Its construction involved an unusually difficult operational sequence in military action in a war area. To use prisoners-of-war and their help to complete the task constituted a unique phenomenon in a world railway construction.
In mountainous terrain in a jungle belt pivoting on the Three Pagodas Pass on the Thai-Burma frontier, construction meant enduring a climate of sweltering heat and heavy rainfall, meant battling with epidemics of serious diseases such as malaria and cholera, and mastering nature in the form of jungle for a distance of 415 kilometres and in the space of one and a half years completing the task: the solid fact, in my opinion, is that the Japanese left behind them a record of considerable enterprise.
I myself was a railway engineer in one of the railway construction units and I know the true facts about the construction of the railway. I can describe their significance; it is meaningless, I think, to go on dwelling on the deaths and destructions one-sidedly.
In April 1981 Mr Geoffrey Adams, an Englishman who had worked on the railway as a prisoner-of-war, visited Japan and came to see me. He left with me a copy of his record of experiences of the war years entitled, No Time for Geishas.93 These recollections were those of a British prisoner-of-war of the actual conditions, but they were an impartial, coolly-written account. Then again, later on in 1983 Mr James Bradley, a former prisoner-of-war who made an escape, wrote about his experiences, and sent me a copy of his book, Towards the Setting Sun.94
Mr Adams makes the following statement in his memoirs:
We British hate war, but you can’t deny it exists. It benefits no-one and we must hold ourselves aloof from it. To leave behind a record of my experiences of what it was like in those days is, I think, something that will acquaint the coming generation about what war really is. I do not forget the suffering my experience of war entailed, but we must forgive the men who caused it …
I can agree with Mr Adams’ opinion and so, taking advantage of their permission, I can quote from time to time from both these gentleman’s memoirs and from my own experience, give my book the title of Across the Three Pagodas Pass, and record one aspect of the history of the construction of the Thai-Burma Railway. This record transmits historical truth. For those who seek peace, if I hold firm in telling them something about the struggle, I shall win an unanticipated pleasure.
Futamatsu Yoshihiko
July 1985
Chapter 1
DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT
The policy of continuing the war between China and Japan was not approved by America and, with their anti-Japanese freezing of assets as well as of oil in the southern zone, our country was increasingly under coercion. Diplomatic relations between Japan and America becoming difficult, secret preparations were pushed ahead in case by any chance it came to war. So far as we knew at the time diplomatic negotiations between Japan and America were believed to be succeeding.
Gunzoku, civilian auxiliaries of Japanese nationality, were called up nation-wide, higher management, junior management and other employees according to the district where they were born. Special Railway Bridge Unit was formed of gunzoku, as an auxiliary of a railway regiment. In the battle-zone, a railway regiment’s role was to work on the enemy’s railway lines and to administer the rear organization. In the event of an outbreak of war in the southern war theatre (to which we suspected we were due to join, being equipped with light summer clothing) the whole force to which we were attached had a complement of about 2,000 men. I was attached to unit HQ and in addition to me there were thirteen gunzoku senior officials in the four working companies. There were about seventy junior officials of NCO rank and altogether about 500 gunzoku were attached to the HQ and working companies. The unit was due to be sent to the Malayan front as a part of the Expeditionary Force with the Imperial Guard Division, who were nick-named ‘Miya’. Junior officials wore swords at the hip but ordinary employees had side-arms only and did not have rifles. Because we gunzoku for the most part had no experience of military training (the junior officials did not even know how to salute) we were all at sea and confused.
In the afternoon of 24 October our transport, the Hakuroku maru, slipped her moorings in the port of Ōsaka. She passed through the Straits of Shimonoseki, moving out to the open sea and that evening passed in the offing at the western tip of Kyūshū through the chain of five islands and we saw from the ship the last trace of Japanese land like the shadow of a sea-borne bird. No-one would have believed that we were to live abroad for over five years. We had contracted at our enlistment for repatriation every two years.
We entered some part of the South China Sea, seas became rough, and the ship tossed about left and right as if she were tipsy. In heavy seas the convoy ships which formed our fleet went out of sight. We passed close to Taiwan and began to feel hot. Our ship was heading for the southern region.
Chapter 2
IN INDO-CHINA
On the anniversary of the Emperor Meiji’s birthday, 3 November, we reached the waters off the southern coast islands and the following day entered the port of Haiphong, at that time a French possession in Indo-China (now North Vietnam). It was known as ‘Indo’ for short. Near the ship were cargo-handling lighters (sampans) and a crowd of peddlers’ little boats. Their Annamese dress was new to me and when I heard them talking I realized I had indeed come to a foreign country and for the first time I set foot on foreign soil.
Even at night the heat did not abate. On the lovely lakeside of Granlac the chalkstone buildings were reflected in the quiet waters of the lake. One walked down tree-lined streets and in the French manner cafés lined the sidewalks. There were petits fours cakes which were sweet-tasting, and we enjoyed a helping.
In mid-November we were transferred from Haiphong to towns along the line of the transverse railway called The Phut & Embai Line. The train crossed a high steel bridge over the River Songkoi called Bon de mer. The bridge served two purposes, first as a bridge route: second, when there were no trains it isolated the railtrack which provided unusual facilities. At Embai there was military training every day.
My unit was the first to go to Saigon. On 25 November we entrained at Haiphong station. From the carriage window you could see the South China Sea. Somehow the atmosphere was tense, but one still sensed no indication that one was at war. The train arrived at Saigon on 28 November. Saigon was called the Paris of the Orient, a beautiful town which Frenchmen took to their hearts. On the main street under the rows of trees in Maronie there were cafés and at teatime a band performed a musical programme. The leaves in the line of trees shone through and through in the hot southern sun, trembling and whispering in the breeze. I remember my first taste of snails as the French cooked them. I bought clothes to combat the heat, short-sleeves, divided hakama (trousers), lightweight gear suitable for the southern region. Even so, the sword at one’s hip was somewhat of a nuisance.
At the end of November, together with Matsudaira, the railway chief official at HQ, I went to Cambodia to survey their railways. When we essayed to go into Phnom Penh station, a section of track on the line over the frontier had been damaged and the Tsūjima Battalion of 5 Railway Regiment was standing by charged with the duty of re-connecting it. The section of damaged track between the Cambodian line and the southern part of the Thai line was said to be on the Thai side of the frontier. Unit commander Major Tsūjima was worried because our survey showed the frontier area was dangerous. Even up to this moment we could not forecast when war would start for Japan; we were hoping