of my dad and his family if needed.
My father is now almost 84 years old and suffers dementia so the stories he told me about the Japanese occupation and war-time Malaya are all but lost to me; But I remember what he has told me.
I've had conversations with him in which he's been brought to tears remembering particular people, soldiers of the British, Australian and allied armies who were killed or worse, captured and tortured publicly then killed. I would listen as he recalled, talking randomly, in tears one moment, smiling the next at some memory of the good times he also experienced in those days.
In every story I could see, in my mind's eye, the little guy running errands, selflessly giving without expectation. Working hard, not complaining about lack of food, the cuts and bruises received running through the forest to escape the bombs [from Japanese bombers and then allied bombers once the Japanese has occupied]. He helped provide for his family throughout the war with his efforts, just as he did for us when we were growing up here in Australia - We also didn't have a lot but what we did have came through the efforts of my dad and mum; Their hard work.
With these snippets of his memories written in my poor way, I hope to record some of my father's life. In his formative years he suffered hardships we could never imagine and still managed to excel, becoming a fully qualified high school teacher at nineteen years old, an accomplished artist, a sponsored/invited immigrant to Australia and Citizen in 1965, a husband to my Australian mum and father to me and my four siblings.
I remember dad wondering if that British soldier he brought water to each day survived the war. He will never know of course however in my mind I like to think he did survive and that something that soldier did helped my dad later in his own life. I think that would be a nice legacy for that bloke who befriended my dad. Don't you?
You can find the original 1435-word post here, written and posted by me on 27th February 2018. This post comprises 2061 words and has been reworked and reposted for the 
Design and create your ideal life, don't live it by default
