More tales
Hugh A claimed to have been a labour organizer. His head was bald and covered
with  scars which he said were the result of encounters with those "reactionary
bastards" affiliated with management.
Hugh was an excitable fellow, quick to anger and positive in his approach to any
problem. He was a good bridge player, and he often joined in a game in the
corner of our hospital hut.
One day we were playing between two bunks, north and south seated on the
bunks and east and west on wooden stools between them.
Reg Taylor, a nervous fellow, was seated on a bunk beside one of us, when
suddenly, and without warning, an American fighter plane zoomed low over the
camp and loosed a burst of machine gun fire at the docks across the cove from
the camp.
Everyone dived for cover, and Reg, in his haste to get to safety, hooked his foot in
Hugh's stool and upended him into the corner.
Hugh came up with a roar, fists clenched, and ready to punch out the
"reactionary"  who had abused his dignity!
How these unimportant and mundane incidents amused us and stayed in our
memory at a time when so little occurred to occupy our minds, gives some
indication of the uneventful life we lived in ShamShuiPo.
Hugh A
Mental Illness
That not more of us cracked under the strain of confinement, starvation, abuse,
disease, and emotional distress, is something that amazes me and is witness to the
strength of character of the Canadians in ShamShuiPo.
Perhaps I was one of the more fortunate.  Other than my parents back home and
my brother and sisters all of whom were able to take care of themselves, I had no
emotional ties that affected me personally.
But consider the man who perhaps had a wife and children in Canada, living on
army allowances, lonely, beset by temptations of many kinds, and prone to yield
to those temptations.
Thoughts of home and the fears that these temptations might cause the loved one
to falter, must have entered the nightmares of the married man.
One man who had cracked, and had tried to end it all by slashing his wrists, was
brought into our hospital hut in the middle of the night. He was difficult for us,who
at that time were scarcely able to wobble around, to hold him and prevent him
from doing more harm to himself.
I am happy to report that he recovered and got back home.  However,I have
heard faint rumours that he had some mental problems later in life.
Another of our fellows broke down so severely that he used to howl at the full
moon shining in through his window. This was distressing to all of us, because he
was a fellow that everyone liked.
One night he became so agitated that he undertook to walk home. He got as far
as the guard house, where the guards put him in a cell, and called for us to go and
get him.
The Japanese guards seemed to have a fear of mentally disturbed people. When
his rescuers got there, the guards were peeking fearfully into the cell, and were
reluctant to  go near their prisoner.
Doc Savage, who was perhaps the most frail among us, maintained that our
"patient" was a gentleman, because, in sparring with Doc, he  strictly observed the
Marquis of Queensbury Rules!
This man also survived the prison camps and returned home, but I have heard that
he also had mental problems after leaving the service.
There were others as well who became depressed and retreated into themselves.
However, the daily struggle to survive, to wonder what next would be around the
corner, to look forward to one's turn to get "burnt rice", kept most of sane until
that happy day when we gained our freedom once more.
As a footnote, I should tell you that "burnt rice" was the crust that formed inside
the cooking pot, and was a little more palatable than the soggy mass that was
otherwise dished out.