JAPAN
Our first impression—and it turned out to be a lasting one—was that the people in Kyushu were quite different from the Japanese we had encountered in the occupied territories of Burma, Malaya and the Philippines. They were so refined, polite and gentle that one could not associate them with the rough, abusive front-line soldiers of the Japanese army. The naval officers were a cut above the army soldiers, probably because only the more educated in Japan joined the navy. Another aspect which caught our eye was the cleanliness of the town, the streets, the neat Japanese-style houses and the well-laid-out parks. We also noticed that, although this was a large town, there were hardly any restaurants, and the shelves in the large number of shops were bare. Japan had already started to tighten its belt and every necessity of life was now being rationed under central control.
Ramesh Benegal, recipent of the Maha Vir Chakra, was born in Burma and was seventeen when the Japanese captured British-occupied Burma. He tells this extraordinary, first-person story of his career with the Indian National Army in Burma and Japan in the year from 1941 to 1945.
We stayed in a hotel for a day and were kitted out with breeches-like trousers tied at the ankles, boots and a woollen coat to protect us against the weather which was fast turning cold.
The next morning, we boarded the train which was to take us to Tokyo and the Preparatory School. The train passed through lovely countryside and we were filled with wonder when it went through a long tunnel under the sea.
We had heard so much about Tokyo and were not disappointed when we arrived there. The bustling city had one of the best local train systems in the world. We were told that we could set our watches by the times when these trains arrived and left. All signboards were in Japanese and although we were conversant with the language by now and knew how to read Katakana, the basic entry-level alphabet, we could not understand a single notice.
The representatives of the batch which had gone before us were part of the reception committee which greeted us on arrival, and we were happy to meet some of our own for a change. They gave us contradictory reports on life in the Preparatory School, known as Koa Do Gakuin, and we did not know which version to believe—the good one or the bad one.
When we reached the school, we were formally received by the housemaster, who was responsible for our physical training and discipline. He looked grim and spoke through the side of his mouth. After his welcome speech, we were allotted rooms. Mine was on the ground floor right next to the entrance to the building. The room looked warm enough with a bed on one side, a cupboard at the other end and a writing table and chair against the only window. Getting a room to oneself after what we had been through was the height of luxury. But little did we know that the timetable of this Borstal-like institute would hardly give us any time in our rooms.The school itself was set in very picturesque surroundings. It consisted of three blocks in a truncated ‘U’. Our block had fifty rooms, 25 on the ground floor and an equal number on the first floor. The middle part of the ‘U’ had the classrooms and a large dining room, while the other part of the ‘U’ had about 20 rooms which housed a group of eight cadets from Thailand. They were not only indisciplined but also very rude to the school authorities. They never attended classes, never came to PT sessions and perpetually fussed about the food and the quality of medical attention. Although they were so close to our billets, we were quite clearly segregated from them. I was unable to understand why their country had sent them here. They only ended up making their lives miserable—and everyone else’s as well.
“¦we know that the timetable of this Borstal-like institute would hardly give us any time in our rooms.
We were given a day to rest and recuperate from our journey and then the routine started. Reveille at five in the morning, a three-mile run to a park in the vicinity, a fifteen-minute halt and a run back to school; then a five-minute break followed by ten minutes’ PT, all this in temperatures below zero, and on occasions even when it was snowing. We had half an hour for ablutions and then breakfast consisting of a bowl of rice and a bowl of shiru. As a special case, we were given a bottle of pasteurised milk. We loved this. Then we had classes until noon. Lunch was a repetition of the earlier meal and was sometimes supplemented with fish. After this, we had classes until four. Then a cup of Japanese tea without sugar. (Sugar was such a rare commodity that a couple of teaspoons of it were served once a year on Emperor Meiji’s birthday with that day’s tea.) Then we changed into our PT kit and had compulsory games until six, a half-hour break for a change of clothes, dinner at 6.30—a repetition of the morning menu, sometimes embellished by pickled radish. We had compulsory study under supervision until eight and then it was lights off at ten.
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The two hours after study were the only time we could call our own and were spent in chat and making friends within the group. Sundays were free after the morning run and PT, but we had to spend a lot of time washing our clothes and keeping our rooms spotlessly clean for the next day’s inspection. Booking out was not allowed and any visit out was only in groups and under supervision. The only entertainment we enjoyed was skating (without skates!), whenever the pond in front of the main building froze.
The only entertainment we enjoyed was skating (without skates!), whenever the pond in front of the main building froze.
When we lost Bishan Singh that fateful day, our number had been reduced by one. To make up the intended number of 45, a new cadet called Aktar Ahmed was chosen and sent to join us. It was good to have him.
There were a few flatterers who would visit the housemaster and his wife when they were free in the evening and listen to his tiresome sermons. It was strongly recommended that we take turns to attend these meetings. It was only after I went a few times that I realised that there was a good side to these visits. The housemaster’s wife would serve us green tea and things to eat, and this made a change from the meagre food we were served in the school. The hard part was sitting for an hour and pretending to listen to the housemaster’s stories. He was well-meaning, though.
A Japanese film division group visited us and filmed our activities at the school. It was something like ‘A day in the life of a foreign cadet’. The film was shot in colour and when it was shown to us, we could not believe that it was us or that it was our school. Everything looked grand in colour. Even the dining scene with the food spread on the table looked like a banquet.
The Selection Process
The next pilots’ course at the Imperial Japanese Air Force Officers Academy (called the Koku Shrkan Gakko) was to commence soon, and for the first time in Japanese air force history, the government agreed to admit ten foreign cadets into its hallowed precincts. Volunteers who were prepared to undergo the tough selection process were invited from amongst the 45 of us. It surprised an aviation buff like me that only 25 opted for the air force. The rest were keen to join the prestigious Imperial Japanese Army Academy which had trained such eminent soldiers as Chiang Kai Shek and many an army commander of other southeast Asian countries.
I had of course opted for the air force and hoped fervently that I would be selected. The 25 of us were asked to report to the Selection Centre at the unearthly hour of six in the morning. I have since undergone our own Air Force Selection Board procedures but the Japanese method was unique and time-saving, possibly because it was wartime and one could not select candidates at leisure.By the time the day arrived for appearing before the Selection Board, a few boys had withdrawn their names. This was the result of intense indoctrination by the Army Academy enthusiasts among us. Close friends did not want to be separated and the more dominating one decided the issue of which line to pursue.
On the appointed day, just 22 of us reported at the imposing building which housed the Air Force Selection Committee. It was a four-storeyed building and when we entered the main foyer, we found a number of Japanese men already waiting to be called in. However we were given precedence.
We were each given a large sheet of paper on which squares were drawn with numbers signifying the rooms we would have to go to for the many tests. We went from room to room for these tests—eyesight, a colour blindness test, hearing, chest x-ray and so on, thus concluding the medical part of the examination. This, I realise now, is a very sensible move because if a candidate has a medical defect he can be eliminated in the initial stage.
I have since undergone our own Air Force Selection Board procedures but the Japanese method was unique and time-saving, possibly because it was wartime and one could not select candidates at leisure.
Once the medical formalities were completed and our sheets of papers stamped and signed in the appropriate squares, we were directed to the first floor. Here we went from room to room, undergoing tests for mental calculation, speed of the eye-reflex and other reflexes, and all the usual tests conducted in selection centres the world over. At 12.30 there was an hour’s break for lunch. Then on to the third floor for another series of tests. One of the interesting tests was a revolving chair in which the candidate was strapped and blindfolded. When the chair revolved at high speed, he was instructed to raise or lower his arms. Then the revolving was stopped, the blindfold removed and the candidate was asked to walk towards the examiner. It was amusing to see us perform. There was even one instance where a boy started screaming and had to be helped out of the room. I am still not sure what this disorientation test proved, because one or two who had been completely disoriented were selected all the same.
The fourth and last floor had the pilot aptitude battery tests. These were similar to the ones used even today in our IAF selection boards. By six in the evening, all of us had completed the programme and our sheets of paper looked very much like completed crossword puzzles. Then we had the interview by the Board. Only general questions were asked, probably to assess our proficiency in the language. We were then asked to wait in the hall. It was a long and anxious wait and it was nine when a member of the Board came in and announced the names of the ten successful candidates. Pronouncing Indian names is a difficult proposition for most foreigners and it was more so in this case. He had to repeat our names twice or thrice before we knew who he was referring to.
I was delighted when he called out my name and I said a silent prayer of thanks. The ten selected were, Dasan, Narayanan, Ranjit Das, Menon, Karmakar, Doraiswamy Sharma, Karuppiah, Bimol Deb and I. Of these, the first three ended up as senior executive pilots in Air India, Menon as a pilot in Indian Airlines, Karmakar flew for a company in Jamshedpur, Doraiswamy became an influential figure in Madras and Sharma a senior executive in an insurance company in Singapore. When I last heard of him, Bimol Deb had joined the Burmese Navy. I was the only one who joined the Indian Air Force when the War ended.
In the Academy, the junior cadet spends his first few months saluting every senior cadet irrespective of the time, place or the number of times he has walked past him.
Many of those rejected felt their disappointment deeply. My close friend from Burma, Gandhi Das, did not get in. But he was of a philosophic bent of mind and took it in his stride. It was I who missed him deeply.
We parted company with the 25 who were entering the Army Academy with the assurance that we would seek to meet each other at every opportunity. We didn’t know then that except for a brief get-together, there would be no contact with them until after the War.
Our entrance into the Japanese Air Force Academy caused immense curiosity among the inhabitants. No foreign cadets had ever been trained there before us, and the senior cadets were not sure how they should treat us. We were grateful for this mercy because it turned out that the concept of discipline in the Japanese training centres was quite different from what we would consider normal. This was the case with the Japanese army as well.
To give you an idea of how things run—a junior batch of fresh entrants is considered the lowest form of animal life and is treated as such until the members become seniors. Juniors are fair game for senior cadets and members of the staff. They are punished for the smallest infringement. Whereas in our and other academies, a senior can upbraid a junior for being improperly dressed, for example, or for not standing at attention when talked to, all he has the authority to do is shout at him and report him to the officer concerned. But this was not so in the Japanese Military Academy.
In the Academy, the junior cadet spends his first few months saluting every senior cadet irrespective of the time, place or the number of times he has walked past him. For the infringement of not receiving a salute, the senior is entitled to call him, upbraid him without using abusive language and then thrash him. The junior is constrained to stand stiffly at attention even when his face is being battered and hold a stoic face without the least sign of tears. I do not think that in any other country this sort of treatment is tolerated. I have already described what a Kempae-Tai policeman can do to an officer for any action he considers is misbehaviour.
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Although we were supposed to be part of the 59th batch, we were different in that we had separate living quarters and messing arrangements, and our training was independent of theirs. A Captain Kato was in sole charge of us and practically lived with us. A sergeant (termed Sochodono) was his helper and he also stayed with us. We were, quite surprisingly, required to salute only the officers and had no command over the senior cadets. As the first foreigners in the establishment, we were undoubtedly given preferential treatment and did not have to undergo the indignity of being slapped by anyone.
Unfortunately, this was not so in the Army Academy where our brother cadets were admitted. This Academy was quite accustomed to having foreign cadets of various nationalities and therefore treated all of them the same way. We heard that a few of our boys were slapped by their seniors. Sadly, when the batch junior to them arrived, they ‘paid them back’.
As junior officer cadets, our rank-badges consisted of a collar tab with a solitary metal star. Our uniform consisted of the standard Japanese one of breeches, puttees, a thick woollen coat and heavy army boots. In other words, we were considered officer cadets in the rank of lance corporal. We had regular PT, rifle drill, and we always went to classes on the double. When we marched in a column, we had to goose-step every time we saluted a passing officer. Despite the freezing temperatures and the abundance of snow, we carried out our PT bare-bodied and literally sweated it out each time! It is really a credit to the tough training we received that not one of us reported sick throughout our stay at the Academy. Not even a common cold, believe it or not.