The Fusilier

As August 15th. V.J. Day, I am reminded that on that day I was a lone signalman aboard a troopship named The Eastern Prince.

There must have been some two or three thousand of us aboard the rat, lice and roach infested vessel, and the intention was to be landed at a place called Khota Baru in Malaya.

Luckily, that was not to be. We troops were overjoyed at hearing that Japan had surrendered and the war presumably over. The Eastern Prince headed for Batavia, in the Netherlands East Indies and our mission was to take command from the Japanese Imperial Army there.

A week later, I found myself sleeping in the foyer of the K.L.M. building in Central Batavia, (now Jakarta).

The place was swarming with Generals, Brigadiers and Captains and I appeared to be the only soldier from the Royal Corps of Signals. Rolling up my bedding one morning a nipple pink De Soto with an open top pulled up outside the building and a rather red faced Major jumped out and ran up the steps towards me. Naturally I saluted him and he returned the compliment. He took just two steps then turned back, pointing to the blue and white epaulettes on my uniform.

“Are you signals?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yes Sir, advance guard of the 23rd. Indian Division.”

Grabbing my sleeve he almost pulled me off my feet.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “Gather your bedding and follow me.”

I remember the road was full of trams and cyclists and the Major drove on for some half a mile, then turned into a side road. “What do you know about telephone Exchanges?” He asked.

My heart jumped since before being called up I just happened to be a Youth in Training, working in an automatic telephone exchange outside London.

“A fair bit.” I said, thinking it was a wise choice of words.

“Good, because the telephone system in the whole town has ceased to function.”

“Nothing works?” I asked.

“Not a bloody thing. Everything is as dead as a door-nail.”

We came to a tall square looking building and the Major and I got out.

“Lovely car.” I remarked. “I like the color.”

He shot a glance towards the De Soto and said casually, “You can have it if you can fix the telephone exchange.”

I recognized that the exchange was a Strowger Automatic System, very similar to the one we had in London. Usually they were quite noisy as the line finders and two motion selectors clattered abominably.

Batavia Central Telephone Exchange was deathly silent. Nothing apparently worked.

Using a modicum of common sense, I came to the conclusion that only one thing could prevent the exchange from operating, the main battery had been disconnected.

I remember the shower of sparks that flew as I reconnected the large one hundred and fifty Ampere fuse back to its load.

I had solved the problem in twenty seconds flat!

I turned to the Major, “I’ll take the keys of your car now Sir.”

He smiled. “Damn, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You are not in Signals Sir.”

“True.” He smirked. “But then again, I am G.3. Intelligence.”