As the Japanese army closed in on the British at Singapore in January 1942, Geoffrey Rowley-Conwy was in a touchy mood. The 29-year-old major had recently left his horse-drawn field artillery regiment to take on an anti-aircraft command he considered beneath his dignity. He was also being savaged by mosquitoes and attacked by what he called “those blasted mortars”.
An unorthodox and slightly untidy pipe-smoking figure, Rowley-Conwy reinterpreted the instructions of his superiors not to waste anti-aircraft ammunition on enemy ground troops. “I think we’ll have to try and give them a little of their own medicine with open sights,” he told his battery sergeant major. It worked and the sight of Japanese mortars going up “like a coconut shy” boosted morale.
Within days, however,