The Last Executioner

by Chavoret Jaruboon

  The training was very tough and I can’t say that I enjoyed military life. It was all about toughening us up. On the first day we were told to leave our ego and status outside on the street because everyone was just a soldier as far as school was concerned. The worst part for me was having to get up at 4.30 every morning, dress quickly, and then line up for inspection prior to running a few miles before breakfast. The training could mess with my head. At lunch we might all rush in hungrily to be fed but find that we had to line up in the canteen. We would be allowed in to sit down and our lunch would be dished out to us. Only we weren’t allowed to eat it. Instead we would be taunted and asked if we were hungry? Did the food smell delicious? To which we had to reply with a resounding, ‘No Sir!’

  It was the same when we were out on one of those endless runs. Your lungs might be in a state of collapse or your leg could be broken in three places but woe betide anyone who answered in the affirmative when asked if they were tired. I couldn’t believe the amount of running involved. Most of us needed new combat boots before the first year was up. Once again music saved me; I spent most of my free time playing my guitar.

  ***

  That year saw many changes in my life. There was a death and a birth in my family. Sadly, my father died on Sunday 6 July, aged 77. I had arrived home on the Friday evening. As usual he was delighted to see me and had a lovely dinner ready. He seemed perfectly fit; he still rode his bicycle and enjoyed smoking his pipe after a meal. I asked him to help me make paper hats for a football match at the aviation school and he was delighted to help. On Saturday evening he was confused and distressed, saying he couldn’t find 200 baht that he had stored somewhere in the house. I helped him look for it, or what was left of it after the termites had been feasting on the banknotes. I’m afraid that I got really annoyed and pointed out the mess and dirt of the house.

  He didn’t say anything, just hung his head in shame. Later on he listened to his favourite radio programme and danced to the songs he knew. He had been doing this for years. Around 9pm he said he had a stomach ache, and Tew also complained of not feeling well, so I headed out to the chemist to get medicine. When I got back, my brother Oud had arrived in from work. After a while, everyone went to bed and I tidied up the house for an hour or so.

  I awoke at 6am the following morning to a stricken Oud telling me that our father was dead. I wouldn’t believe him. Tew and I rushed into his bedroom. For the first time ever he appeared painfully thin and frail to me, and deathly still. Oud left us to run and fetch the doctor. I broke down as I looked upon the lifeless body—the first dead body I had ever seen—and Tew clung to me as I wept. After a while Oud re-appeared with the doctor who confirmed he had died after his gallbladder burst. Oud said he heard him go to the bathroom several times during the night. Though this wasn’t really out of the norm—for as long as I remember he always had to make several nocturnal visits to the bathroom.

  When I think about it now it seems that news of his death spread almost immediately, and we were suddenly invaded by neighbours and friends. Oud was great, he just kept busy organising everything. He rang all our relatives, but they weren’t very helpful. They immediately started telling us what to do for the funeral—silly stuff like be sure to get a pretty coffin, book a band, or show a movie—but didn’t offer us any money towards it. I think I was still too much in shock to be of any help; all I could focus on was that I needed to ask the aviation school for some time off. I walked out of the house amid family trying to locate someone to embalm my father’s body, which was still warm to the touch.

  I remember crying all the way to the school over the worry of how we were going to pay for the funeral. I had no savings and Oud had little more than me. I turned up at the Commander’s house and told him that I needed time off because my father had just died. He asked to see the death certificate, which of course I never thought to bring with me. Fortunately he could see that I was genuinely stricken with grief.

  We kept his body at home, that old rundown house that he loved. He had always said he wanted to die at home, so I was going to keep him here as long as I could. Besides, he was scared of hospitals and refused to go near one after his first wife had died during a minor operation—I don’t think he ever got over that. For months after, I blamed myself for not making him go to hospital when he complained he wasn’t well. I know he would have argued that we couldn’t afford it but maybe if I had got him to the hospital they might have treated him, because it was an emergency, and let me pay afterwards, I would have got the money together eventually.

  My father was certainly a popular and well-respected man. I was persuaded to move his body to the Wat, the Buddhist temple, because the house couldn’t hold the crowds that came to pay their respects. Oud and I hosted the funeral. We didn’t have much money and were grateful to the large number of people who gave us thousands of baht towards the expense. My father had already given me a list of phone numbers of his former students that I was to call if ever I was stuck. His faith in his students was justified. I rang Manoon Trirat to tell him the news. He turned up for the funeral with many other former students, that he had personally contacted, and was a huge help to us. They all gave us money and Manoon offered us books about the moon and space travel to be given out as a keepsake of the funeral. Usually people would give out books on Buddhism but Neil Armstrong was about to go to the moon and everyone I knew was really excited about it. Pat Boonratpan, the Governor of Ubolratchathani, flew in specially and took charge of the proceedings one night. You see, Thai funerals run for several days. Phra Manoowes, a senior member of the Privy Council, also came to pay his respects and my mother turned up and made Malai, a traditional Thai flower arrangement.

  As one life departed, so another came into my world. My son, Prawes, was born at 5.17am on Thursday, 30 October. The new arrival helped to fill the void caused by my father’s death, though I couldn’t help wishing that he had lived to see his grandson. I only got to see him, myself, late on Friday evening when I returned from the Air Force. Tew was still very tired but very proud of this tiny little being. It took a lot of encouragement on her part to get me to hold him; I was terrified that I might break him. I’m sure most men think that when they are faced with their first child, plus I don’t think that I had ever held a newborn baby before. Anyway I was completely smitten; he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen—at least until his siblings arrived. I was a lot more confident with the other two children, once they came along.

  ***

  I started to study Para medicine in the medical department of the Air Force and did well in the exams. I worked at Jantarubeksa Hospital in the Kampaengsaen district of Nakhon Prathom. There weren’t a lot of doctors or nurses there so I had to work hard. It was a little overwhelming if there was something big like a train crash. However, it was a good training experience from doing first aid to assisting with operations.

  I learned a lot of things during my time there. For the first time I observed a clear division between men based on their background and military status. It struck me that education was an important tool—life in the army wasn’t so rewarding if you hadn’t got a decent education. I decided not to pursue a career in the Forces and was impatient for my two-year stint to end. I was offered the chance to further my medical studies but I just longed to return to the stage and the big money.

  I graduated on 30 April 1971. Shortly after the ceremony I called up my old band mates and we headed out to the Playboy bar in Ubol. Unfortunately it was all different now. The Americans had gone and business was bad. The owner paid us for our first two nights but on our third he paid us less than what he promised, and on the fourth and fifth night he had no money to give us at all. A lot of the bars and restaurants were closed due to lack of business. We tried our luck in Korat but the bar owner there couldn’t afford to pay us, and neither could the owner in Ta Khli. I decided to cut my losses and return home to Bangko
k.

  My older brother was working in a bar in Patpong and I would often drop in on him. I was worried about making a living and supporting my young family. A friend of ours, Na, opened a bar in her house at Lang Suan behind Erawan Hotel. One night my brother introduced me to her boyfriend George, an American, who introduced me to his buddy Bob Clarson. Bob was head of the oil survey team that worked for Thailand and Singapore. I couldn’t believe my luck when he told me that he might have a job for me.

  I ended up on an island off Pattanee, a province in the south of Thailand, working for a bad-tempered American. Up to now my experiences with farangs had all been positive but this was about to change. I was employed as an interpreter for the natural gas survey team, which meant giving Tew as much money as I could spare before stocking up on three months worth of canned food. My boss and I had to set up a radio station in order to communicate with the ships out drilling for gas and also with the headquarters in Singapore. There was lots of equipment that I had never used before so naturally I was a bit hesitant. He would just shout at me, impatient at my ignorance instead of showing me what he wanted me to do. Most of the farangs there yelled at their Asian counterparts and treated them as if they were stupid. There was a pattern to their behaviour; they would insult you first and then they would pat you on the head or the back and all would be fine again, until the next time.

  I couldn’t believe the amount of money that was spent on ridiculous things. Once a guy was flown in from Singapore just to fix a transistor radio. They spent 200 baht in sending me back to Pattanee to buy an unnecessary, in my opinion, spare part. I was quite suspicious about their expenses and their desire to spend as much money as possible but I was in no position to question it.

  Soon I was very fed up—it was boring and I missed my family in Bangkok. It was hard to sleep at night thanks to the mosquitoes and I was forced to take long walks when my boss wanted to be alone with his Thai girlfriend. Every day was the same—make coffee for the boss, eat, swim in the sea and inevitably be yelled at for something or other. I had no choice but to stick it out, I needed the money. Finally in June I was told that the mission was completed and that we could start packing up. I was delighted to be going home. I met up with Bob back in Bangkok. He bought me a beer in Na’s bar at Langsuan House, where I was living, and paid me 1400 baht.

  I found myself unemployed once again.

  Then, on 21 July 1971, a couple of weeks later, my older cousin Too rang me up to tell me that the Department of Corrections in the Ministry of Interior was looking for prison guards. He suggested that I meet him the following day and he would help me fill out the application form. And I thought to myself, why not ..?

  Chapter 4

  In 1902, King Rama V bought a large piece of land in Nonthaburi to build a prison for long-term prisoners. Construction only started in 1927, after his death, and under the rule of King Rama VI, it was completed in 1931. Today Bang Kwang Central Prison holds three types of prisoners: prisoners whose appeals are pending in the Appeal Court and the Supreme Court; prisoners who are serving a sentence of 25 years or more, and the ‘death sentence’ prisoners. The prison was only ever intended to hold 4,000 prisoners, but today it holds more than twice that.

  It is strange. My father was always so supportive of me and followed me around Thailand whenever he could to watch me play with the various bands, but I am glad he didn’t live to see me enter this new phase of my life. He wouldn’t have liked to see me in a prison guard’s uniform, as he looked down on the guards and believed them to be a rough, vulgar lot.

  I had told my brother Oud about the job vacancies and persuaded him that he should at least apply too. He agreed to but wasn’t very enthusiastic. The following morning we met our cousin Too at Sanam Luang and went to the Ministry of Interior to pick up the application forms. We needed a letter from our doctor so we headed over to Tah Phrajan, but his office was closed. I gritted my teeth in frustration while Oud merely shrugged his shoulders. Then Too brought us over to Klong Prem Central Prison to ask a friend of his, Rabiab Supokiawanich, who was a senior guard, to sign both our forms as guarantor. That evening my brother and I went to a doctor in Pratunam for our medical. After a thorough examination he gave us a clean bill of health.

  I posted off our forms the next day, after attaching passport photos and doctor’s certificate. Too was fairly confidant that we would be called to attend the examination. I met up with him a few times so that he could take me through the different questions asked and give me pointers. Sure enough, on 16 August, the Minister of Interior released the names of the applicants who were to do the exam and issued them with their examination numbers. I was number 72 and Oud was 58. We were to attend the Arts building at Thammasart University on 11 September, where we had to undergo a two-day examination as well as an intensive interview. The exam consisted of four papers spread over two days. The first one concerned general knowledge followed by the afternoon paper on the rights and duties of the individual in society. The third paper concerned law, corrective law in particular. The last paper involved the rules and regulations of being a prison guard.

  I went home determined to pass. Too had given me his books and I buried myself in them. I was really meticulous in my study; I took pages and pages of notes, and set myself questions that I had to answer in a certain amount of time. Then I used a tape-recorder to tape myself reading aloud possible questions with the right answers so that I could listen and hopefully absorb the answers into my subconscious as I went about my day. I read and re-read those books until I could practically say them in my sleep. I did my best to help Oud. He found it quite tough to do any study since his typical working day in the bar didn’t finish until three, sometimes four, in the morning.

  In no time at all, or so it seemed, the morning of 11 September dawned. Poor Oud had to cram for hours the night before, after telling his boss that he was too sick to work. That was a drama in itself when George, his boss, wanted to know exactly what was wrong with him. Two months earlier Oud’s eyes took on a yellow hue and his boss made him go to doctor. It turned out he was in the early phase of cirrhosis of the liver and had to go on a course of medicine immediately. George’s girlfriend’s niece was studying nursing and he asked her for information on the condition. Obviously thrilled to be asked her professional opinion, while still a student, she wrote him a letter furnishing him with more detail than was perhaps required. As a result, when George was told that Oud was sick again, and after he was reassured that it wasn’t life threatening, he forbade anyone to visit him while he was ill.

  We were just two of a total of 707 people who were taking the exam. It was tough enough. I felt I might have scrapped a pass, but Oud wasn’t as positive. Interviews for those numbered between one and one hundred were held on the following Monday, 13 September. Oud went in first and came out sweating. One of the questions had thrown him: ‘Where was the Emerald Buddha’?

  He just couldn’t think of the answer which unnerved him for the rest of the interview. Of course, everybody knew the Emerald Buddha was a famously valuable Buddha made of nephrite jade. Its true value was discovered in the 15th century after it fell and its gold-leaf coating cracked open to reveal the green rock. It moved around a lot but was now kept in the Buddhist temple called Wat Phragaew in Bangkok. Oud just couldn’t remember this, and this made me even more nervous than I already was. However, it didn’t turn out to be as bad as I expected. They mostly asked me personal questions. Too had warned me that they would be testing me for my reactions or solutions to different scenarios.

  The weeks dragged by and finally, on 10 November, we got our results. Out of the 707 applicants, Oud came 311th and I came 122nd. Too was delighted when he heard, and I invited him over to my house for dinner that night to celebrate and thank him for all his help. We reckoned that I would probably get a position in the second round of the hiring process. I was very proud of myself. After th
e whole experience working with my American boss, a button had been pressed inside of me. I knew that I never wanted to work for farangs again; I had found the whole experience demeaning and unpleasant. I didn’t ever want to be in a job that left me open to insults and put-downs. Being a prison guard wasn’t a fancy job, nor was the pay a huge amount, but I saw it as a respectable government job, and one that I gotten through my own capabilities. I felt that it would suit me and my personality. My father had taught me to treat people as I would like to be treated in turn, so I could achieve things within the role of prison guard, and improve my position.

  Finally on 27 December 1971 the journey was over. I was to report to the Ministry of Interior on 10 January 1972, when I would begin my new job. That morning I found myself standing among a crowd of successful applicants in a cramped room, on the first floor of the Ministry. We were waiting to be told where we were going to work. I was hoping to be sent to Klong Prem and my heart sank a bit when I heard my name called out with nine others who were assigned to Bang Kwang prison. My new colleagues, six men and three women, and I immediately headed back out into the heat of morning sun to take the bus to Nonthaburi Watchtower, which is near the prison. We talked a little amongst ourselves and I suppose we were all a bit nervous. Some of the louder ones talked about beating up any inmates who gave them a hard time but I don’t think they meant it. They were just trying to reassure themselves.