Dust flew into his eyes, picked up by a gust of wind; He wanted to close them, to raise his hand and wipe away the dust, but he dared not. Moving at moments like this was frowned-upon.
The breeze had been light until just now but had now become stronger. The young boy wondered if the winds' need to be elsewhere mirrored his own as the closer to the impending moment time brought them both the stronger the desire to be elsewhere became - The wind and the boy had that in common. There was no escaping for him though, and he envied the freedom the wind had as it fled the scene.
The boy stood almost statue still like the rest of the townsfolk, eyes forward, watching the soldiers assemble in the open area. He would kick the soccer ball here, laughing with his friends sometimes, but the only sound today was the heavy tread of the soldiers feet, the clatter of rifles and the snap and flutter of the flag above him in the wind.
The lad cocked his head upwards slightly squinting at the flag catching the wind. It was free to move, fluttering crazily, but like him, not free to go anywhere; He was very familiar with it now, the flag, but at first it was simply a red dot and lines on a white background.
Now though, he knew what it stood for: Discipline, brutality, obeisance, honour, respect. Japan.
A sharply barked command brought his eyes back to the scene playing out before him. The large clearing was filled with townsfolk assembled to witness the ceremony the Japanese soldiers would conduct today.
Ceremony, they called it...It was a silent and unwilling gathering of townsfolk too afraid to be seen not to attend; An unwilling gathering, but an obedient one. The boy knew what happened to those people brave, or foolish, enough to disobey the orders the soldiers barked. Any orders at all. He had seen men and women beaten mercilessly, almost to death, just for not performing a task quickly enough and some simply disappeared altogether. It made the others move faster though. Much faster.
The soldiers stood in straight, orderly, lines; Perfectly straight and well-practised - The boy had witnessed the discipline imposed upon the troops by the officers - Not quite as brutal as that on the townsfolk, but close.
The soldiers obeyed without question. They held their rifles at the same angle and stood rock still as if they were fixed in place. Their faces were stern, unreadable, as were the faces of the officers standing before them.
They all stood facing the large building the Japanese commander had taken for his office and sleeping quarters. It was silent now but for the sound of the nearby jungle, rustling leaves, bird calls and the occasional sound of a big palm frond falling to the ground somewhere in the jungle. The boy fidgeted, scratched at the nagging itch on his back...And was handsomely rewarded by a light slap on the back of his head from his father. The fidgeting stopped, but the itch didn't.
Everyone seemed on edge these days, his father even more than others, and he had heard mother and father talking late at night about the troubles the soldiers had brought. He'd never seen his father afraid before, but he saw it a lot now. If only the British soldiers had won the fight a few weeks earlier. The friendly British and their allies fought hard against the Japanese forces, the friends he'd made amongst their ranks, those he didn't know, all of them. They died, were captured or fled though as the defenders bent then broke under the weight of the Japanese military machine. It was a brutal and frightening introduction to war for a small boy. src
The commander finally made his way from within his headquarters and it seemed the soldiers stood even more still than before, a little more at attention. He stood at the top of the wooden stairs, pristine uniform, ironed white shirt, medals, sword at his side and surveyed the scene looking right to left with a mechanical motion. Apparently he judged everything to be to his liking and he stepped down onto the ground and walked the few steps to join the group of sub-officers. They talked for a short moment and then one of the officers marched away out of sight between the huts and structures.
The language the soldiers spoke was strange however the small boy was starting to understand it. His teacher at school had been replaced with a Japanese one since the occupation and she had been teaching everyone how to read, write and speak the language. It was far more difficult than English, but the boy was a quick learner, very intelligent and studious so he picked it up quickly. He stood there with the others, now running Japanese phrases through his mind to practice, whilst he waited for the ceremony to begin - And yet not wanting it to.
Before long the officer who had marched away came striding back followed closely by four other soldiers who walked either side of another man, guarding him.
The boy could see the man was filthy, khaki shorts torn and tattered, shirt ripped and frayed and face, chest and legs covered in dirt and what looked like caked blood. His eyes were sunken deep within the sockets and he was thin; Thinner than the boy remembered.
He stood tall though, as tall as his battered body, and his tightly bound hands, would allow. The tattered man tried to hide the heavy limp when he walked however the boy could see it was difficult. His leg was obviously seriously injured, maybe broken.
The dirty man looked around at the scene around him as he moved; The townsfolk, soldiers and the commander then his eyes fell on the boy, only 20 or 30 yards away, and they locked gaze for the barest of moments. The man's mouth turned up in a slight smile, almost imperceptible, but the boy saw. Tears started to well in the boys eyes...He couldn't stop them...
…The Japanese soldiers placed the man directly in front of the commander and one other officer. The officer started talking in a loud voice, almost a shout, and kept talking for many minutes. The boy didn't understand most of the words however he knew a few.
He heard the phrase "Shikei wo tsugerareru" though, and knew what that meant. "You are sentenced to death."
The officer stopped talking, and the white-shirted commander moved forward. He removed the coat he wore, festooned with medals, handed it to the shouting-officer and stood beside the still-standing ragged prisoner.
At a signal unseen by the young boy and townsfolk the dirty, feeble man was forced to his knees roughly. He kneeled there, hands still bound behind his back staring defiantly up at the commander who had stepped closer and now stood in front of the kneeling man.
To the boy the man looked...Smaller now. Almost as if a part of him had departed already, leaving just a small portion of the whole man. It was as if he had shrunk into himself in an attempt to escape the reality of what was about to happen.
The commander placed his left hand on the scabbard of the sword at his side and deliberately reached his right hand to the handle of the sword, the Tsuka the boy knew it to be called, and with a precise and practiced movement drew the sword. The kneeling man swallowed hard, and the boy could see his jaw clench and release. He refused to close his eyes, the kneeling man, but the boy wanted to, although he dared not. The Japanese soldiers had been clear about that. All must watch, no exceptions. src (This is a picture of the beheading of Leonard Siffleet in 1943, used for effect. He was an Australian Army commando radio operator assigned to M-Special Unit in Papua New Guinea. He was captured, tortured then beheaded by the Japanese.)
The commander moved to the side of the man and slowly but surely raised the sword high above his head. It seemed like that moment lasted a long time and then...
This account of the beheading of a British officer was related to me by my father. The young boy I refer to in the story was my dad.
The Japanese took his town in 1941 and in the first several weeks of occupation held prisoners, the captured British and Allied soldiers who had fled into the jungle or been caught in the initial fighting. The wounded were killed. The enlisted men and NCO's were usually beaten and shot or used for bayonet practice by the Japanese troops and as slave labour until they died. The officers were beaten, interrogated, tortured and then beheaded publicly as per the account above.
The townsfolk were gathered, as were the other captured soldiers sometimes, and made to watch which served as a reminder that disobedience would not be tolerated. In the case of the captured soldiers death was often their only way out from the misery their lives had become in my father's town although some were transported to work in other areas. Death usually came no matter where they were sent though.
The British officer referred to in this story had often visited with my father's family. As the Postmaster in the town my grandfather held a position of some respect and influence and so he often entertained the British officers and NCO's. Ironically the same happened with the Japanese when they took over and my grandfather had to fall in-line with the wishes of the Japanese. Or die.
My father could never recall the name of the British officer who was beheaded that day, a fact that caused him great sorrow, however he was only around 6 years old at the time; A long time ago. Dad remembers receiving gifts from the officer though, of sitting on his lap as his dad and the officer talked. The officer would also show a lot of interest in my dad's drawings and had even sent one home for his own son back in England. My dad would tear up whilst telling this story, every time, and rarely finished it without some gentle prompting from me.
War is a terrible thing for everyone involved including the civilians caught up in it. When World War Two raged the world was different than today, more raw, less sterile and of course the media couldn't beam live footage from the battlefield around the world in live-time like they do now. War was waged differently also and the type of atrocities committed back then may not be tolerated now - However we only need to look at what those ISIS fuck-knuckles have done to see that maybe times haven't change all that much!
For me though, this story isn't about the big players, the combatants fighting over territory, natural resources, deep-sea ports and landing strips; It's about my dad, a young boy of some 6 or so years old who witnessed the brutality first hand. I wonder what impact these things may have had on my dad later in life if any? I know that he was super-frugal, made everything count, and would not waste a thing. I know that he was kind and giving, even to his own detriment, and I know he was grateful for everything he had, and every day he lived. I know he hated war, hatefulness, brutality and the human penchant for self-destruction. And he was selfless, putting others before himself. He was (still is) a better man than I am or will ever be and possibly that's due to his experiences.
This is the third part of a series about my dad's experiences in WWII as a young boy. It's not a history lesson, it's more of a homage to my dad who now suffers with dementia and other health issues at 83 years of age, and a mark of respect that shamefully I haven't shown to him previously. That is to my detriment, especially in respect of his war-time experiences, and of course for me, my own.
You can see parts one and two here if you are interested.
The original post contained 1660 words, written and posted by me in March 2018. This post comprises 2084 words and has been reworked and reposted for the @nonameslefttouse #showcase-sunday concept.
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@galenkp such a powerful and descriptive story. You have the ability to make this into a really good book, just saying ;) well done. You really have a gift for storytelling.
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War is such a terrible thing.
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Sure is.
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