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We had beaten the Japanese, and their Emperor had ordered all his forces to lay down their arms and surrender with honour. Thousands and thousands of them came into our lines with their hands up as ordered, and immediately were regarded as ‘Japanese Surrendered Personnel’. This as distinct from Prisoners of War. POW status carried a stigma deep shame to a Japanese soldier, who was expected to, and did, kill himself rather than be captured.

He did this incidentally, normally by activating a grenade the left side of his chest. It was towards the end a common sight when advancing on the enemy to hear the crack of a grenade, followed by a little shower of what looked like white petals falling. This was his now fragmented soldiers pay book.

But now these not dishonoured soldiers were content to be corralled into labour camps, and to work in accordance with the peace treaty in restoring the infrastructure of the country they — and we —had ravaged. From these camps — holding from three thousand men upwards — working parties were sent out at daybreak to mend roads, repair railway stockyards, unload ships, and other manual labouring as required.

My personal experience of JSP camps was gained when my colonel ordered me to go once to Rangoon and take over one of these camps as commandant for a few weeks. I was an infantry company commander in a Ghurkha battalion, thoroughly enjoying the end of the war in the exhilarating hunting of Burmese Dacoits — armed robbers terrorising villagers — who in any case would scarper as soon as they knew we were after them. I complained, suggested a better man — all the usual excuses — but to no avail, so off most reluctantly I went.

The skeleton staff of the camp was virtually run by a splendid regular army Regimental Sergeant Major, and although only established for a couple of weeks, the place ran on well oiled wheels. He told me my sole function, apart from looking important, was to stand by him at the camp gates at daybreak of and inspect working parties of two or three hundred en as he checked them out on his clipboard. He explained that the Japanese senior officer, a full colonel, with his adjutant, plus an interpreter, would attend the proceedings.

On my first such proceedings, still sore that I had been lumbered with this very boring job, I determined to rush things and get it over with fast. Thus when the Japanese officer in charge of the first party trotted to the gates and reported to Sergeant Major for instructions, and the Sergeant Major turned to me and said ‘Ready for inspection, sir’ I said peremptorily, that’s okay, send them off. This was not the right procedure. I was respectfully reproached, and told for the sake of good discipline I should have found a small fault with just one man in every party, and would I please do so in future, in the interests of good military discipline?

So when the next party reported I identified an unfortunate soldier with an imaginary blemish in his turnout, and waited to how ‘good military discipline’ was to be exercised.
Through the interpreter the colonel apologised to me and gave his adjutant a stern rebuke. The adjutant called for the officer in charge of the party and both stiffly faced each other; hit him hard on the face, causing him to reel slightly, quickly correcting his stance. This assaulted officer then called loudly to his senior NCO, whom he then resoundingly biffed on both sides of his head, more than slightly disturbing his equilibrium.

The senior NCO called out the offending soldier, who got a hell of a pasting and was helped to the Medical Hut by a comrade.

I wonder if I should be ashamed that thereafter — for the fortunately brief time I had to endure this tedious appointment — I got some gratification in finding faults during almost every brief inspection? At least I did come to come to understand much about the harsh Japanese military of ‘Bushido’. Later, talking to our own released prisoners of war about their experiences, they told me their view of perceived brutality of their Japanese guards. At first they believed they were sadistic, but in time they realised they were getting the same heartless — even cruel — treatment exercised on their own men.

When the time to rejoin my battalion came, and at the end my last working despatch parade, I said farewell to the Regimental Sergeant Major, commiserating with him on his indefinite term in the camp which lay ahead of him. He said ‘One gets to like the taste of it, though’ he said.

‘War is Hell’ I replied.

‘Sir’ he crisply answered, with a faint smile.

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