Vignettes of Life in a POW Camp
What follows is a series of short accounts of life as we experienced it in the
camps. The stories are not necessarily connected. They are memories as  they
occur to me now. I hope that they will give the reader some idea of what
occupied the mind of the POW after long years of isolation from the real world.
They should also reveal what little it took to amuse us, and how, in what leisure
time we had, it was possible to do something to occupy our minds and keep
discouragement, despondency, and despair at bay.
I have related most of these stories in the "Bamboo Telegraph" over the eight
years in which I had the distinct pleasure of publishing it. I think they deserve a
place in these memories.
Softball
In North Point Camp, before the lack of protein weakened us, we used to play
softball on the square. I don't think we had any kind of formal organization such as
a league, and no records were kept, as far as I can remember.
One day a heated exchange was taking place between our team and another. The
opposition was at bat, with bases loaded and no one out.I was playing at first
base and Arley Enright was playing short stop between first and second.  It
looked as though we would get a thrashing.
The pitcher wound up, the batter wound up -- and connected! The ball
came off the bat straight at Arley.
Barely moving, he caught the ball with his left hand, tagged the runner from first
who was running past him, stepped to second and caught the second base runner
trying to make it back to safety. A triple play!
It all happened so fast that the opposition wouldn't believe it at first, and wouldn't
be convinced until the whole play was re-enacted. I think we won that game!
Banging the Can
In North Point Camp, the Japanese guards used to sit outside their hut at the gate
and smoke and throw their butts into a tin can at their feet.
We were all smokers in those days, and after a few weeks in camp, cigarettes
were mighty scarce.
Some of the more daring, and perhaps more addicted among us, would risk a
beating by dashing in and picking butts out of the can. This was called , "banging
the can".
I know that those polite and clever chaps got great satisfaction out of seeing the  
white man humble himself in front of them.
I never banged the can for a number of reasons, cowardice probably foremost
among them.  Secondly, I found it hard, no matter how strong the craving,to give
them the satisfaction of laughing at me, and thirdly, perhaps I wasn't hooked on
nicotine as badly as some of my comrades. I was only nineteen, and hadn't been
smoking for very long.
Blackie's Punk Box
Not only were cigarettes hard to come by, but after a while matches also were not
available. Blackie McLeod solved the problem.
Blackie got a small, flat can with a tight cover, one such as ointment  used to come
in. In it he put a swatch of cotton, and burned it until it was charred. Then he
clapped the cover on it to extinguish the fire. He called it a "punk box".
Then, when he wanted a light for his fag, he would open the punk box, and strike
a piece of steel with a piece of stone over it until a spark appeared in the charred
cotton.
Then he would blow on the spark until it glowed red. Then it was ready to give a
light to a cigarette. Then the cover was replaced, and the punk box was ready for
the next time someone wanted a light.
Blackie was very patient with everyone, never refusing to perform. He was a quiet
fellow. I don't remember ever hearing him say much. He obviously had been
around and had seen much of life before entering the army. In the Royal Rifles, he
was one of a kind.