World War II: The Autobiography

by Jon E. Lewis

  In this territory the Japanese are fighting, with a stubborn tenacity that is almost unbelievable, from an elaborate system of prepared positions along every ridge and spur. Churned up by the troops of both armies, the track itself is now knee deep in thick, black mud. For the last ten days no man’s clothing has been dry and they have slept – when sleep was possible – in pouring rain under sodden blankets. Each man carries all his personal equipment, firearms, ammunition supply and five days’ rations. Every hour is a nightmare.

  General Allen, who had fought in the last war and who has been leading these Australians in the attack on the Kokoda Trail, says without hesitation: “This is the toughest campaign of the A.I.F. in this or any other war.” . . .

  The Australians have re-conquered the Owen Stanley Range. Today, on November 2, they marched into Kokoda unopposed, through lines of excited natives who brought them great baskets of fruit and decked them with flowers. They marched back to the little plateau where Colonel Owen had died so many weary weeks before. They marched downhill through Isurava and Deniki, where many of them had fought the bloody rearguard action of August. The Japs had fled. Patrols cautiously went ahead to scout, squirmed their way through the rubber trees to test out Kokoda’s defenses. But Kokoda was empty. There was no sound but the droning of insects and the noise of the rain pattering through the trees. Kokoda, “key to the Owen Stanley’s,” had been abandoned by the Japanese without a fight. Their defense of Kokoda had been the pass through the range, and they had failed to hold that defense line.

  BEHIND ENEMY LINES: DEATH OF A FRIEND, BURMA, 3 APRIL 1943

  Bernard Fergusson, Commander no. 5 Column “Chindits”

  In February 1943, General Orde Wingate led a long-range patrol a thousand miles behind Japanese lines in Burma. The patrollers subsequently became dubbed “Chindits” after the Burmese mystical creature the “chinthe”. Of the 318 men who set out with Mo. 5 column, only 95 returned.

  We had learned that the village, which was not shown on the map, was called Zibyugin; and that the Japs were in Pumpri and Lonpu; but it was essential to know more than that before we pushed on. We wanted information on which to decide, not only our immediate future, but our whole future policy: whether to go east or north . . .

  John, Duncan and I discussed for an hour what our best course was to be, and we came to the conclusion that we must get more information, and if possible more food from the village. If their reports about the country further east were favourable, then we could pass from village to village all through the Kachin country, with no worries about food, and with continuous information about enemy movements and dispositions. We agreed that it was more than likely that the Japs would not have tumbled to our presence in the neighbourhood, and that they were unlikely to come into the village so early in the morning unless they were going to move on elsewhere. We thought that a patrol should go into a village, and that one o’clock would be the best time for it. Duncan volunteered to go, and to my grief I let him.

  We had some tea about half-past twelve, and then Duncan got up and slowly prepared for the patrol. He had chosen to accompany him Maung Kyan, Gilmartin, and one of the commando platoon, Stevenson. Duncan left behind his maps, but took his pack: he had always disapproved of people leaving their packs behind when they went on patrol. I watched, lying on my back but propped up on my elbows. At last he was ready.

  ‘Well, I’m off’, he said. ‘If I get into trouble, I’ll fire my rifle. So Long!’

  ‘Good luck’, I said; and off he went.

  The hands of my watch seemed to turn desperately slowly during the next hour. They showed two o’clock when Pepper, who was sentry, burst through the bushes.

  ‘I just heard two shots, sir’, he said.

  I leaped to my feet and listened; so did John. There was a moment’s silence, and then with terrible distinctness we heard three more. We stood a long time, but heard nothing.

  Ages later I said to John, ‘They might have been killing a couple of pigs.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said; ‘but do you really think so?’

  It was at five o’clock that Maung Kyan and Stevenson got back. They had been wandering round in circles. I talked to Stevenson and John to Maung Kyan.

  The patrol had gone into the village, and advanced cautiously to the first house. All was quiet. Duncan climbed the steps and disappeared into the building. He had come out again almost immediately with a Kachin who by agitated gesture was urging silence on them all. At that moment a Burmese, probably a Jap guide, came round the corner, and seeing the patrol began shouting. Duncan and the others ran for the jungle and reached a chaung on the fringe of it. There he faced the village, from which the Japs were running towards them, and threw himself on to the ground in a firing position.

  ‘You run on back,’ he said. ‘I’ll cover you and join you.’

  Gilmartin flung himself down beside Duncan, and that was the last they saw.

  I waited till dawn next morning, and then marched miserably away to the north-west. I had stopped being a passenger and become the column commander again. As I marched, there came into my head the lines:

  He is gone on the mountain,

  He is lost to the forest,

  Like a summer-dried fountain,

  When our need was the sorest.

  The font, reappearing.

  From the raindrops shall borrow,

  But to us comes no cheering,

  To Duncan no morrow!

  Fleet foot on the correi,

  Sage council in cumber,

  Red hand in the foray,

  How sound is thy slumber!

  I had lost many friends already in the war, but Duncan was the first to have fallen so near me, and the only one to have gone to his death at my instance . . . All the way back to India, I seemed to see his broad shoulders, his powerful arm slashing at the jungle, his bush hat tilted back on his head; and at the halts to hear his talk, the infectious laugh which wrinkled his face, the absurd bamboo pipe which he had made with his kukri. And in moments of stress, I seemed almost aware of the old sage counsel.

  Lieutenant Duncan Menzies had been tied to a tree by the Japanese and shot.

  AN ALLIED INTELLIGENCE OFFICER IS EXECUTED BY THE JAPANESE, NEW GUINEA, 29 MARCH 1943

  Anonymous Japanese soldier

  All four of us – Kurokawa, Nishiguchi, Yawate and myself – assembled in front of Headquarters at 1500 hrs . . . The “Tai” commander Komai, who came to the observation post today, told us personally that in accordance with the compassionate sentiments of Japanese Bushido, he was going to kill the prisoner himself, with his favourite sword. So we gathered to observe this. After we had waited a little more than ten minutes, the truck came along.

  The prisoner who is at the side of the guard house is given his last drink of water. The surgeon, Major Komai, and Headquarters Platoon Commander come out of the Officers’ Mess, wearing their military swords. The time has come. The prisoner with his arms bound and his long hair now cropped short totters forward. He probably suspects what is afoot but he is more composed than I thought he would be. Without more ado, he is put on the truck and we set out for our destination.

  I have a seat next to the surgeon. About ten guards ride with us. To the pleasant rumble of the engine, we run swiftly along the road in the growing twilight. The glowing sun has set behind the western hills. Gigantic clouds rise before us and dusk is falling all around. It will not be long now. As I picture the scene we are about to witness, my heart beats faster.

  I glance at the prisoner. He has probably resigned himself to his fate. As though saying farewell to the world, he looks about as he sits in the truck, at the hills, the sea, and seems in deep thought. I feel a surge of pity and turn my eyes away. The truck runs along the seashore now. We have left the Navy guard sector behind us and now come into the Army sector. Here and there we see sentries in the grassy fields and I thank them in my heart for their toil, as we drive on; they must have “got it”
in the bombing the night before last; there were great gaping holes by the side of the road, full of water from the rain. In a little over twenty minutes, we arrive at our destination and all get off.

  Major Komai stands up and says to the prisoner, “We are going to kill you.” When he tells the prisoner that in accordance with Japanese Bushido he would be killed with a Japanese sword and that he would have two or three minutes’ grace, he listens with bowed head. He says a few words in a low voice. He is an officer, probably a flight lieutenant. Apparently, he wants to be killed with one stroke of the sword. I hear him say the word “one”; the Major’s face becomes tense as he replies, “Yes.”

  Now the time has come and the prisoner is made to kneel on the bank of a bomb crater, filled with water. He is apparently resigned. The precaution is taken of surrounding him with guards with fixed bayonets, but he remains calm. He even stretches his neck out. He is a very brave man indeed. When I put myself in the prisoner’s place and think that in one minute it will be goodbye to this world, although the daily bombings have filled me with hate, ordinary human feelings make me pity him.

  The Major has drawn his favourite sword. It is the famous masamune sword which he has shown us at the observation station. It glitters in the light and sends a cold shiver down my spine. He taps the prisoner’s neck lightly with the back of the blade, then raises it above his head with both arms and brings it down with a powerful sweep. I had been standing with muscles tensed but in that moment I closed my eyes.

  A hissing sound – it must be the sound of spurting blood, spurting from the arteries: the body falls forward. It is amazing – he has killed him with one stroke.

  The onlookers crowd forward. The head, detached from the trunk, rolls forward in front of it. The dark blood gushes out. It is all over. The head is dead white, like a doll. The savageness which I felt only a little while ago is gone, and now I feel nothing but the true compassion of Japanese Bushido.

  A corporal laughs: “Well – he will be entering Nirvana now.” A seaman of the medical unit takes the surgeon’s sword and, intent on paying off old scores, turns the headless body over on its back and cuts the abdomen open with one clean stroke. They are thick-skinned, these keto [hairy foreigner – term of opprobrium for a white man]; even the skin of their bellies is thick. Not a drop of blood comes out of the body. It is pushed into the crater at once and buried.

  Now the wind blows mournfully and I see the scene again in my mind’s eye. We get on the truck again and start back. It is dark now. We get off in front of Headquarters. I say goodbye to the Major and climb up the hill with Technician Kurokawa. This will be something to remember all my life. If I ever get back alive, it will make a good story to tell; so I have written it down.

  HOME FRONT: INTERNMENT OF JAPANESE AMERICANS, 1943

  Iwao Matsushita

  Fort Missoula, Montana

  Jan. 2, 1943

  The Honorable Francis Biddle,

  Attorney General,

  Washington, D.C.

  Dear Mr Biddle,

  I, Iwao Matsushita, an alien Japanese, have been detained in Fort Missoula, since Dec. 28, 1941, and I was recently notified about my internment order, despite the fact the Hearing Board made a recommendation for my release.

  Since I read your article in a magazine last spring, regarding your policy of treating “alien enemies” – the words, you mentioned, you even didn’t like to use – you have been occupying the innermost shrine of my heart as my only refuge and savior. So when I received your internment order, I was naturally greatly disappointed, because according to your interpretation in the magazine, you intern only those aliens whom you consider to be potentially dangerous to the public safety.

  Now, my conscience urges me to make a personal heart-to-heart appeal to you. Kindly allow me to make a brief statement about myself.

  I was born a Christian in a Methodist minister’s family, educated in an American Mission School, came to this country in 1919 from sheer admiration of the American way of life. I have always been living, almost half and best part of my life, in Seattle, Wash . . . and never went to Japan for the last twenty-four years, despite the fact there were many such opportunities, simply because I liked this country, and the principles on which it stands.

  I have never broken any Federal, State, Municipal, or even traffic laws, and paid taxes regularly. I believe myself one of the most upright persons. I have never been, am not, and will never be potentially dangerous to the safety of the United States. There isn’t an iota of dangerous elements in me, nor should there be any such evidence against me.

  On the contrary I have done much good to the American public. For instance, several years ago, I taught Japanese Language in the University of Washington, Seattle, without any compensation to help out the institution, which couldn’t get appropriation for that purpose from the State. I might prove to be of some service in this capacity.

  I am quite sure that my life history and my statement regarding loyalty in the hearing record will certainly convince you that I am a bona fide loyal resident.

  My wife, with whom I have never been separated even for a short time during the last twenty-five years, and who has the same loyalty and admiration for this country, is living helplessly and sorrowfully in Idaho Relocation Center. You are the only person who can make us join in happiness and let us continue to enjoy the American life.

  Therefore, please give my case your special reconsideration and let me anticipate your favorable answer.

  Yours respectfully,

  Iwao Matsushita

  “ONE FOR EVERY SLEEPER”: FORCED LABOUR ON THE BURMA–SIAM RAILWAY, MAY 1943

  Jeffrey English, British POW

  English was put to work by the Japanese on the Burma–Siam railway, where conditions caused the death of two out of three POWs.

  The work here was again on a rock cutting, about a mile from the camp and reached through the usual little track of churned-up mud. The shifts changed over down at the cutting, not back at camp, and so the men were paraded at 7 a.m. to be counted, and then had to march down to commence work at 8 a.m. The party coming off duty had to march back to the camp, and did not arrive until some time after 8.30 a.m. But that did not mean ten and a half hours for food and sleep. On five days a week rations had to be collected from the river, which involved going out at 1.30 p.m. and getting back between 5 p.m. and 6 p.m.

  At our previous camp the ration parties had been drawn from the semi-sick, but here all men not bedded down had to go on the working parties to the cutting, and so the afternoon ration parties had to be found from the now off-duty night shift. A man would work or be going to and from work for the best part of fourteen hours, do a four-hour ration fatigue, and have only six hours out of twenty-four for feeding, cleaning himself up, and sleeping.

  For the first week or so, when we still had over 300 “fit” in the combined Anglo-Australian camp, each individual only got two ration fatigues a week. It would have been even less, but of course one half of our 300 were on the day shift, and only the other half were on the unhappy night shift.

  On three pints of rice a day, all this, of course, was impossible and flesh and blood could not stand the strain; and in addition to the overwork we had dysentery and other diseases spreading at a frightening pace. As the numbers of “fit” men dwindled, the burden carried by the remainder consequently grew, until after only a few weeks the fitter men were doing all five ration fatigues a week as well as working the night shift in the cutting, and only having two days a week of real rest. As they gradually cracked up, more unfortunates, just past the crisis of their exhaustion or illnesses but in no way fully recovered, would be forced out in their place, lasting in their turn perhaps three or four days before they themselves had to be replaced by yet others not quite so ill.

  Just as this gruelling programme put that at our previous camp in the shade, so did the new Nip Engineers make the last lot look like gentlemen. There, they had generally beaten only those
whom they caught flagging or had somehow provoked their precariously balanced ill-humour; but here they beat up indiscriminately, beating every man in a gang if they wanted it to go faster, and two of them in particular were simply blood-thirsty sadists.

  They were known to us as “Musso” and “The Bull”, and they seemed to compete amongst themselves as to who could cause the most hurt. They were both on the night shift, and both would come on duty with a rope’s end strapped to the wrist. These they plied liberally, and they also carried a split-ended bamboo apiece, whilst Musso in particular would lash out with anything which came handy, such as a shovel. Every morning two or three men would come back to camp with blood clotted on their faces and shoulders or matted in their hair, whilst others would return with puffy scarlet faces but no eye lashes or eye brows, these having been burnt off where they’d had a naked acetylene flare waved slowly across the eyes – a favourite trick of another Nip known to us as “Snowdrop”.

  They drove the men on, not just to make them work, but as a cruel master drives a beast of burden to force it on to further efforts greater than it can manage; and one would see half a dozen men staggering along with an 18-foot tree trunk, or rolling an outsize boulder to the edge of the cutting, with the Nip running alongside lashing out at them or kicking their knees and shin and ankles to keep them going.

  Frequently men fainted, and to make sure that they weren’t shamming, the Nip would kick them in the stomach, ribs or groin. If the man still didn’t move, the favourite trick was to roll him over face downwards, and then jump up and down on the backs of his knees, so as to grind the kneecaps themselves into the loose gravel. If he fell on his side, a variation was to stand on the side of his face and then wriggle about, grinding and tearing his undercheek in the gravel: and as a way of telling a faked faint from a real one, both of these methods are, believe me, highly efficacious.