David Mundell

I absolutely agree, which is why this debate is so important. Many of those men did not feel able to speak about their experience, or found when they returned to the UK that the public wanted to move on, now that the war was over. It is incumbent on us to relay these experiences, which is why I want to tell Jock’s story tonight. Red Cross parcels rarely arrived in the camp, and dysentery, beriberi and malaria ravaged the prisoners. Somehow, Jock managed to stay alive, and he became a beacon of hope for other prisoners as, in the dark nights, he sang a song called the “Dumfriesshire Foxhounds”, a tune that lifted spirits and became so well known that even the Gurkhas and Australians joined in. Jock never gave in to bitterness, but the scars he carried—both physical and emotional—never truly healed. When he returned to Lockerbie, he embraced his family and the life he had left behind, becoming a major part of the annual Lockerbie gala. He shared his stories not to gain sympathy, but to honour truth and bear witness. He spoke of the Gurkhas—the “bravest little men”, who moved like ghosts in the jungle. He never forgot the cruel warnings prisoners were given, after being forced to dig potentially their own burial pit, that if the Americans came, the prisoners would all be burned alive, as he had seen happen to Gurkhas in Singapore. Let us take this opportunity to remember not just what Jock and his fellow prisoners of war endured, but what they stood for: duty, dignity and decency. We owe Jock—a man who, despite everything, found the strength to go on—and the men and women like him, more than monuments. Let us not allow the fading of photographs or the yellowing of old newspaper clippings to erase stories like his. Let us speak them aloud, share them and learn from them. When the last witnesses are gone, all that remains is what we choose to remember.