Now we were introduced to our ‘Foo Man’. A civilian workman’s importance in the shipyard was shown by a ring of tread or tap around his hat. A three ringer was a foreman. Our Foo Man was a three ringer. He made himself known to us by bowing. We all rose and gravely bowed back. He then disappeared, to return with some others carrying bundles of clothing. These were our working clothes, consisting of badly made overalls of a strong khaki material. All the suits were of a huge size. They had been especially made for us. Whoever had described us to the Jap tailor must have exaggerated somewhat. We were all underweight and some of the smaller men simply disappeared into the coveralls. Putting them on we followed our Foo Man through the shipyard until we came to the paint shop, an iron shed with a cement floor, about 30 ft. by 60 ft., crammed with all kinds of painting material and ladders etc.

At one end there was a storeroom, a stove, and also a place for lockers. A small cubbyhole served as the office. As we entered and stood gazing on and being gazed at by those Japs that happened to be around, the office door was suddenly opened and out came the Master Painter himself, a very important personage. He was in our eyes a funny figure of a man. About five foot nothing, black morning coat, khaki army pants, dirty white socks, worn out low shoes, bow tie with polka dots, and to top it all a straw boater, and of course spectacles. He gravely regarded us. Then bringing himself to attention gave us a military salute. We all gravely saluted back. He came forward and began to ask questions in Japanese. Fortunately we managed to know enough to tell him we were Canadian soldiers. When he heard we were soldiers he pulled himself up and gravely gave us another salute. We replied. By now we were entering into the spirit of the thing. He asked who was the senior. I showed him my chevrons and again he came to attention and saluted. I returned this salute. Then we were shown by signs that they wanted us to work and gave us dusters and told us to clean up the paint shop. The Master having saluted again returned to his cubbyhole.

Later we were assigned heavy work around the shop or in the yards but the Japs were rather disappointed that such big men should have so little life in them. They didn’t know we were all sick from exposure and malnutrition not counting wounds that slowly healed at best. Pointing at their flat noses, a manner by which they identify themselves, they said, “Look at Jap. He jump around. He quick and active. You all humped up and drag your selves around.”

This was true and would remain true till we got a proper diet and protection from infection and exposure. An illustration, marching to work in canvas slippers through icy water and stay all day with wet and cold feet meant colds and flu and in some cases pneumonia, and a further weakening of resistance against more virulent diseases.

In this paint shop were some queer characters. There was Buster, so called by the boys because of his resemblance to Buster Keaton the comedian. Buster was the most self-effacing individual that I ever saw or failed to see. During the day he slunk past in filthy overalls. He spoke to no one and few spoke to him. He knew himself to be a wretched slave working only for a meager ration of cigarettes and salt. But at night that was different.

Folded over so carefully away in his locker was what he and all that saw him knew to be a dude suit. White straw hat, a coat that fitted nowhere and rose at the back as if angry, tight blue pants, a little short, spotted socks, canvas shoes and a cane. Buster walked out through the gate a different man. A ladies man prepared to charm the opposite sex.

Then there was ‘Old Iron’ He was indeed old and was known as a miser by all in the paint shop. While our misers collect gold Old Iron collected anything, a cigarette end, a bent and rusty nail. Hand any of these to Old Iron and his wrinkled face would writhe with smiles. He would bow not once but several times and then would hide the tit bit in his rags. I say rags and I mean just that. He was a mass of patches. His grandfather must have got the suit secondhand when young for the patch on patch made padding at the knees and elbows or wherever there was wear.

The foreman, the three ring Foo Man, was almost a lovable character and deserved a better fate then to work under the conditions and pay for which they all worked. He was intelligent and considerate. He was obviously sorry for us. He never struck one of us and never reported any of us. He was concerned when we got soaked coming to work. He would allow us to congregate around the stove and when a guard appeared he would spring forward and abuse us in Japanese and tell us to get to work or else. The guard would smile. We were being hounded and that was what he wanted. As soon as the guard was gone our friend would allow us back around the fire. He could not believe that when he reported a man sick, obviously almost unable to walk, that the Army would not look after him. The Army took no notice and sent the man back to work so our Foo Man told the sick one to hide up in the loft on some old sacks and thus helped him to recover.
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