When Rememberance Became Personal

Neil Griffiths

1941

Imagine the scene: Hong Kong in the mid-1970s, I'm on gate duty at my barracks, dwarfed by big dirty blocks of flats and the sun is beating down. Chinese pensioners totter past beneath heavy loads. At 18, I'm tall, slim, and, like all young soldiers, know everything. I'm just about to finish a two-hour stint at the barrier and am looking forward to a cup of tea.

My reverie was broken by two old ladies, Americans obviously, in wing-mirror glasses, trainers and floppy hats. 'We're here to see your chapel, young man,' said one. I looked dumbly back before shouting up to the Provost Sergeant, who was leaning on the guardroom railings above: 'Sergeant, two Americans want to see the chapel!' 'Canadians, we're Canadians!' hissed the lady.

'Well, Griffiths, who don't you show them it? It's time for your relief anyway.' For a second I stood in open-jawed bewilderment. Why should I take Canadians to the chapel? I'm not a tourist guide.

The ladies looked both tired and weak. Sure that my imposing presence, all six foot of military might, will intimidate them, I tried to put them at ease but was firmly put in my place. They had cleared this with the Governor himself, had a letter from His Excellency too, and had spoken personally with my commanding officer, so stop being patronising and show us to the chapel forthwith.

Crestfallen, I showed them the way. 'We're here to visit the memorial plaque to my husband which, I'm assured, hangs in your chapel,' one of them snapped. It seemed that her husband had been one of those shipped over here in 1941 just in time for the Japanese to throw them into a horror camp.

The Canadians had trustingly sent a couple of untrained battalions, young lads, to Britain's aid and the arrivals never had time to do more than march into captivity. I had read about the fall of Hong Kong and the brave, needless and tragic sacrifice. Indians, Gurkhas and other troops had all disappeared at the same time.

My two ladies seemed at least mollified that I had at least an idea of the history and brightened up a wee bit in the erroneous belief that I was a fully briefed guide. I wasn't even sure where the chapel stood. There was a church of sorts but it was too new to have survived the war. Too ashamed to ask anyone, I gambled and took them there.

Fortunately, I was correct. As we entered the cool of the building, the first thing we saw was a gigantic memorial tablet inscribed with a list of names in gold lettering. The husband's name, a Scottish one, was right in the middle. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, I wondered why I had imagined that the church would have to have been pre-war.

The sound of small sobs awoke me from my self-centred reverie. Quiet tears were rolling down the ladies' crumpled cheeks, their eyes brimming with pain of a loss that they had never forgotten. Suddenly they were small, bent old women, lost in grief. Old folk crying is a terrible thing and I was torn between muteness and words of comfort. They must have known full well what the husband had gone through, but now they were proud and moved to see his name chiselled in stone in this faraway land.

'You must think us real old fools,' said one, wiping away a tear. 'But just to see this; you'll never know and I hope you won't have to. Her friend was more in control and grasped my hand. 'And you, young man, must tell us all about your life here!' Her face unfolded in forced humour. The other nodded, smiling slowly. I was suddenly their link with the past, as a young soldier in Hong Kong, living where her husband had once lived. Animated now, and without the previous imperiousness (which I now knew to be a front) they had been steeling themselves, they wanted to know everything about me. I began humbly, but within minutes was outlining my heroic existence on such a shameless scale that I was nearly claiming outright command of the regiment. Their eyes shone and I realized that, if nothing else, they were cheering up.

'You know, we haven't thought to ask your name.' 'Neil Griffiths.' 'Well, Neil Griffiths, you've been real helpful and I want you to take this,' she said, offering a $10 bill. 'I can't!' I hissed, half shocked and half wondering how much it was worth. 'Just tell the sergeant that I was really helpful.' We strolled back to the guardroom. 'The kid's been real helpful, how about giving him a half day off?' The Provost Sergeant grinned serenely but replied that helpfulness was all he would expect from a member of the regiment but Griffiths was just too valuable to disappear right now. The ladies giggled and beamed. 'Well, we tried. Many thanks and goodbye.' I waved back like a grandson, blushing at the snorts behind me, but I had gained my first insight into remembrance and what it means, a message that still rings across the years.