OK, just to follow up I'm going to the National Archives at Kew for some research on another project this Friday but whilst I'm there I will check the War Diary for 118 Field Regiment as well as the Nominal Roll and "Enquiries into missing personnel" files for this regiment to see if I can find anything of the circumstances of Vic's death. I should also have an answer to your Bickley question by then @Henry Irving.
Interestingly, Vic's wife Violet Elizabeth seems to have changed her name back from Wilson to her maiden name of Brown sometime during 1953, so not sure what this is all about. I will report back when I have more.
Thanks Tom, I definitely owe you a pint or two for all your work on this. Ian
No problem Ian. I’d forgotten that I had two logins on here (it’s a long story) so apologies for any confusion with Blitzwalker and Tom Hovi. They’re both me! Cheers, Steve.
If i may just add some of the stories my father passed on to me re his time in Burma, he was never captured and fought with the royal west Kent’s, one of the last things he did before he passed away was to revisit Burma with the royal British legion.
He fought behind the Japanese lines for up to 9 months at a time, he was an expert in explosives and blew up many bridges, often fully loaded with trains, etc. They set out with sufficient food for around a month, they would then forage for the remainder of the time, eating there mules weren’t unusual. They fought hand to hand and he was bayoneted to tree with the bayonet going through his thigh, his great mate stood back to back with him and fought of the attack. They had no communication with their base and no communications with other patrols. Eveytime the entered another valley, they had no idea who or what they would come across, friend or foe, even the locals some were friendly, some were indifferent others were friends of the Japanese.
During one little skirmish, His mate took a bullet to his stomach, in most other places in the world the chances were fairly good, but with no medics, all they could would leave him behind to die or get captured and used a bayonet practice if he was lucky. Dad was the last one to say goodbye, they all heard the single shot and no one said a word.
The reason my dad went back to Burma was to say sorry and get some form of peace of mind, he did and he died happy on his return. He had suffered from nightmares ever since his return, i heard him screaming from well down the road at night, after his return for the short time he lived he never had another nightmare.
He was not a Chindit, who he dislike immensely, words cant described what he say and did, but he survived to return home and see his 3 year old child for the first time. He was a great man who never spoke about the war, the only reason i knew about the above is because he needed to get it off his mind just prior to his last trip to Burma.
Sorry for going on, just a bit of personnel; background on what is a very interesting thread.
I have a relative who served and died a Chindit, in Katha on the Irawaddi. I have his Kukhri and would be fascinated why your relative immensely dislike the Chindits.
If i may just add some of the stories my father passed on to me re his time in Burma, he was never captured and fought with the royal west Kent’s, one of the last things he did before he passed away was to revisit Burma with the royal British legion.
He fought behind the Japanese lines for up to 9 months at a time, he was an expert in explosives and blew up many bridges, often fully loaded with trains, etc. They set out with sufficient food for around a month, they would then forage for the remainder of the time, eating there mules weren’t unusual. They fought hand to hand and he was bayoneted to tree with the bayonet going through his thigh, his great mate stood back to back with him and fought of the attack. They had no communication with their base and no communications with other patrols. Eveytime the entered another valley, they had no idea who or what they would come across, friend or foe, even the locals some were friendly, some were indifferent others were friends of the Japanese.
During one little skirmish, His mate took a bullet to his stomach, in most other places in the world the chances were fairly good, but with no medics, all they could would leave him behind to die or get captured and used a bayonet practice if he was lucky. Dad was the last one to say goodbye, they all heard the single shot and no one said a word.
The reason my dad went back to Burma was to say sorry and get some form of peace of mind, he did and he died happy on his return. He had suffered from nightmares ever since his return, i heard him screaming from well down the road at night, after his return for the short time he lived he never had another nightmare.
He was not a Chindit, who he dislike immensely, words cant described what he say and did, but he survived to return home and see his 3 year old child for the first time. He was a great man who never spoke about the war, the only reason i knew about the above is because he needed to get it off his mind just prior to his last trip to Burma.
Sorry for going on, just a bit of personnel; background on what is a very interesting thread.
All of us who have not been required to take up arms are so lucky. Reading this, it just underlines why so any veterans of any conflict just don't talk about their experiences to those of us who can only guess at what it's all about.
I have a relative who served and died a Chindit, in Katha on the Irawaddi. I have his Kukhri and would be fascinated why your relative immensely dislike the Chindits.
Arthur, He was my father, a very quick and simple answer is in his opinion they used to much air and other resources up, thus restricting what he had to survive on and because of this a lot of his mates didn’t survive, dont think i need to say much more.
Arthur, If you thought somehow i was being disrespectful of your relative or the Chindits then i apologise as that wasn’t the case, if you are wondering why i mentioned the Chindits and i can certainly understand that then it comes about because people who have a knowledge of the war out there just assume that he served with them, unlike them he fought the majority of his 31/2 stint behind there lines and was an expert not only explosives but also very unusually an expert in jungle warfare, both of which he passed on his expertise onto those Chindits, infact one of the only photos i got of him in Burma is him wearing the traditional chindit hat. Hope that’s explanation is sufficient, as i said he told me this when he was dying, so I couldn’t go into great details with him.
A few more note, He was one of the first home grown soldiers to be transported from the UK after the fall of Singapore, he thought behind the lines to slow up the Japanese advanced through burma, he was trapped just outside Kohima, then on the advance from Kohima back through Burma he was hurrying their retreat and blowing up their supplies and infrastructure always behind their lines. The most upsetting thing to him and me was the first thing he saw when he got of the boat from the uk was the crucified nurses in a hospital and the remains of the soldiers who were bayoneted and or beheaded in there hospital beds. Those sights stayed with him and his fellows soldiers, they turned them from normal squaddies to the highly skilled killing machines they became. They didn’t need weapons, they didn’t need explosives to wreck havoc, they weren’t taken alive, they didn’t take prisoners (they couldn’t they were behind the enemy lines) if they got they either treated themselves and survived or they died alone in the jungle. They would go months without seeing action, then fight constantly for weeks on end, they fought the normal Japanese soldier, they fought the imperial guard.
When they did come out of jungle they had two weeks of rest and relaxation and then off they would trot, as i said previously they never knew if around the corner they would bump into japenese or British troops, they however never saw any American troops.
Upon his return you would never believe it,but he was the softest kindest person you could wish to meet, he was big and built like a brick shithouse, but oh so gentle, never lost his temper, done everything my mum told him, and wouldn’t raise a finger to a fly. However i was told a story by a work mate of his, that about 10 years after his return from burma, dad was going into a local chippy were he say a policeman being attacked by four youths, the policeman was in bad a way, dad said to four you got one chance to walk out the door. They didn’t, he locked it and they were carried out with the policeman, dad was unharmed, until he made the mistake of telling my mum, he lost :-). I’m never certain about that story but i have heard it from numerous sources but not from him.
As soon as I saw 118 Field Regiment mentioned I knew that he must be local. The war memorial for the Regiment is in the Army Reserve building in Grove Park. I know this because I paraded there every Tuesday evening in front of the memorial to the fallen of the 65th(8th London) and 118th Field Regiments RA(TA). Looking back it is sad that on Remembrance Sundays there were no Old Comrades to lay a wreath for these boys.
There were other memorials in the building to other units and there were always a handful of veterans who laid wreaths right into the 1990s. But 118 Regiment had a long list of deaths - most of them as POWs and I guess that not many of the Regiment survived.
The grandfather of my friend Keith Phillips from Grove Park is also commemorated on the War Memorial. I remember Keith proudly pointing his grandfather's name out to me. Keith was sadly killed in the Falklands war serving with the Royal Marines aged 19. He was exactly one month older than me. My Regiment was on stand by to go down to the Falklands and on the night that we were told that we would not be going I was told of Keith's death.
As soon as I saw 118 Field Regiment mentioned I knew that he must be local. The war memorial for the Regiment is in the Army Reserve building in Grove Park. I know this because I paraded there every Tuesday evening in front of the memorial to the fallen of the 65th(8th London) and 118th Field Regiments RA(TA). Looking back it is sad that on Remembrance Sundays there were no Old Comrades to lay a wreath for these boys.
There were other memorials in the building to other units and there were always a handful of veterans who laid wreaths right into the 1990s. But 118 Regiment had a long list of deaths - most of them as POWs and I guess that not many of the Regiment survived.
The grandfather of my friend Keith Phillips from Grove Park is also commemorated on the War Memorial. I remember Keith proudly pointing his grandfather's name out to me. Keith was sadly killed in the Falklands war serving with the Royal Marines aged 19. He was exactly one month older than me. My Regiment was on stand by to go down to the Falklands and on the night that we were told that we would not be going I was told of Keith's death.
118 Field Regiment was lost at Singapore and didn’t reform during WW2. When I go to Kew on Friday, I should get a better idea as to how many of these lads died in captivity building the Burma Railway and due to the general barbaric behaviour of the Japanese towards POWs.
OK, just to follow up I'm going to the National Archives at Kew for some research on another project this Friday but whilst I'm there I will check the War Diary for 118 Field Regiment as well as the No Can anyone visit the National Archive? I have lots of details surrounding my Uncles death in Italy in 1944 but want to find out more if I can.
OK, just to follow up I'm going to the National Archives at Kew for some research on another project this Friday but whilst I'm there I will check the War Diary for 118 Field Regiment as well as the No Can anyone visit the National Archive? I have lots of details surrounding my Uncles death in Italy in 1944 but want to find out more if I can.
Yes, it’s open to everyone. A lot of their records are now in digital format and can be downloaded without having to pay a personal visit. You can also search online through their collection without having to visit. If you do need to view physical files, then you will need to get a reader’s ticket. This is easy, you can register online but will obviously need to visit to get it. You need photo ID such as a passport or driving licence plus proof of address such as a recent utility bill. Once you have the reader’s ticket you can inspect physical files in the reading room there.
For your uncle in Italy, if you know which unit he served with and the date of death, you should be able to look at the war diary of his regiment or unit for the day in question.
OK, just to follow up I'm going to the National Archives at Kew for some research on another project this Friday but whilst I'm there I will check the War Diary for 118 Field Regiment as well as the No Can anyone visit the National Archive? I have lots of details surrounding my Uncles death in Italy in 1944 but want to find out more if I can.
Yes, it’s open to everyone. A lot of their records are now in digital format and can be downloaded without having to pay a personal visit. You can also search online through their collection without having to visit. If you do need to view physical files, then you will need to get a reader’s ticket. This is easy, you can register online but will obviously need to visit to get it. You need photo ID such as a passport or driving licence plus proof of address such as a recent utility bill. Once you have the reader’s ticket you can inspect physical files in the reading room there.
For your uncle in Italy, if you know which unit he served with and the date of death, you should be able to look at the war diary of his regiment or unit for the day in question.
Thanks Tom, yes have his service number and Regiment and where he is buried, will do an online search first.
OK, just to follow up I'm going to the National Archives at Kew for some research on another project this Friday but whilst I'm there I will check the War Diary for 118 Field Regiment as well as the No Can anyone visit the National Archive? I have lots of details surrounding my Uncles death in Italy in 1944 but want to find out more if I can.
Yes, it’s open to everyone. A lot of their records are now in digital format and can be downloaded without having to pay a personal visit. You can also search online through their collection without having to visit. If you do need to view physical files, then you will need to get a reader’s ticket. This is easy, you can register online but will obviously need to visit to get it. You need photo ID such as a passport or driving licence plus proof of address such as a recent utility bill. Once you have the reader’s ticket you can inspect physical files in the reading room there.
For your uncle in Italy, if you know which unit he served with and the date of death, you should be able to look at the war diary of his regiment or unit for the day in question.
Thanks Tom, yes have his service number and Regiment and where he is buried, will do an online search first.
In the mid-60s I worked with a great character who had been a Bomber Command navigator. After a few pints he might occasionally mention his service. One story I can vividly recall. Long after the war Bill and his missus were on holiday - a cruise, I think - when they were befriended by a couple from Berlin. "Have you ever visited our city?" "As a matter of fact I've been several times, but I was never able to stay very long!"
In a similar vein, a friend was chatting to a German fellow on the train, quite a few years ago. The German asked if they'd got to London yet and when told 'Yes' said he didn't recognise it as he'd only seen it from the air before.
Here's poor Vic Wilson's Japanese Prisoner of War Index Card. As you can see address was 60 Inverine Road Charlton. RIP Vic.
Have now found details of his death amongst documents entitled: Unreported deaths of Allied Personnel Name: Wilson Victor Charles Rank: PVT Army Serial No: 904589 Diagnosis: BERIBERI Date of Death 27th July 1943 Disposition of Remains: Cremated
This is a certified copy of translated Japanese record. Signed by: N E Churchill 1st Lt AGD Assistant Adjutant General
Here's poor Vic Wilson's Japanese Prisoner of War Index Card. As you can see address was 60 Inverine Road Charlton. RIP Vic.
Have now found details of his death amongst documents entitled: Unreported deaths of Allied Personnel Name: Wilson Victor Charles Rank: PVT Army Serial No: 904589 Diagnosis: BERIBERI Date of Death 27th July 1943 Disposition of Remains: Cremated
This is a certified copy of translated Japanese record. Signed by: N E Churchill 1st Lt AGD Assistant Adjutant General
Thanks for this. 60 Inverine Road was his wife’s parents address so perhaps used for sake of convenience. CWGC shows him as having moved to Baughurst in Hampshire by this time. Vic was originally from Chevening Road, Greenwich which is where his parents still located in 1939.
I looked at the 1939 register and as you say found his parents Edith and John V (a compositor) living at 49 Chevening Road along with his siser May (shorthand typist).
Something else war-related I found by co-incidence regarding Chevening Road, nothing to do with Vic but makes you realise the sacrifices ordinary people made for us, was a report on an inquest at Lewisham in June 1943. Mrs Minnie Matilda McCormack (age 30) of Chevening Road Greenwich worked at Woolwich Arsenal. She was breaking down a fuse and it exploded on her bench killing her. The fuse should not have contained any explosive by the time it reached her. Verdict: Accidental death. Coroner told her husband 'Your wife died for her country just as much as any soldier'
My grandmothers brother Fred served in the Merchant Navy during WW2.
He was a stoker so worked in the bowels of his ships. He was unlucky enough to be torpedoed twice. The first time he was on deck having a fag break and got into the water of the North Atlantic and was fortunate to be picked up very quickly by an escort ship which had scrambling nets deployed. The second time he was in his hammock which again facilitated his escape from the ship. This time he was rescued from a lifeboat by a fellow convoy ship.
Fred was a big Charlton supporter and was the one that took me to The Valley for the first of many visits when I was five. We used to use Lewis coaches for away matches. I certainly owe my love of Charlton to him.
Excellent thread and thanks to all those who have added the research @Tom_Hovi as ever coming up trumps,
Though I specialise in the Great War for my day job, over the years I have picked up quite a few bits and bobs from 1939-45 and one collection passed on from a Great War veteran included his sons ephemera who had been a prisoner in Burma, this thread made me dig it out and I didn't realise there was so much!
Billy Clarke was his name and as his wonderful business card shows he was a 'Dealer in worn out horses', he swerved in the Artillery and some of the more personal items include a prison camp exercise book, the id tags he wore whilst captured and the letter confirming he had suffered from Malaria, Dysentery and Beri Beri whilst in captivity.
Thankfully he did survive and I have menu cards and some fascinating on-board newsletters from HMT Queen Mary as it sailed home from the east via New York, what a journey that must of been for those on board! for NFL fans (I know it wasnt called that then) it gives a report of the Philadelphia Eagles beating the Steelers whilst the Cardinals were a Chicago team and Cleveland were Rams, and winning! anyhow I digress.
I just bought a copy of the book, as I'm interested in individual stories of servicemen involved in the war; my father and his bother serving in The Royal Navy and an uncle being one of Lady Astor's D Day dodgers in Italy. Anyway some of the book is available on line, here the bit about Vic Wilson:
The Fall of Singapore
Alfred Allbury, a gunner in the 18th Division, witnessed the chaos that began to envelop Britain’s most formidable fortress in the Far East and which led to its capture by the Japanese within a week of their landing on Singapore Island.
My co-driver Vic Wilson and I sallied forth on nightly excursions to ammunition dumps scattered around the island-no transport could survive ten minutes on the road by day. Once our 15cwt was loaded, we had to deliver the shells to our guns. This called not so much for a knowledge of map reading as for the gift of clairvoyance. Jap planes and the unsuitability of the terrain for effective artillery positions kept our battery commanders roving the island in a desperate search for potential gun-sites. Those found and occupied were speedily made untenable by the sustained accuracy of the Japanese counterfire. Vic Wilson and I had long been friends. He was an unprincipled rogue with a wry sense of humour, and a healthy hatred of the war that kept him from his young wife and baby back home in Charlton. Our nightly runs soon became something of an ordeal. There was no moon and the island was plunged in a Stygian gloom. In many places where trees overhung the roads I had to guide Vic forward with the glow from a cigarette; and there were rickety makeshift bridges to cross, while all around the darkened island pulsated with the animations of a thousand things that crawled, slithered and scuffed. Some of the Japanese, we had heard, had already crossed the Straits, filtered through the lines and were roaming about at will. I had a round up the barrel of my rifle, the safety catch off, and often my finger grew moist on the trigger. By the day fifth-columnists were ubiquitous as the palms. Certain apparently guileless gentlemen would lead their herds of cattle across our gun positions. This would be followed almost immediately by a terrific blasting of Jap shells and mortars; so we took to shooting zealous drovers as a matter of principle. Other Japanese supporters secreted themselves in trees and further added to our discomfort by continual sniping. As Singapore was full of trees there was not much we could do about this except occasionally to loose off volleys into any tree that looked unduly suspect. I fear that many an unsuspecting and completely neutral coconut met a violent and untimely end as a result of our would-be reprisals. Certainly nothing else ever tumbled down to earth. On February 13th we heard that the Japs had landed in force on the island, had pushed inland and that a desperate battle was raging for Bukit Timah Hill. We also heard that the Americans had landed near Penang in the Japanese rear and were pressing down on them. But hourly the thunder of guns grew nearer. The front line became an ever-tightening ring around the town of Singapore. It became a hazardous feat to reach the few supply-dumps still available to us, and our own guns were as elusive as the fire-flies that flitted every evening in the shadows of wagon-lines. On the morning of February 14th the first tentative shells landed among our supply-dumps. They quickly found the exact range and soon a searing bombardment developed that sent us scuttling into our fox-holes. The Japs were ranging on us from heights that overlooked the town. Bukit Timah was theirs after the bloodiest of struggles, the reservoir was stained crimson with the blood of those who had fought so bitterly to hold it, and the little yellow men whom we had ridiculed and despised were in swarm across the island. It was already theirs. Next morning Vic and I set off on a last mad jaunt taking ammunition to ‘A’ Troop who were dug in behind a Chinese temple to the north of Racecourse Road. Vic drove like a maniac. He had, I found, been sampling a bottle of ‘John Haig’. We thundered along deserted roads, pitted and scarred with bomb craters. Wrecked and burnt-out vehicles lay everywhere, strewn at fantastic angles. The trolley-bus cables hung across the road in desolate festoons which shivered and whined as we raced over them. A few yards from the charred remains of an ambulance were a knot of troops gathered round a cook’s wagon. From them we scrounged a mug of hot tea and found out the guns of ‘A’ Troop were only a few hundred yards distant. We delivered our ammunition and an hour later rejoined Battery HQ close by the Raffles Hotel. Here we found everyone digging in like mad, preparing for a ‘last stand’. In front of the hotel, filling the air with deafening cracks and the pungent fumes of cordite, were a battery of howitzers. On either side, without a scrap of cover or camouflage, stood a score of other guns. Sweating, glistening bodies loaded, slammed breeches and fired. At once came the answering crack and whine of Japanese artillery; from the high ground above the town they could judge the range to a nicety. All around us men were fixing their bayonets and automatically I did the same. But late that afternoon came the news that we had surrendered. There was to be a cease-fire at four o’clock. We had fought and lost. And the ashes of defeat tasted bitter. At three o’clock all but a few of the guns were silent. Ammunition had been expended. From the hills there still came the occasional bark of a Japanese gun followed by the whine and crash of its shells. But by six o’clock, save for the spluttering of flames and the occasional explosion of ammunition, all was quiet over the island of Singapore. The carnage of the last ten days was quieted now, and in eerie silence our troops sat huddled together in puzzled but fatalistic expectancy. Vic and I returned to our lorry, ate some tinned bacon and biscuits and stretched ourselves luxuriously for our first uninterrupted sleep for many days. We took off our boots, smoked, talked and listened to the distant caterwauling of the Japanese. “They’ll probably,” said Vic “be crawling round us in the night, cutting off our ears.” But we stretched out and slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted, while around us into the tropic rose a barbaric and discordant dirge: the victory song of the triumphant Japanese.
I just bought a copy of the book, as I'm interested in individual stories of servicemen involved in the war; my father and his bother serving in The Royal Navy and an uncle being one of Lady Astor's D Day dodgers in Italy. Anyway some of the book is available on line, here the bit about Vic Wilson:
The Fall of Singapore
Alfred Allbury, a gunner in the 18th Division, witnessed the chaos that began to envelop Britain’s most formidable fortress in the Far East and which led to its capture by the Japanese within a week of their landing on Singapore Island.
My co-driver Vic Wilson and I sallied forth on nightly excursions to ammunition dumps scattered around the island-no transport could survive ten minutes on the road by day. Once our 15cwt was loaded, we had to deliver the shells to our guns. This called not so much for a knowledge of map reading as for the gift of clairvoyance. Jap planes and the unsuitability of the terrain for effective artillery positions kept our battery commanders roving the island in a desperate search for potential gun-sites. Those found and occupied were speedily made untenable by the sustained accuracy of the Japanese counterfire. Vic Wilson and I had long been friends. He was an unprincipled rogue with a wry sense of humour, and a healthy hatred of the war that kept him from his young wife and baby back home in Charlton. Our nightly runs soon became something of an ordeal. There was no moon and the island was plunged in a Stygian gloom. In many places where trees overhung the roads I had to guide Vic forward with the glow from a cigarette; and there were rickety makeshift bridges to cross, while all around the darkened island pulsated with the animations of a thousand things that crawled, slithered and scuffed. Some of the Japanese, we had heard, had already crossed the Straits, filtered through the lines and were roaming about at will. I had a round up the barrel of my rifle, the safety catch off, and often my finger grew moist on the trigger. By the day fifth-columnists were ubiquitous as the palms. Certain apparently guileless gentlemen would lead their herds of cattle across our gun positions. This would be followed almost immediately by a terrific blasting of Jap shells and mortars; so we took to shooting zealous drovers as a matter of principle. Other Japanese supporters secreted themselves in trees and further added to our discomfort by continual sniping. As Singapore was full of trees there was not much we could do about this except occasionally to loose off volleys into any tree that looked unduly suspect. I fear that many an unsuspecting and completely neutral coconut met a violent and untimely end as a result of our would-be reprisals. Certainly nothing else ever tumbled down to earth. On February 13th we heard that the Japs had landed in force on the island, had pushed inland and that a desperate battle was raging for Bukit Timah Hill. We also heard that the Americans had landed near Penang in the Japanese rear and were pressing down on them. But hourly the thunder of guns grew nearer. The front line became an ever-tightening ring around the town of Singapore. It became a hazardous feat to reach the few supply-dumps still available to us, and our own guns were as elusive as the fire-flies that flitted every evening in the shadows of wagon-lines. On the morning of February 14th the first tentative shells landed among our supply-dumps. They quickly found the exact range and soon a searing bombardment developed that sent us scuttling into our fox-holes. The Japs were ranging on us from heights that overlooked the town. Bukit Timah was theirs after the bloodiest of struggles, the reservoir was stained crimson with the blood of those who had fought so bitterly to hold it, and the little yellow men whom we had ridiculed and despised were in swarm across the island. It was already theirs. Next morning Vic and I set off on a last mad jaunt taking ammunition to ‘A’ Troop who were dug in behind a Chinese temple to the north of Racecourse Road. Vic drove like a maniac. He had, I found, been sampling a bottle of ‘John Haig’. We thundered along deserted roads, pitted and scarred with bomb craters. Wrecked and burnt-out vehicles lay everywhere, strewn at fantastic angles. The trolley-bus cables hung across the road in desolate festoons which shivered and whined as we raced over them. A few yards from the charred remains of an ambulance were a knot of troops gathered round a cook’s wagon. From them we scrounged a mug of hot tea and found out the guns of ‘A’ Troop were only a few hundred yards distant. We delivered our ammunition and an hour later rejoined Battery HQ close by the Raffles Hotel. Here we found everyone digging in like mad, preparing for a ‘last stand’. In front of the hotel, filling the air with deafening cracks and the pungent fumes of cordite, were a battery of howitzers. On either side, without a scrap of cover or camouflage, stood a score of other guns. Sweating, glistening bodies loaded, slammed breeches and fired. At once came the answering crack and whine of Japanese artillery; from the high ground above the town they could judge the range to a nicety. All around us men were fixing their bayonets and automatically I did the same. But late that afternoon came the news that we had surrendered. There was to be a cease-fire at four o’clock. We had fought and lost. And the ashes of defeat tasted bitter. At three o’clock all but a few of the guns were silent. Ammunition had been expended. From the hills there still came the occasional bark of a Japanese gun followed by the whine and crash of its shells. But by six o’clock, save for the spluttering of flames and the occasional explosion of ammunition, all was quiet over the island of Singapore. The carnage of the last ten days was quieted now, and in eerie silence our troops sat huddled together in puzzled but fatalistic expectancy. Vic and I returned to our lorry, ate some tinned bacon and biscuits and stretched ourselves luxuriously for our first uninterrupted sleep for many days. We took off our boots, smoked, talked and listened to the distant caterwauling of the Japanese. “They’ll probably,” said Vic “be crawling round us in the night, cutting off our ears.” But we stretched out and slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted, while around us into the tropic rose a barbaric and discordant dirge: the victory song of the triumphant Japanese.
Alfred Allbury
As an ex-Gunner reading this I can really identify with what they were doing for their Battery. What amazes me is that some of these lads, perhaps including Vic, were pitched into war with very little training but were still brave enough to do their duty for us.
Exactly Jorge. My Dad was a Gunner. Joined up in 1933. Did his six years and back in again in 1939, demobbed October 1945. At least he was a trained soldier and also came through it all. For me it's even more chilling to realise that poor Vic was only 23 when captured in Feb 1942 and consequently only 24 when he died in the POW camp less than eighteen months later . Sadly one of many
I just bought a copy of the book, as I'm interested in individual stories of servicemen involved in the war; my father and his bother serving in The Royal Navy and an uncle being one of Lady Astor's D Day dodgers in Italy. Anyway some of the book is available on line, here the bit about Vic Wilson:
The Fall of Singapore
Alfred Allbury, a gunner in the 18th Division, witnessed the chaos that began to envelop Britain’s most formidable fortress in the Far East and which led to its capture by the Japanese within a week of their landing on Singapore Island.
My co-driver Vic Wilson and I sallied forth on nightly excursions to ammunition dumps scattered around the island-no transport could survive ten minutes on the road by day. Once our 15cwt was loaded, we had to deliver the shells to our guns. This called not so much for a knowledge of map reading as for the gift of clairvoyance. Jap planes and the unsuitability of the terrain for effective artillery positions kept our battery commanders roving the island in a desperate search for potential gun-sites. Those found and occupied were speedily made untenable by the sustained accuracy of the Japanese counterfire. Vic Wilson and I had long been friends. He was an unprincipled rogue with a wry sense of humour, and a healthy hatred of the war that kept him from his young wife and baby back home in Charlton. Our nightly runs soon became something of an ordeal. There was no moon and the island was plunged in a Stygian gloom. In many places where trees overhung the roads I had to guide Vic forward with the glow from a cigarette; and there were rickety makeshift bridges to cross, while all around the darkened island pulsated with the animations of a thousand things that crawled, slithered and scuffed. Some of the Japanese, we had heard, had already crossed the Straits, filtered through the lines and were roaming about at will. I had a round up the barrel of my rifle, the safety catch off, and often my finger grew moist on the trigger. By the day fifth-columnists were ubiquitous as the palms. Certain apparently guileless gentlemen would lead their herds of cattle across our gun positions. This would be followed almost immediately by a terrific blasting of Jap shells and mortars; so we took to shooting zealous drovers as a matter of principle. Other Japanese supporters secreted themselves in trees and further added to our discomfort by continual sniping. As Singapore was full of trees there was not much we could do about this except occasionally to loose off volleys into any tree that looked unduly suspect. I fear that many an unsuspecting and completely neutral coconut met a violent and untimely end as a result of our would-be reprisals. Certainly nothing else ever tumbled down to earth. On February 13th we heard that the Japs had landed in force on the island, had pushed inland and that a desperate battle was raging for Bukit Timah Hill. We also heard that the Americans had landed near Penang in the Japanese rear and were pressing down on them. But hourly the thunder of guns grew nearer. The front line became an ever-tightening ring around the town of Singapore. It became a hazardous feat to reach the few supply-dumps still available to us, and our own guns were as elusive as the fire-flies that flitted every evening in the shadows of wagon-lines. On the morning of February 14th the first tentative shells landed among our supply-dumps. They quickly found the exact range and soon a searing bombardment developed that sent us scuttling into our fox-holes. The Japs were ranging on us from heights that overlooked the town. Bukit Timah was theirs after the bloodiest of struggles, the reservoir was stained crimson with the blood of those who had fought so bitterly to hold it, and the little yellow men whom we had ridiculed and despised were in swarm across the island. It was already theirs. Next morning Vic and I set off on a last mad jaunt taking ammunition to ‘A’ Troop who were dug in behind a Chinese temple to the north of Racecourse Road. Vic drove like a maniac. He had, I found, been sampling a bottle of ‘John Haig’. We thundered along deserted roads, pitted and scarred with bomb craters. Wrecked and burnt-out vehicles lay everywhere, strewn at fantastic angles. The trolley-bus cables hung across the road in desolate festoons which shivered and whined as we raced over them. A few yards from the charred remains of an ambulance were a knot of troops gathered round a cook’s wagon. From them we scrounged a mug of hot tea and found out the guns of ‘A’ Troop were only a few hundred yards distant. We delivered our ammunition and an hour later rejoined Battery HQ close by the Raffles Hotel. Here we found everyone digging in like mad, preparing for a ‘last stand’. In front of the hotel, filling the air with deafening cracks and the pungent fumes of cordite, were a battery of howitzers. On either side, without a scrap of cover or camouflage, stood a score of other guns. Sweating, glistening bodies loaded, slammed breeches and fired. At once came the answering crack and whine of Japanese artillery; from the high ground above the town they could judge the range to a nicety. All around us men were fixing their bayonets and automatically I did the same. But late that afternoon came the news that we had surrendered. There was to be a cease-fire at four o’clock. We had fought and lost. And the ashes of defeat tasted bitter. At three o’clock all but a few of the guns were silent. Ammunition had been expended. From the hills there still came the occasional bark of a Japanese gun followed by the whine and crash of its shells. But by six o’clock, save for the spluttering of flames and the occasional explosion of ammunition, all was quiet over the island of Singapore. The carnage of the last ten days was quieted now, and in eerie silence our troops sat huddled together in puzzled but fatalistic expectancy. Vic and I returned to our lorry, ate some tinned bacon and biscuits and stretched ourselves luxuriously for our first uninterrupted sleep for many days. We took off our boots, smoked, talked and listened to the distant caterwauling of the Japanese. “They’ll probably,” said Vic “be crawling round us in the night, cutting off our ears.” But we stretched out and slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted, while around us into the tropic rose a barbaric and discordant dirge: the victory song of the triumphant Japanese.
Alfred Allbury
As an ex-Gunner reading this I can really identify with what they were doing for their Battery. What amazes me is that some of these lads, perhaps including Vic, were pitched into war with very little training but were still brave enough to do their duty for us.
I think in Vic’s case at least, 118 Field Regiment would’ve had plenty of training. He joined up soon after the outbreak of war (which is why he doesn’t appear on the 1939 Register) and his unit was based at home in the U.K. throughout 1940 and much of 1941. They weren’t ready to be sent to France in 39/40 or to North Africa in 1941, so they wouldn’t have done much else except train. Singapore was the first action though. A study of their war diary tomorrow will reveal exactly what the level of readiness was though. Watch this space.
OK, just finished after a full-on day at Kew. Found quite a bit on Vic and 118 Field Regiment in general. I’ve got a bit to sort out but will post over the weekend what I’ve found. I think the highlight was finding the Nominal Roll which was prepared in Changi Jail, Singapore. It’s typed on whatever paper they could get their hands on and features many hand-written additions and amendments. I’m quite used to reading these documents but this one makes truly heartbreaking reading and I found myself shaking whilst reading it. Out of a strength of some 700 officers and men taken prisoner, some 200 died in captivity, some as a result of Allied air raids but most from disease and illness. On a brighter note, there is a report of a group of officers and men who ignored the surrender order and managed to escape Singapore by small boat. The majority were reported safe in India a few months later, which is an epic story in itself. More to follow over the weekend including hopefully some photos of extracts from some of the files.
We know Vic Wilson married Violet Brown in 1939, using the above site a Valerie V Wilson (mother’s maiden name Brown) was born in Greenwich in the first quarter of 1940. She is possibly the baby mentioned in Allbury’s account. And then at the end of 1960 a Valerie V Wilson married an Ernest C Jacob in Woolwich. 3 children Paul D Jacob in 1961, Susan A Jacob in 1963 and Barry John Jacob in 1966 whose mothers maiden name was Wilson were born in the Woolwich/Sidcup/Lewisham area, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that these kids (now in their late 50s) were Vic’s grandchildren and possibly known by people on here.
We know Vic Wilson married Violet Brown in 1939, using the above site a Valerie V Wilson (mother’s maiden name Brown) was born in Greenwich in the first quarter of 1940. She is possibly the baby mentioned in Allbury’s account. And then at the end of 1960 a Valerie V Wilson married an Ernest C Jacob in Woolwich. 3 children Paul D Jacob in 1961, Susan A Jacob in 1963 and Barry John Jacob in 1966 whose mothers maiden name was Wilson were born in the Woolwich/Sidcup/Lewisham area, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that these kids (now in their late 50s) were Vic’s grandchildren and possibly known by people on here.
Quite possibly so. I will put up everything I know over the weekend, probably on Sunday.
Comments
http://www.roll-of-honour.org.uk/Cemeteries/Thanbyuzayat_War_Cemetery/
In the picture, nicked from trip advisor, Vic's grave is probably one of those on the left.
Rest in Peace all soldiers of the war.
Thank you for sharing this.
Arthur, He was my father, a very quick and simple answer is in his opinion they used to much air and other resources up, thus restricting what he had to survive on and because of this a lot of his mates didn’t survive, dont think i need to say much more.
Arthur, If you thought somehow i was being disrespectful of your relative or the Chindits then i apologise as that wasn’t the case, if you are wondering why i mentioned the Chindits and i can certainly understand that then it comes about because people who have a knowledge of the war out there just assume that he served with them, unlike them he fought the majority of his 31/2 stint behind there lines and was an expert not only explosives but also very unusually an expert in jungle warfare, both of which he passed on his expertise onto those Chindits, infact one of the only photos i got of him in Burma is him wearing the traditional chindit hat. Hope that’s explanation is sufficient, as i said he told me this when he was dying, so I couldn’t go into great details with him.
A few more note, He was one of the first home grown soldiers to be transported from the UK after the fall of Singapore, he thought behind the lines to slow up the Japanese advanced through burma, he was trapped just outside Kohima, then on the advance from Kohima back through Burma he was hurrying their retreat and blowing up their supplies and infrastructure always behind their lines. The most upsetting thing to him and me was the first thing he saw when he got of the boat from the uk was the crucified nurses in a hospital and the remains of the soldiers who were bayoneted and or beheaded in there hospital beds. Those sights stayed with him and his fellows soldiers, they turned them from normal squaddies to the highly skilled killing machines they became. They didn’t need weapons, they didn’t need explosives to wreck havoc, they weren’t taken alive, they didn’t take prisoners (they couldn’t they were behind the enemy lines) if they got they either treated themselves and survived or they died alone in the jungle. They would go months without seeing action, then fight constantly for weeks on end, they fought the normal Japanese soldier, they fought the imperial guard.
When they did come out of jungle they had two weeks of rest and relaxation and then off they would trot, as i said previously they never knew if around the corner they would bump into japenese or British troops, they however never saw any American troops.
Upon his return you would never believe it,but he was the softest kindest person you could wish to meet, he was big and built like a brick shithouse, but oh so gentle, never lost his temper, done everything my mum told him, and wouldn’t raise a finger to a fly. However i was told a story by a work mate of his, that about 10 years after his return from burma, dad was going into a local chippy were he say a policeman being attacked by four youths, the policeman was in bad a way, dad said to four you got one chance to walk out the door. They didn’t, he locked it and they were carried out with the policeman, dad was unharmed, until he made the mistake of telling my mum, he lost :-). I’m never certain about that story but i have heard it from numerous sources but not from him.
There were other memorials in the building to other units and there were always a handful of veterans who laid wreaths right into the 1990s. But 118 Regiment had a long list of deaths - most of them as POWs and I guess that not many of the Regiment survived.
The grandfather of my friend Keith Phillips from Grove Park is also commemorated on the War Memorial. I remember Keith proudly pointing his grandfather's name out to me. Keith was sadly killed in the Falklands war serving with the Royal Marines aged 19. He was exactly one month older than me. My Regiment was on stand by to go down to the Falklands and on the night that we were told that we would not be going I was told of Keith's death.
http://lewishamwarmemorials.wikidot.com/memorial:grove-park-field-regiments-ww2-war-memorial
RIP lads.
Have now found details of his death amongst documents entitled:
Unreported deaths of Allied Personnel
Name: Wilson Victor Charles
Rank: PVT
Army Serial No: 904589
Diagnosis: BERIBERI
Date of Death 27th July 1943
Disposition of Remains: Cremated
This is a certified copy of translated Japanese record.
Signed by: N E Churchill
1st Lt AGD
Assistant Adjutant General
Will see what I can unearth at Kew on Friday.
Something else war-related I found by co-incidence regarding Chevening Road, nothing to do with Vic but makes you realise the sacrifices ordinary people made for us, was a report on an inquest at Lewisham in June 1943. Mrs Minnie Matilda McCormack (age 30) of Chevening Road Greenwich worked at Woolwich Arsenal. She was breaking down a fuse and it exploded on her bench killing her. The fuse should not have contained any explosive by the time it reached her. Verdict: Accidental death. Coroner told her husband 'Your wife died for her country just as much as any soldier'
He was a stoker so worked in the bowels of his ships. He was unlucky enough to be torpedoed twice. The first time he was on deck having a fag break and got into the water of the North Atlantic and was fortunate to be picked up very quickly by an escort ship which had scrambling nets deployed. The second time he was in his hammock which again facilitated his escape from the ship. This time he was rescued from a lifeboat by a fellow convoy ship.
Fred was a big Charlton supporter and was the one that took me to The Valley for the first of many visits when I was five. We used to use Lewis coaches for away matches. I certainly owe my love of Charlton to him.
Though I specialise in the Great War for my day job, over the years I have picked up quite a few bits and bobs from 1939-45 and one collection passed on from a Great War veteran included his sons ephemera who had been a prisoner in Burma, this thread made me dig it out and I didn't realise there was so much!
Billy Clarke was his name and as his wonderful business card shows he was a 'Dealer in worn out horses', he swerved in the Artillery and some of the more personal items include a prison camp exercise book, the id tags he wore whilst captured and the letter confirming he had suffered from Malaria, Dysentery and Beri Beri whilst in captivity.
Thankfully he did survive and I have menu cards and some fascinating on-board newsletters from HMT Queen Mary as it sailed home from the east via New York, what a journey that must of been for those on board! for NFL fans (I know it wasnt called that then) it gives a report of the Philadelphia Eagles beating the Steelers whilst the Cardinals were a Chicago team and Cleveland were Rams, and winning! anyhow I digress.
I have attached some pics,
Anyway some of the book is available on line, here the bit about Vic Wilson:
The Fall of Singapore
Alfred Allbury, a gunner in the 18th Division, witnessed the chaos that began to envelop Britain’s most formidable fortress in the Far East and which led to its capture by the Japanese within a week of their landing on Singapore Island.
My co-driver Vic Wilson and I sallied forth on nightly excursions to ammunition dumps scattered around the island-no transport could survive ten minutes on the road by day. Once our 15cwt was loaded, we had to deliver the shells to our guns. This called not so much for a knowledge of map reading as for the gift of clairvoyance. Jap planes and the unsuitability of the terrain for effective artillery positions kept our battery commanders roving the island in a desperate search for potential gun-sites. Those found and occupied were speedily made untenable by the sustained accuracy of the Japanese counterfire.
Vic Wilson and I had long been friends. He was an unprincipled rogue with a wry sense of humour, and a healthy hatred of the war that kept him from his young wife and baby back home in Charlton.
Our nightly runs soon became something of an ordeal. There was no moon and the island was plunged in a Stygian gloom. In many places where trees overhung the roads I had to guide Vic forward with the glow from a cigarette; and there were rickety makeshift bridges to cross, while all around the darkened island pulsated with the animations of a thousand things that crawled, slithered and scuffed. Some of the Japanese, we had heard, had already crossed the Straits, filtered through the lines and were roaming about at will. I had a round up the barrel of my rifle, the safety catch off, and often my finger grew moist on the trigger.
By the day fifth-columnists were ubiquitous as the palms. Certain apparently guileless gentlemen would lead their herds of cattle across our gun positions. This would be followed almost immediately by a terrific blasting of Jap shells and mortars; so we took to shooting zealous drovers as a matter of principle. Other Japanese supporters secreted themselves in trees and further added to our discomfort by continual sniping. As Singapore was full of trees there was not much we could do about this except occasionally to loose off volleys into any tree that looked unduly suspect. I fear that many an unsuspecting and completely neutral coconut met a violent and untimely end as a result of our would-be reprisals. Certainly nothing else ever tumbled down to earth.
On February 13th we heard that the Japs had landed in force on the island, had pushed inland and that a desperate battle was raging for Bukit Timah Hill. We also heard that the Americans had landed near Penang in the Japanese rear and were pressing down on them.
But hourly the thunder of guns grew nearer. The front line became an ever-tightening ring around the town of Singapore. It became a hazardous feat to reach the few supply-dumps still available to us, and our own guns were as elusive as the fire-flies that flitted every evening in the shadows of wagon-lines.
On the morning of February 14th the first tentative shells landed among our supply-dumps. They quickly found the exact range and soon a searing bombardment developed that sent us scuttling into our fox-holes. The Japs were ranging on us from heights that overlooked the town. Bukit Timah was theirs after the bloodiest of struggles, the reservoir was stained crimson with the blood of those who had fought so bitterly to hold it, and the little yellow men whom we had ridiculed and despised were in swarm across the island. It was already theirs.
Next morning Vic and I set off on a last mad jaunt taking ammunition to ‘A’ Troop who were dug in behind a Chinese temple to the north of Racecourse Road. Vic drove like a maniac. He had, I found, been sampling a bottle of ‘John Haig’. We thundered along deserted roads, pitted and scarred with bomb craters. Wrecked and burnt-out vehicles lay everywhere, strewn at fantastic angles. The trolley-bus cables hung across the road in desolate festoons which shivered and whined as we raced over them. A few yards from the charred remains of an ambulance were a knot of troops gathered round a cook’s wagon. From them we scrounged a mug of hot tea and found out the guns of ‘A’ Troop were only a few hundred yards distant. We delivered our ammunition and an hour later rejoined Battery HQ close by the Raffles Hotel.
Here we found everyone digging in like mad, preparing for a ‘last stand’. In front of the hotel, filling the air with deafening cracks and the pungent fumes of cordite, were a battery of howitzers. On either side, without a scrap of cover or camouflage, stood a score of other guns. Sweating, glistening bodies loaded, slammed breeches and fired. At once came the answering crack and whine of Japanese artillery; from the high ground above the town they could judge the range to a nicety. All around us men were fixing their bayonets and automatically I did the same.
But late that afternoon came the news that we had surrendered. There was to be a cease-fire at four o’clock. We had fought and lost. And the ashes of defeat tasted bitter.
At three o’clock all but a few of the guns were silent. Ammunition had been expended. From the hills there still came the occasional bark of a Japanese gun followed by the whine and crash of its shells. But by six o’clock, save for the spluttering of flames and the occasional explosion of ammunition, all was quiet over the island of Singapore. The carnage of the last ten days was quieted now, and in eerie silence our troops sat huddled together in puzzled but fatalistic expectancy.
Vic and I returned to our lorry, ate some tinned bacon and biscuits and stretched ourselves luxuriously for our first uninterrupted sleep for many days. We took off our boots, smoked, talked and listened to the distant caterwauling of the Japanese.
“They’ll probably,” said Vic “be crawling round us in the night, cutting off our ears.”
But we stretched out and slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted, while around us into the tropic rose a barbaric and discordant dirge: the victory song of the triumphant Japanese.
Alfred Allbury
For me it's even more chilling to realise that poor Vic was only 23 when captured in Feb 1942 and consequently only 24 when he died in the POW camp less than eighteen months later . Sadly one of many
https://www.freebmd.org.uk/
We know Vic Wilson married Violet Brown in 1939, using the above site a Valerie V Wilson (mother’s maiden name Brown) was born in Greenwich in the first quarter of 1940. She is possibly the baby mentioned in Allbury’s account.
And then at the end of 1960 a Valerie V Wilson married an Ernest C Jacob in Woolwich.
3 children Paul D Jacob in 1961, Susan A Jacob in 1963 and Barry John Jacob in 1966 whose mothers maiden name was Wilson were born in the Woolwich/Sidcup/Lewisham area, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that these kids (now in their late 50s) were Vic’s grandchildren and possibly known by people on here.