Learning another language is not only learning different words for the same things, but learning another way to think about things.
– Flora Lewis, American journalist
On February 15, 1942, the Allied Command surrendered and days later the Japanese arrived in Singapore.
My father, Datuk John Ritchie, recalled that he was saved because of his Anglo-Asian features when the Japanese segregated the European policemen from the Asian.
“The British were put on one side while the Asian officers (known as Asiatics) were gathered in another group.
“The Japanese were not sure which group I had to be placed. They did not know at that time what a Eurasian was; you were either Asian or British.
“The Japanese settled the issued by asking me whether I had arrested any Japanese. I said I had not and that I was escorting Mrs Rowell (an English woman to Changi prison so I was not interned,” wrote my father.
“Lily and I continued to live at the Central Police Station.”
One day at Smith Street, some Japanese trucks turned up and arrested the Chinese who panicked and ran helter-skelter.
The Japanese said they were taking these Chinese men away to work as labourers but in reality, it was the beginning of the ‘Sook Ching’ massacre.
After the war, the Japanese government said that “no more than 6,000 Chinese” were killed but Singapore’s first prime minister Lee Kuan Yew reckoned it was at least 70,000.
Even though it was illegal to leave Singapore, my father obtained a permit to travel in a goods train wagon to Penang.
Even though he was a trained police officer, he had to reapply to an old Singapore friend Chief Inspector Abdul Rahman Embi to become a police officer.
Even though his salary of $100 as an Inspector was insufficient, the depreciation of the Japanese ‘banana notes’ forced my mother to raise extra money by cycling 30 miles a day to collect tapioca leaves, potato leaves and other greens.
Ritchie wrote: “She also used to smuggle small fish into Penang by putting them inside hollowed out banana stalks and then selling them on the black market.”
My father bought a goat for my sickly eldest brother Richard who was born in November 1942.
“Every day I had to collect leaves and grass to feed the goat at night. This would enable it to have more milk,” wrote my father.
The daily routine at the police headquarters at Penang Road was facing east and bowing in obeisance to Tenno-Heika (the Japanese Emperor).
On one occasion, my father forgot to salute a Japanese military policeman and he was summoned to the military police headquarters.
In retribution for his ‘crime’, he had to supply the names of people who listened to BBC broadcasts or spoke disparagingly of the Japanese.
He was given one week in which to produce the names or be sacked or reprimanded.
“I told Lily what had happened and asked her if she could manage on her own if I were to leave Penang and disappear into the jungle.
“Lily said she could manage but told me not to tell her of my escape plans because if the Japanese were to torture her for information she would not be able to give them any information,” wrote my father.
Fortunately, after a week, the Japanese he had ‘insulted’ was transferred to a different town and the entire incident was immediately forgotten.
Another close call was in an inter-departmental athletics competition where my father scored most of the points for winning the 100 yards, 220 yards, the high jump and 120-yards hurdles.
But in the last event, which was the 4×100 yards relay that would decide the champion department, disaster struck.
My dad reminisced: “I was the last runner and was expected to win. But lo and behold, as I got the baton, my fingers got caught in my shorts (we ran in our uniform shorts) and, as a result, we lost the championship as the baton fell.
“I was really in hot soup. I was berated by my Japanese boss who was very angry at what had happened.”
On that fateful day the Japanese boss said Ritchie was a British spy and was only waiting for the return of the white men.
My father said: “I was asked who recruited me into the police force. I pointed at Abdul Rahman, my superior officer. The Japanese boss then got up from his chair, walked round the table up to Abdul Rahman and slapped him three times.
“The boss continued to berate me and was in a fearful rage. I was told that I was dismissed and to take off my badges of rank.”
Just before lunch, a message came that I was to report to the headquarters.
“With trepidation, I returned to the office. I saw the boss and was told that through the intervention of Ogawa-san, the secretary of the Japanese Club in Singapore, I was spared and so I kept my job.”
In another incident, a Taiwanese officer under the payroll of the Japanese accused my dad of stopping a propaganda show and slapped him.
Having been a boxer, Ritchie reacted by slapping him back and stunned the Taiwanese who then assaulted my father with a series of punches.
The next day, my father was called up by the Special Branch head Hashimoto who asked why he had slapped a Japanese officer.
My father said he thought the man who slapped him was a local Chinese and countered with a slap. “I was not going to run away … he could have been a communist.”
His reply won praise from Hashimoto who said my father had the bushido spirit — the Japanese spirit of valour.
Hashimoto reprimanded the Taiwanese by a barrage of kicks, slaps and punches.
On Armistice Day on November 11, 1942, my oldest sibling Richard ‘Dicky’ was born followed by Cynthia a year later on December 28, 1943.
However, on March 24, 1945, the Allied forces were gaining ground and my family were interned at the Sime Road civilians camp in Singapore.
During this time, Cynthia and father contracted dysentery but miraculously survived; my father’s weight dropped from 150 lbs to 108 lbs.
On September 15, 1945, when Singapore was liberated by the British troops and by December, the family had returned to Penang.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.
