by Tim Bowden
The Nips were totally desperate and therefore more dangerous, many throwing their lives away needlessly. They would expose themselves fearlessly and be cut down to find out where our exact positions were.
There were dozens of others along the track, rather than be taken prisoner, would commit hari-kari [disembowel themselves].
The 2/23rd Battalion did not escape unscathed. Fourteen officers and 211 other ranks were killed, and 40 officers and 620 other ranks were wounded. The battle only ended at 8 am on 15 August with the news that Japan had unconditionally surrendered.
The Australians had hoped that the capture of the oil field would ease the logistics of their Borneo campaign, but even that was a disappointment. The Japanese had so thoroughly demolished the field that it took a year to bring it back into production.
The Battle of Balikpapan, on the north-east coast of what is now Kalimantan, Indonesian Borneo, was the last stage of what was known as Operation Oboe, which took place in the closing weeks of the war against Japan in July 1945, conducted by the soldiers of Australia’s much-travelled Seventh Division, who also fought in the Middle East.
The Australian plan for the capture of Balikpapan had three objectives: the destruction of the Japanese positions and oil storage by air and naval bombardment, the elimination of the enemy garrison and capture of the port and airfields and, last, the pursuit and elimination of the remaining elements of the enemy and the restoration of the government facilities.
On Tuesday 26 July the Commander in Chief of the Australian Army, General Sir Thomas Blamey, came aboard HMAS Kanimbla in Balikpapan harbour. He was met by the ship’s captain, Brigadier Chilton, and the executive officer. It was General Blamey’s first visit to the ship in an official capacity, accompanied by Lieutenant General Morshead, Major General Milford and Rear Admiral Albert G. Noble of the US Navy—‘a generous sprinkle of high command indeed’, wrote Sergeant Bill Spencer in his account of that action, In the Footsteps of Ghosts.
Blamey said: ‘I don’t know what will happen to a lot of you after the show is over. It will be decided by Washington and London as to what further contributions Australia will make in this war against Japan. It may well be that some of you with long term service will be given a spell—a spell which you have so justly earned. I know the 2/9th will want to be in the thick of it.’
A battalion wag interjected, ‘Pig’s arse!’
The commander in chief continued: ‘And I’m quite sure that you will worthily uphold the fine traditions of the Seventh Division. You are in splendid physical condition and ready for all that may come your way. Good luck and God speed.’
Again, the comedian added his bit: ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’
Bill Spencer recalled: ‘Although Blamey was unabashed at the interjections, they were spot on and part of every man’s inner thoughts. At least Operation Oboe began on a humorous note.’ (William B. Spencer, In the Footsteps of Ghosts)
At 3.30 am on 1 July 1945, Spencer and his comrades were awakened to discover they were surrounded by an enormous fleet of naval vessels. Those warships fired their broadsides in multiple rockets towards Balikpapan and the entire smoke-shrouded port area appeared to be on fire. ‘A typical Kipling dawn came up like thunder, with Allied warships adding their thunderous roar of heavy guns, speeding their messages of death and destruction towards the shore.’
Obvious targets were seen to receive hits. Racks of multiple rockets were discharged. The smoke and debris rising into the air made it appear that there was a huge mountain range behind Balikpapan, as the entire coastline was being swept by naval gunfire.
The troops advancing towards the coast from their ships in landing craft were told to keep their heads down but the urge to look was too strong and ‘many heads rose above the gunwales for a quick peep’. All boats from Kanimbla beached safely and without damage. Then the 2/9th Battalion moved up the beach unopposed towards its target—a cracking plant and refinery.
Suddenly we were engulfed in heavy fire from above and for one moment thought that we were being attacked by the Japanese Air Force. Then we were able to see the markings of American Hellcat fighters from Admiral Halsey’s aircraft carrier squadron. This was a typical American gung-ho operation, which adhered to the maxim that anything that moved was to be shot at, as it just might be Japanese. We found shelter in ditches and unused concrete drainpipes, and I recall there was only one casualty from this misadventure.
The Riko River was home to the largest crocodiles Bill Spencer had ever seen. It was always wise to hug the banks of the river when navigating it, in case there were Japanese on the loose. During the night, however, it was prudent to stay about 20 yards out to avoid straying under one of the many ‘over the water’ toilets used by the villagers, who were gentle people. ‘They loathed the Japanese and for good reason. Dayak people, who lived further inland and down the coast from Balikpapan, were known to have harassed the Japanese troops by using their lethal blow pipes and darts. They were proficient in this and could remain unseen.’
On 8 July Spencer’s unit was involved in a patrol pushing up the Riko River, which was known to be used by the Japanese as a water transport corridor and needed investigating. Hugging the southern bank of the river, they moved upstream until the junction with the Mati-Riko River, a smaller tributary believed to lead to the Japanese-held village of Separi. The patrol decided to stay close to the bank and observe movements during the night. That bore fruit at 10 pm when they heard the noise of approaching engines on the Mati-Riko, accompanied by a babble of indigenous voices. This came from a string of prahus (long narrow canoes) towed by an enemy motor boat.
Next morning, with mist rising from the river, Corporal Ray Lalchere saw an ocean-going vessel of some 300 tons moored about 800 metres upstream. Closer inspection found it deserted, but with a cargo of rice, oil and coal. On the opposite bank was a smaller boat, about 12 metres long. The smaller vessel had been fitted with steel plates along its superstructure for protection. Battalion headquarters was advised of this by radio, and an ambush authorised to attack the enemy supply team using the river.
On 15 July, 11 Platoon from B Company moved out before dark, occupied the cargo vessel and took up positions on the starboard side. Its weapon was a PITA (projectile infantry tank attack), which fired a single bomb which was fused on the face and weighed about 4.5 kilos. This was a powerful weapon against armour—and a thoroughly devastating one against a fragile launch.
Private Jack Moore was the PITA operator, and was bursting to use his pride and joy for the first time after having carried it for years. At 10 pm his dream came true, as a motor launch appeared with the usual flotilla of prahus in tow. The ambush team waited till the enemy boat was abreast of them and the order to fire was given. Almost immediately the PITA bomb burst in the launch with a tremendous explosion, and was accompanied by Bren and rifle fire. A second bomb set it alight. According to Spencer: ‘The ambush party recalled the happy chatter of the natives instantly changing to panic stricken yelling, as bodies flailed onto the bank and into the dense prickly undergrowth, struggling through the thorny growth into the adjoining swamp.’
There were estimated to be about twenty Japanese soldiers on the boat—five of them were found dead at the scene, and the others were injured or dead and probably floated down the river. The natives in the prahus escaped injury and the burning boat drifted slowly astern and sank.
The day after this incident, an American LCT (landing craft tank), armed to the teeth with a Bofors-style cannon and other heavy machine guns, chugged up around the headland. Ray Lalchere made contact and told them about the two vessels up river. Shortly after they departed for a look all hell broke loose, as the Americans fired everything they had and ended up sinking the small armoured vessel. Ray bailed them up as they were returning, but they were unrepentant. ‘It moved,’ they said, ‘we had to retaliate.’
Then on 6 August 1945 the Americans dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima.
There was great rejoicing at 9.20 pm on 10 August 1945 when the 2/9th Battalion signal section picked up a radio signal originating from New York with the news that Japan was willing to accept unconditional surrender.
Spencer’s diary of that day read:
Today brings us to the victorious conclusion of the war in the Pacific. The situation in the Balikpapan area remains. Tonight has been one of celebration. As it happened it was a beer issue day—three bottles per man. Soon after the news reached them the men went berserk. Verey flares, parachute flares and tracers coloured the sky. The natives in the Netherlands Indies Civil Administration Camp commenced hilarious celebrations. Arrangements are being made to accommodate surrendering enemy troops. Perhaps we will now discover where they have been hiding.
Chapter 21
THE LOST YEARS AND DAMAGED LIVES
The dropping of the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the Soviet invasion of Japanese-occupied Manchuria in August 1945 brought World War II to an end, suddenly and unexpectedly. It could not come a moment too soon for the Australian Eighth Division prisoners of war of the Japanese, many of whom were close to death from starvation and the aftermath of the debilitating work on forced slave labour projects like the Thai–Burma Railway.
It is now known that a secret order from the Japanese high command had decreed that in the event of an Allied landing near POW camps in South-east Asia, all prisoners were to be killed. This had actually been carried out in Borneo, where some 2000 Australians and 500 British at Sandakan had been marched into the jungle and slaughtered in the infamous Death Marches in early 1945. Only six men escaped to tell the story.
You will not find many Australian prisoners of war of the Japanese who have anything but praise for the Americans for dropping the atomic bombs on Japan when they did. Even the POWs still in the main Changi camp in Singapore, situated in and around Changi Gaol, were forced to get out and dig long deep trenches outside the gaol perimeter in late 1944 and early 1945. The purpose of these pits was never explained, but the POWs believed—correctly as it happened—that they were digging their own graves and would have been machine-gunned into them had the Allies landed on Singapore island.
The sudden surrender after the atomic bombs were dropped was only successfully negotiated after the Japanese government received assurances from the Americans that the life of Emperor Hirohito would be spared, that he would be permitted to stay in his palace in Tokyo and not humiliated by any war crimes trials. The Allies were not keen to invade the Japanese homeland, which would have caused catastrophic casualties on both sides, and these terms were accepted quickly.
In round figures, of the 22,000 taken prisoner by the Japanese, 14,000 Australian prisoners of war had survived. Most of the 8000 had died unnecessary deaths through starvation, overwork and tropical diseases which could have been prevented by better food, and even minimal medicines to combat diseases like malaria, dysentery, pellagra and cholera, or through a random act of brutality by a Japanese, Korean or Formosan guard.
Travel by sea was a huge hazard for POWs. After the building of the Thai–Burma Railway the Japanese attempted to move some 4000 British and Australian POWs to Japan on tramp ships from Singapore to work as slave labourers in iron and coal mines. Many of these ships were unfortunately sunk by American submarines, their captains unaware that there were Allied POWs on board. Hundreds died and did not reach Japan. A fortunate few, after clinging to wreckage in the South China Sea for five nights and six days, were picked up by American submarines and returned to Australia in late 1944—bringing the first accurate news of what the Japanese were really doing with their Australian POWs.
But in August 1945, the surviving 14,000 were scattered through South-east Asia and beyond. The largest group, 5549, was congregated on Singapore island and Johore, but 4830 were distributed in several camps and in a number of working parties in Thailand and remote areas of Burma. In addition, 265 were in French Indo-China; about 750 were distributed throughout the islands of the Netherlands East Indies, with 385 in Java and 243 in Sumatra; about 100 were on Ambon; two were at Macassar; seven on Bali; and another 150 were at Kuching in British North Borneo. About 2700 were distributed between Japan, Korea and Manchuria, while about 200 remained on Hainan Island.
In Changi the prisoners had radios and knew what was happening in the outside world. But they could not predict how the Japanese would react, and there was evidence that the Japanese were going to be bad losers.
Sydney Piddington was a member of the Changi Concert Party and helped to run the ‘The Changi Canary’, the secret radio:
The Australian command asked us to run the radio and get hourly reports, which we did. As it became more and more dangerous it was a rule not to tune in until right on time. However, I tuned in about five minutes early and heard the last few bars of Paul Whiteman’s band playing ‘Rhapsody in Blue’. Then I heard the first news of the dropping of the bomb on Hiroshima.
Allied troops in the main base camp, Changi, were soon aware that the war was over. ‘There was a young fellow dropped onto the aerodrome and he looked like a pirate,’ recalled Sergeant Stan Arneil. ‘He must have been about six foot three. He seemed to be as wide as an ox, in great health, with a revolver and all that sort of thing—and he looked absolutely beautiful.’
Signaller Chris Neilson thought so too:
You would have thought he was Flash Gordon. He looked the part—he’d have given Flash Gordon a hiding. He strolled in amongst us and we were all cheering like bloody hell. A Jap raced up to meet him. Evidently they had been told that he would be coming in on his own. This Jap came up, bowed and said, ‘I will take you to the commandant of the Changi prison camp.’ This bloke just went WHACK and lifted him under the chin. He said, ‘You take me nowhere, you bring the bloody commandant to me,’ and he gave him a kick in the arse as he ran away. The next minute up came the commandant at the double. Oh it was lovely! You should have heard us cheer. He rushed up and started bowing, and this bloke said, ‘Never mind about that bloody crap. Look at those skeletons over there—you’re responsible.’ Oh did he tear into him!
Reactions of the former Japanese conquerors towards their POWs ranged from the obsequious to the bizarre. Private Charles ‘Nutty’ Almond was still in Thailand when the war ended, doing maintenance on the operational Thai–Burma Railway near the town of Bampong:
We worked a couple of days after the war finished. We came home from work one night and flags were flying from all the huts. The Japs had finally announced the war was over. I wouldn’t believe it. My mate said, ‘The war is over, Chas.’ And I said, ‘Not again!’ He said, ‘It’s fair dinkum this time.’ I said, ‘Yeah I’ll believe it when I see it.’ He said, ‘Well, come out here.’ One of our chaps was walking along with a Jap walking towards him. As they got close to each other the Jap stuck out his hand, offering to shake hands, and our bloke just hauled back and clocked him one under the chin. I said, ‘The war is over fair enough!’
Prisoners in camps in Sumatra saw little of the war. Few Allied planes flew overhead and no land battles were fought anywhere in the area. Perhaps the Japanese soldiers were as ignorant of the implications of the surrender as the POWs. Sergeant Graham Chisholm remembered:
When the war finished our local Japanese didn’t surrender. It took them up to ten days before the Emperor’s cousin came down and said, ‘Hey, you had better surrender.’ We were then told that the nations of the world were again at peace. But we had a pretty tough ten days before the surrender was confirmed, because they brought the regular troops in around the camp. They put down their chin straps, and when a Japanese soldier put down his chin strap you knew that something serious was going on. They had machine guns ringing us. So for ten days there was hardly a movement, even the birds were quiet. The Japanese had vast armies that had not been defeated and they wanted to go on fighting.
But when Count Terauchi came down with a surrender order direct from the Emperor the senior officers in our area,
22 of them, had a little party. They drank saki all night and put on their ceremonial uniforms. I don’t know whether they were short of swords, but when dawn came they went outside and bowed to the rising sun, went back and had another slug of saki. Each one then took a hand grenade, and they sat in a circle around the walls. On the word of command there were 22 pins pulled out of 22 hand grenades, and that led to many brown flecks on the bricks of that place. It was devastated. But in their minds they went on to an honourable after-life, rather than being dishonoured by being captured and having to continue living.
During their captivity many prisoners thought about the revenge they would take against the guards at the end of the war. The day will come, they would tell themselves—and they would imagine in fine and bloody detail the way they would square the account. At times, nearly all prisoners thought it would be worthwhile to sacrifice their own lives if only they could kill one or two of their most brutal and sadistic guards at the same time. The intense hatred that some prisoners felt might have helped keep them alive—hate was a good driving force. But at the end of the war many of the prisoners found that their passion for vengeance had gone. This is what some of them had to say:
There were a number of dead Japanese found at the back of Changi Gaol down at the beach. Whether they were shot by Chinese or by our people, we don’t know. We were so pleased, so elated, that the whole thing was over and we would be going back home, I don’t think a lot of us were looking for revenge. (George Aspinall)
It never occurred to me to bash a Japanese just because he was a Japanese. I knew enough about them to realise that their code of conduct was completely foreign to us, but that didn’t justify bashing just any Jap because we had been bashed from time to time. If it was a particular Jap, well that was different in my book. We were aware that some of the occupation forces had made it possible for people to take action if they wished. I heard about one Australian who took the opportunity to punch a guard, but in so doing broke his wrist. It’s debatable whether that was worthwhile. (Jack Sloan)