The Naked Island, by Russell Braddon

 

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THE NAKED ISLAND is a war narrative of appalling suffering, but also of indomitable courage and endurance on the part of British and Australian soldiers. Russell Braddon arrived in Malaya in 1941. After sketchy training the troops were plunged into battle against an enemy well trained and overwhelming in numbers. Defeat was inevitable. On his twenty-first birthday he was captured and seated in a ditch to be shot—but the Japanese changed their minds. Then followed over three years of captivity—in Kuala Lumpur, in Changi gaol at Singapore, in Thailand (Siam) building the notorious 'railway of death'. The Japanese knew every trick of humiliating and breaking their prisoners. Yet the captives showed that the human spirit can surmount the extremes of physical agony and stay unconquered; and a few men of exceptional bravery emerged, like Padre Noel Duckworth and the medical officer Major Kevin Fagan. Russell Braddon tells the tale with simplicity and with a cynical wit. He does not disguise his view that thousands suffered for the mistakes of the pre-War planners. Readers are warned, too, that he does not gloss over the grim, details of the prisoners' ordeal. This PAN edition has a new Foreword and is specially illustrated with photographs that did not appear in the original edition.

    Russell Braddon, son of a brilliant lawyer and great-grandson of Sir Edward Braddon, Premier of Tasmania, took his degree at Sydney University and joined the Australian Army just in time to sail with the ill-fated 8th Australian Division to Malaya. After the War he re-entered the university to study law. Ordered to rest for a year, he came to England and met his ex-P.O.W. friend Sydney Piddington, who, with his wife, was becoming famous for the 'thought-reading' act which he and Braddon had first perfected in Changi prison-camp. Braddon became the Piddingtons' manager, toured with them, and wrote a book about them. Then he began work on The Naked Island and after its successful publication started lecturing. He is a champion of the idea of the British Commonwealth and is a vigorous crusader for human rights. He has written one novel, Those in Peril, and a popular life-story of the famous airman Group Captain Cheshire, V.C.

I'll write more about this book soon, and explain why it's one of my favurite books since childhood.

Spring Unfolds

26th April 

Spring is the most important thing happening here. This is how far a chestnut blossom at the back of the house has progressed. I'll give you an update soon. I love Spring, this year particularly, because it mirrors my own joy. Someone offered me this link on cheerfulness. I can't decide if it's wise or inane. Certainly it contains plenty of common-sense and folk-wisdom. But the man is a therapist and this is a prescription for the attainment of cheerfulness. I don't suppose he has run a trial on its effectiveness and any harmful side-effects. 6th MayThere are various products of evolution which fascinate me endlessly - the domestic cockerel gallus gallus, the peacock, the cock pheasant, the horse chestnut, especially its blossom; the durian, that aromatic fruit from south-east Asia. There is mystery about their showy natures, their gratuitous glory. Here the chestnut cycle unfolds daily and there is one at the back of our flat, overhanging the car park. Share with me its extraordinary beauty! 8th May @10:15It's wonderfully rainy today and I want to get out there in boots and raincoat, investigating this brilliant yellow field of oilseed rape that we saw yesterday evening from Hughenden Park, whilst wandering through budding buttercups. I love that blue-green crop adjacent to the yellow of the rape, too. But I have to stay in for the landlord to come and look at why the ceiling is bulging and stained with leaks. We suspect a blocked gutter but since I have nagged him about it for six months and he's done nothing, I felt justified in waking him this morning and threatening to hire a ladder myself and charge him for labour and expenses. He became suddenly worried for my safety. So I suggested that I might phone the Council and tell them of my negligent landlord forcing me to live in damp conditions. It's rather an exaggeration, but necessary to get him to do anything at all. He knows I am too good-natured, despite the bluster. There is no sign of the expected workman yet . . . 8th May @13:50 Landlord came with 2 tall Poles who piggy-backed up into the loft space and swiftly hatched a plan to mend my leaking roof. So then I went to find a field of yellow (oilseed rape), and its neighbour (such a profound green - the young leaves of corn). A deer with big rump and white tail bobbed away like a rabbit. Was it a muntjac? I pondered the joy of doing what you like as opposed to the sacrificial virtues of a religious approach. It's taken me nearly a lifetime to understand. Why so long? You would think that each generation would discard those aspects of its inheritance that taste bitter and only keep what tastes sweet. How come religions are so focused on swallowing bitter pills? I suppose it is not their fault. This earthly sojourn is after all a vale of tears for many, religious or not. But isn't following your nose the most important thing you can do: to be guided in everything by your "gut feeling", discarding the head-driven oughts and thoughts till you reach pure existence? No more sacrifice to any gods! PS It was Douglas Adams who had the brilliant conceit of an I Ching calculator which output the text "A suffusion of yellow" for any calculation result greater than 4. And it is Douglas Adams who has valuable comment on the role of religions, irrational as they are, in the human scheme of things. 14th MayAm I the only devotee of chestnut blossom in its close-up form? My interest started in about 1992, when I observed the phenomenon in Brent Lodge Park. After that, an illness prevented me from going out and about much. Walking the earth and admiring the handiwork of its creator (so to speak) became a defiant act of imagination, as opposed to a real activity. So now, when the season and opportunity coincide, I can’t get enough of these flowers, gazing in wonder and pondering their mystery. So let me ask. Why do adjacent blossoms have different colours? If Darwin is right, there is some evolutionary advantage. I wish I knew how to find out. PS "Many flowers that are attractive to bees have an irregular shape that provides a landing platform. They also have flower markings that guide bees in to land on the part of the flower where it can deliver and collect pollen grains. Horse-chestnut tree flowers are cream colored with a yellow honey-guide patch on the petals. When nectar dries up, the yellow patch turns pink, becoming invisible to bees. Bees visits only the flowers that need pollination." Thanks to Massachusetts Agriculture In The Classroom But I don't think this is the full story, because there are at least three colours as in my illustration, and they are like this from the start. I have not seen any blossom clusters where all are yellow or all are pink. PPS Here is a link to a UK site which provides some clues and some experiments to conduct.  

An ancient path in Downley

20th MayOn a morning where the weather didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, I braved its occasional tears and walked in Downley. At Gosling Grove is a pond where two mallard drakes (see banner illustration above) disputed bitterly over one duck. Another seven drakes looked on, would-be suitors all, while the duck kept fastidiously out of the way, loudly quacking her vow to favour only the bravest. Along a woodland footpath, back of the houses, was a sign pinned to a tree: “DANGER Do not enter. Booby traps in area.” A skull and crossbones emphasised the point. I had to leave the path and go through the undergrowth to see the sign clearly, and though convinced it was only a child’s prank, I proceeded very cautiously. I got lost. My nose dripped, with no tissue to wipe it. Both circumstances reminded me of childhood wanderings. I passed certain people twice and recognised the same scenes from different angles, realising eventually that my path must have crossed itself like a figure of eight. What happens when I go walking under the sky? In town, the sky still arches overhead, but the distractions of people and shops take me away from that deeper self that’s so hard to describe. Yet in so many places hereabouts, I’ve only to step out to be transported. Where to? There is a strong feeling of reconnecting with a past. Gazing at the matt blue-green of the growing cornfields, I recalled when I must have been 5, in a situation when I roamed free and alone. But it goes beyond that too. Even then, there was a recognition of a still earlier time. I don't offer any theory. Then I returned to the pond. At least four of the drakes were marred with the signs of contest, their breast and neck feathers tattered. The fight continued bitterly: any drake approaching too close to the lone duck was immediately challenged. It could go on all day, for there was no time bell, no referee. 22nd MayI'd promised to give a talk, A sense of gladness took away any nervousness about its reception. Went into the park and spread the picnic rug near a great swathe of now-withered daffodils. Here in the sunshine I jotted my notes. A couple of grey-haired ladies came past and asked if I was "doing a Wordsworth" - writing an ode about daffodils I suppose. I told them about the imminent talk. "Shouldn't you be in a darkened room for such a serious task?" I can't remember how the banter continued but I found myself saying that I might just give a talk on happiness. Later in the day I realised that whilst my script for the beginning was OK, the rest was ill-prepared. I rehearsed it with K and she agreed. Yet my mood of lightness and gaiety or should I say profound happiness, remained undimmed. The talk was scheduled in the upstairs room of a café dedicated to health foods and New Age ideas. As it happened, no one turned up, so the hour was spent chatting with the owner over tea and cake. She asked questions and the agenda was covered. Here is an update on chestnut blossom. The buds appear on the frond in groups of eight. The eight consist of four pairs. Within a pair, one is pink centred and the other is lemon yellow. The same miraculous phenomenon occurs regardless of the main blossom colour of the tree. I saw somewhere a tentative explanation. Apparently the colour changes when fertilisation has taken place and this tells the bees that the nectar has been taken. Can you believe such a thing? 8th JulyI'm just learning how to use these chalks (oil pastels), but was quite pleased at the result. We sat on a rug with a hedge behind us, and I peered over the ripening wheat field (in case you can't recognise it) to view this sc

eagle flew out of the night

See Peter Gabriel's Solsbury Hill

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Waking up at 3 am, I find a song playing endlessly in my head. Not just the tune, but some of the words too. It's one of the most extraordinary popular songs, more potent than anything by Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen. Peter Gabriel has his own explanation for how it hatched in his mind and ears. See this site. But it has a special significance for me, as I shall relate.

 I first heard Solsbury Hill as quiet background music played continuously for more than an hour. My wife and I were in a sparsely populated theatre on Fulham Broadway, one Saturday in December 1978. We had brought our eight-year-old daughter to the dress rehearsal of a dance-drama by a troupe called the Mudhoppers. She'd been invited as an ex-pupil of our local ballet class

I guess dress rehearsals seldom go smoothly. It was supposed to start at 3pm 3pm on Saturday afternoon. Parents were getting impatient. The show was nice, we were proud enough of our Rosie. She may have been dressed as a pixie, with pointy crepe paper ears.

Bu Solsbury Hill stuck in my head, and a strange myth developed in my head, based on an actual encounter in Hampstead Heath.

We'd driven up to this pond so the children could paddle and float their little boats.

Simaro Lutumba and his Band

Bel and the Dragon

We planned a day out walking in Flackwell Heath, near High Wycombe, but the next bus wasn't due for an hour. Another bus was waiting for passengers to Maidenhead, so we got on that. We decided to get off at Cookham, where I knew a nice pub. I hadn't been in since 1965. That's 57 years ago.

They gave us an excellent lunch

in a cosy nook near a log fire

The bill was delivered like this. Chris H said I could keep the book

In 1965 I was posted here as a trainee technical advisor for International Computers and Tabulators.

My career developed in identical fashion to that of Brendan Supple who tells his story here:

I qualified with a degree in electrical engineering in 1963*. Engineers were in short supply that year, so I was offered a wide array of jobs from a sound engineer with the BBC Third Programme – which fitted with my interest in music – to selling Trident aircraft. I was seduced by an offer from ICT to introduce me to computers in four years time – if I behaved myself and ‘if computers happened’. Although I had specialised in electronics as an engineering student, I had not yet seen a computer at that time; a slide rule was the nearest to one I had ever got.

I arrived at ICT’s training school at Moor Hall in Cookham, Berkshire to discover that computers had happened. I was one of a select batch of 13 graduates who had been selected to spearhead the delivery a batch of 100 computers that ICT had just sourced from Ferranti. The system would be known as the ICT 1500.

We spent 15 weeks in Moor Hall on Course SS107 in what felt like a continuation of university with pay. We learned the basics of systems analysis, systems design and accounting. We scratched the surface of programming, where our instructor never quite managed to keep the requisite one day ahead of us. It must have been appalling trying to cope with such a group of smart-assed know-it-alls.

At the end of the course I was allocated to ICT’s ‘electricity region’ with clients such as the London Electricity Board and the Electricity Council. The company ran 13 ‘regions’ in Britain and each of them received a newcomer from SS107. I worked with systems analysts who had been doing their job for many years and who found it hard to be upstaged by this whipper-snapper. I learned much from such people and learned to appreciate their experience and wisdom. Computers brought flexibility and speed to methods which had been constrained by the punch card. Programs were written in machine code and we were excited by the power of assembler. Languages like Cobol were still in the future.

* I also graduated  in 1963, scraping through with a BA in French and Italian and had never thought what I'd do in the real world. Two years I got married, so needed a career, and was accepted by ICT, after an interview with George Percival, who offered me a job on the spot, provided I accepted immediately so I could be included in a training course at Cookham starting the following week.

How I met Judi in outline

• it was on the first day of Freshers' Week
• what happened
• How Judi got there (thrown out of teacher training college after first year)
• how I got there (briefly)
• how we got to know one another during my final year, which was and her first and only year
• her parents were Leslie & Margaret Unwin, living in Bradford, Yorkshire
• three daughters: Judith, Janet, Susan
• Leslie was a typographical designer. I don't know of any part-time jobs that Margaret might have had.Leslie was an outspoken little man, he could be sarcastic or tactless
• Margaret was bigger, she was the mother chicken, but I don't remember seeing her without tears in her eyes. I didn't think much of it at the time, assumed she just had watery eyes
• Judi and I first lived together some time in early 1964
• I'd got a teaching job at Winson Green Primary School in Birmingham. I arrived on 16th December 1963 near the end of term, with no teaching certificate or experience
• it was a so-called remedial class of 12 boys and girls with varied earning difficulties. Their departing teacher spent till the end of term letting me sit in and copy the way she maintained order enough to teach them something
• I was staying at my old lodgings at 57 Goldsmith Road, Kings Heath, Birmingham. The bus ride to Winson Green took an hour
• After the end of term at University in 1963 J got a job at Butlins holiday camp in Clacton-on-sea
• I got a job there a couple of weeks later at the Lyons ice cream concession
• Judi was annoyed about it. She was there with her friend Myrtle (nickname).
• Judi and I had spent most of our summer term at Uni together, ignoring our studies (though I was due to sit for finals in June)
• I'd spent 24 hours with Christina in Bromsgrove, where we lost our virginity and said goodbye. I've written this up elsewhere
• After our encounter in Clacton, I've no idea what happened to Judi. I guess we were still friends but went our separate ways
• In January 1964 I got a telegram from Judi at Goldsmith Road. It said something like "please come, I love you", with an address in Earls Court. I went immediately and saw it was very unsatisfactory accommodation for her, sharing a large flat with assorted neurotics arguing weeping, suicidal etc.
• I took her back on the train, ignoring her protests
• She had to stay that night at Goldsmith Road, but we had to find a place nearer my teaching job
• It was an awful room in a weird house. The bed sagged, not good for the spine and creaked when we made love. It was our first time!
• She had a gay friend, Dave A, a nice little flat in a posh detached house. He was going away, so he told the landlord he would be handing it over to us. The landlord was not happy. Even less happy when my cheque for £50 monthly rent bounced threw us out immediately.
• We found a room in 9 Stanmore Road, Edgbaston

Judi and I got married on 9th May 1965: they were all at our wedding in Birmingham registry office on 9th May 1965.