Sandakan Commemorative Service
Welcome address given by Mr Matt Anderson PSM, Director, Australian War Memorial for the Sandakan Commemorative service, 26 May 2023.
Dhawura nguna, dhawura Ngunnawal.
Yanggu ngalawiri, dhunimanyin Ngunnawalwari dhawurawari.
Nginggada Dindi wangirali jinyiin
I pay my respects to the traditional custodians of the lands on which we meet, and to their Elders, past and present.
And here, at the Australian War Memorial, as we do every evening, I welcome those who have served, those still serving, and the families who love and support them.
My colleagues here at the Australian War Memorial know I have one question in a first meeting or encounter.
What is your favourite item in the collection? What gallery speaks to you most?
Avro Lancaster G for George is probably ahead in the straw poll. Menin Gate at Midnight is a close run second. The Tarin Kowt Wall is also growing in significance. And occasionally there are more obscure objects.
My daughter’s favourite, is a small handwritten sign held by Private Arthur Cooper during a punishment session on the Thai Burma Railway: ‘This man was found at the Thai Canteen drinking coffee instead of fetching firewood and is being punished for it’. He was actually bartering with the locals for food for his mates. After he had finished his punishment he asked the Camp Commandant if he could keep the sign. The Commandant reportedly exploded in rage, but amazingly agreed. It is now on display.
But in the three years of my asking, no one has ever responded it is the small room; only about six square metres, at the end of the Second World War Gallery that contains the enlistment photos of the 1,787 Australian prisoners of war who died in North Borneo at Sandakan, on the death marches, and at Ranau.
Because no one, really, has yet to come to terms with Sandakan.
Each of those photographs is small, but the effect is crushing.
They give you a sense both of the enormity of the loss, and the individuality of the men.
Some are looking straight down the lens, confident and smiling. Others look impatient, as if we are holding them up, standing in destiny’s way. Some look to the side, unsure of themselves or perhaps of the decision they have just made to enlist. Others are simply caught in the moment before they were ready.
They are moments, frozen in time, and for most of these men, the photos are all we have.
We are here today to remember the Australian and British Prisoners of War who were captured at the Battle of Singapore and sent to North Borneo in 1942. There, in forced labour camps, they were tasked with building a military airstrip.
Conditions were harsh, food scarce and beatings common.
In 1943, in an effort to control the enlisted men, most officers were removed from the camps and conditions deteriorated further.
In September 1944, Allied air raids began. And in January 1945, allied forces successfully bombed the airfield and the Japanese prepared for the Allied landings that would surely follow.
These events, outlined here in a quick thumbnail sketch, culminated in what is still considered the greatest atrocity suffered by Australian servicemen in the Second World War; the Sandakan death marches.
Between January and March 1945, the first group of 455 prisoners began their march west, towards Ranau. They were selected because the Japanese deemed them well enough to carry baggage and supplies.
They were given starvation rations, enough for four days although the march was expected to take nine.
Those who collapsed along the way were killed, or left to die.
On 29 May 1945, a further 536 prisoners began their march. Only 183 would arrive.
When those men did arrive at the destination camps, on 24 June – after a full 26 days of marching – they found only six of the first 455 prisoners still alive.
The third, and final march started 9 June 1945.
Historian Paul Ham, when writing Sandakan in 2012, paused when he reached the third death march. He asked his Publisher: Who would continue reading? Who would be able to endure the crushing and cumulative agony of the story?
To keep himself going, he left himself a series of notes.
One said: “Human history is the last depository of the truth, or truths, about the end of days. It's all we have left when the last human trace disappears from our age, or era. Thus we must persevere... And yet, what happened here in Borneo seems at times beyond the imagination of humankind, outside the acceptable remit even of the realm of fiction. For who among our novelists would dare subject the world to a story that ends with the image of sick and starving men being clubbed, shot or bayoneted to death where they lie, amid the naked corpses of their friends? The measurelessly awful reality that descends on these poor men is near-impossible to write down. But I must persevere, for the sake of historic truth, and in the hope of conferring some sense of justice on behalf of the victims of one of the worst atrocities of the twentieth century.’
75 of the remaining prisoners set out on that third and final march but they were already so weak or ill that none survived beyond the first 50 kilometres. Exhausted, they collapsed one by one and were shot by a Japanese guard en route.
Today we confront these truths in the spirit of solemn reflection and quiet determination. We must never forget these men, and what they endured, but so too, we must make something of it.
Perhaps it is to take a moment from our busy lives and visit that small room with the enlistment photos.
Enter that gallery.
And look at the faces.
The naïve. The knowing. The cocky. The timid. Australians all.
Our gallery has few – pitifully few – items of these men in the collection. A watch, a mother’s letter folded inside a small bible. A pipe. A cigarette case. Rosary beads.
In our collection, we have a Female Relative’s badge, worn by Jane Elizabeth Stanton. There are three seven-pointed stars on her badge, one for each of her three sons; Leslie, Edward and Eric. Leslie and Eric served with 2nd/18th Battalion. Edward, with the 2nd/19th Battalion. They were all captured when Singapore fell.
In 1943, the status of all three brothers was updated to “missing, believed to be a prisoner of war”. Edward’s record was updated again in August 1944, noting that he was now interned at Borneo Camp. The final update was on 30 October 1945, with a stamp “Deceased whilst POW” – think about that for a moment, we lost so many the Army’s clerks produced a stamp.
And then there was a handwritten addition: “Sandakan”.
Sandakan. One word.
If hell on earth had a name for these men, it would be Sandakan.
In seeking information after the war, the family wrote of Edward: “he was the favourite and the most promising”.
This morning I visited Edward in the gallery. NX1080. Second row. Fourth along. If promise is confidence, you can see this in his enlistment photo. He is smiling slightly, as if he has just let you in on the joke.
As I conclude, I must acknowledge the recently arrived Ambassador for Japan, His Excellency Mr Kazuhiro Suzuki.
Please know your attendance here today is of great comfort to the families, and a powerful reminder that only last week, our Prime Ministers met, at Hiroshima, to restate the deep and abiding friendship that we now embrace as nations. Shared interests. Shared values.
In 2014 the late Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe spoke in our Parliament. He said “Our fathers and grandfathers lived in a time that saw Kokoda and Sandakan.
''How many young Australians with bright futures to come lost their lives and for those who made it through the war, how much trauma did they feel years later from these painful memories? I can find absolutely no words to say. I can only stay humble against the evils and horrors of history. May I most humbly speak for Japan on behalf of the Japanese people here in sending my most sincere condolences towards the many souls who lost their lives.''
Since we opened our doors on Armistice Day 1941, this Memorial has been charged with living up to the promise of ‘never again’.
We commemorate through understanding.
And today, we rededicate ourselves to that which is good. To those who are decent. To all who put service before self.
To those 1,787 photographs on the walls of our gallery.
I ask you to visit them. Be challenged by them.
And to remember them.
Lest we forget.