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The Joy-Ride

WE WERE OUT on a joy ride that night. For us it was an unforgettable ride. For Asia and the world, it was an unforgettable night.

The sky was dim and overcast. There was a bleak stillness in the air. The river was calm; the scenery was obscure. And a dull crescent moon peered at us lazily for some time and then disappeared in the west.

It was not an ideal night for a pleasure cruise. We knew we would miss much of the thrill and glamor of the river trip—the quaint combination of huge ocean-going liners and one-man country boats in the river and the glittering spires of the Buddhist shrines ashore. But we welcomed it as an excellent opportunity to get together and to get away, at least for a little while, from the heavy spate of work on hand.

It was a jolly little party of the Fraternity of the Fourth Estate. There were men from many countries, working for various newspapers and news agencies of the world. There were Americans and Australians, Germans and Japanese, Indians and Italians, Thais and Taiwanese. Between them they represented America's Associated Press and United Press, Britain's Reuters, Germany's Transocean, and Japan's Domei, besides some of the leading newspapers of London and New York, Berlin and Rome, Tokyo and Shanghai, Sydney and Melbourne.

War clouds were gathering over Southeast Asia those days. Thailand, as a neutral country, was very much in the news, resisting the tactics of pressure and persuasion from the Axis and anti-Axis nations.

Foreign correspondents in Bangkok, however, respected Thailand's neutrality and got on well together, but for the normal rivalry for "scoops," the conflict in news "angles" and the urge to send out "trial balloon" dispatches.

We had not yet organized a regular Foreign Press Association in Bangkok but we used to get together once a week, usually on Sundays. After tea came the flow of gossip and good-humored cross-talk and the party dispersed only at a late hour in the evening. That Sunday, we were the guests of our Domei News Agency friends and they had arranged the program on a really grand scale.

Among that tribe of foreign journalists in Bangkok, I enjoyed a rather peculiar position. An Indian, but none too loyal as a British subject, I had closely identified myself with Thailand and the Thai people. Many Thais in high places had come to regard me as one of them. Most of the other foreign correspondents had come to Bangkok to cover the impending war crisis, whereas I was an "old hand" there and, in addition, the editor of a popular nationalist English daily, closely associated with the government leaders and the ruling party.

After a few years of large scale loafing and small scale journalistic adventure, covering the entire Southeast Asia and the Far East, getting hired and fired by the editors of half a dozen newspapers, I had settled down in Thailand, then one of the few independent countries in Asia. I liked Thailand and the Thais. They were different from the lands and peoples I had seen before.

What fascinated me most about Thailand those days, after bitter experiences in various colonial capitals, was that it was not part of the white man's world. The people were nice and the air was free. I landed a job the day after my arrival, with an English newspaper owned by the King of Thailand and edited by a very competent American journalist. I saw the 1932 coup d'etat which overthrew the absolute monarchy, made friends with the military leaders who replaced the Princes, worked for a time with the government's Publicity Department, then became editor of the "Bangkok Chronicle," started by the new leadership of Thailand as a competitor to the British-owned and British-edited English daily, the "Bangkok Times."

I had grown with the new regime in Thailand and enjoyed the confidence of its leaders. In the reflected glory of that friendly association, my views on Thailand and Thai affairs were treated with respect in all quarters. And I was a sort of friend, philosopher, and guide to the numerous foreign correspondents who flocked to Thailand after the outbreak of the European war.

Those were hectic days on the Far Eastern newsfront. In Europe, the sitzkrieg on the Western front had been on for many months. The Germans were doing fine in the war against the Soviet Union. The Japanese were getting restless. Rumors and speculations about the outbreak of war in the Pacific filled the world press. And neutral Thailand, caught between British Malaya in the south, British Burma in the north and west, and Japanese-occupied French Indochina in the east, was the center of intrigue and espionage.

The possibility of an invasion of Thailand was in the air for many months. Only that evening, I had splashed across the front page of my paper an exclusive interview with the Prime Minister, Field Marshal Songkhram. He had said that an attack on Thailand was imminent, that the Thais would fight to the last man. The statement, however, was interpreted variously. The Axis correspondents said that the invasion was expected from Malaya or Burma, while newsmen from the other camp had no doubt that Songkhram meant a Japanese invasion.

I thought I knew everything worth knowing about the war crisis. My hunch was that the war of nerves would go on for some time, that the shooting war might start about January-February (1942). Like the smart, all-knowing chap I imagined myself to be, I got a fortnight's leave in November (1941), took my wife and children to India and returned to my post in Bangkok. The idea was that I should be a free agent when the trouble started, ready to make the exit from Thailand. In my earlier days of job-hunting journeys, moving from city to city, I had somewhat specialized in the art of unscheduled departures and unannounced arrivals. That gave me extra confidence in the plans to get out and get back home without getting mixed up in other people's wars.

We drank and dined on the spacious deck of the large motor launch as it glided down the river. Beer and whisky flowed freely, followed by a lot of sake served in tiny cups, as a special luxury. Two geishas, hired by our hosts from a local Japanese restaurant, attended us with the politeness, grace, and charm as only Japanese hostesses are capable of.

The party became increasingly merry as the night wore on. From serious discussions on the war crisis and mild sallys at each other, the newsmen turned to singing popular tunes and performing dancing specialities. It was nice to see United Press' Berrigan dancing with Domei's Takakura and Sydney Herald's Standish exchanging confidences with Transocean's Melchers. In a world where such international goodwill was possible, they were bent on waging war and destroying mankind. It seemed so incredible.

It was nearly midnight when we decided to return home. The party was voted a grand success. Most of us just felt fine, others were a bit too tired, and one or two, including the chief host, had to be helped to their cars.

Back at my office, I had a look at the local radio listening-in report, left by an assistant. The war scare was there again. The government had urged the people to be ready for any eventuality. It was said they might expect an invasion of the country any moment. Fight the enemy, appealed the government. And, then, there were instructions to the people on scorched-earth tactics and guerilla warfare.

Such broadcasts were nothing unusual those days. This time it followed the special interview given by the Prime Minister. And I filed a message to the Associated Press, quoting excerpts from the broadcast and interpreting them as indicative of the increasing tension in Thailand.

On my way home, I dropped in at a friend's and we were discussing the radio broadcast and what it implied, when a mutual friend, a high official living next door, came along with the information that "something" was happening. Probably, the police were rounding up suspected Japanese fifth-columnists, he thought. We went out promptly and found that something was really afoot. Japanese residents around the place were moving about in a hurry, some on foot, others by car. But there were no policemen anywhere.

What were the Japanese doing? Where were they going at that hour? Why all the hurry and excitement? I had no means of finding out the particulars. I rang up a few colleagues but they were all asleep in bed. I tried to contact Thai officials or military officers. They said they had no knowledge of anything untoward. I tried a couple of Japanese bars and restaurants but they were all closed.

Back home, I considered the situation again. We had all become so used to the war scare that none of these minor happenings bothered us very much. Anyway, I filed a brief message about the "mysterious midnight movements" of Japanese residents in the city. And, then, I went to bed, without in the least suspecting that I had missed the biggest newsbeat of the century.

I was up and about early in the morning. Over a cup of coffee, I tuned in to Singapore radio and I jumped from the chair as the headlines came through—Japan had declared war on Britain and the United States. Pearl Harbor was in shambles. Singapore and Rangoon were bombed. There were reports of Japanese landings on the Malayan coast.

I listened to the grim story—the story that shocked the world on the morning of December 8th (1941). The entire Pacific had become a theater of war. But there was nothing about Thailand. Apparently, the belligerent powers had left Thailand alone. So far so good. Thailand remained neutral and, at least for the time being, Bangkok would be the Lisbon of Asia, which meant that I was perfectly all right where I was. I must remember to send a cablegram, asking the family not to worry. The immediate problem, however, was to get Thailand's "official reaction" to the outbreak of war.

I tried to telephone the Prime Minister's residence but there was no response. Trying to dial another number, my thoughts went back to the events of the previous night. Why had our Japanese friends arranged such a grand joy ride that particular evening? What was the meaning of the "mysterious midnight movements" of Japanese residents?

In the excitement of the moment, it took me some time to realize that my telephone line had gone dead. Just then, a motor cycle messenger drove up. He brought me an invitation to attend an urgent press conference at the Throne Hall (Parliament House) at 7:30 a.m. That was in less than half an hour, and the place was four miles away. Something was up, obviously. There was no time to lose, and I got ready to go out immediately. The press conference should yield the "official reaction" I was anxious to get.

Just as I stepped out, the old watchman from the press rushed in. He was very much agitated and seemed short of breath. He took me aside, looked this side and that, and managed to whisper to me that the Japanese army had occupied the "Chronicle Building." Would I please go over there immediately?

For a moment, I stood dazed. I could not figure out the sequence of events. Of course, war had broken out somewhere but nothing had happened in Thailand. It was incredible that the Japanese army had occupied our press.

My head was reeling as I raced to the Throne Hall. Already gathered there were most of the foreign correspondents who were with me on the joy ride, besides a number of Thai newsmen, all looking equally perplexed. There was no regular press conference. A few of the senior ministers walked into the conference hall and stood there speechless, on the verge of tears, almost as if they were at a funeral. A brief communique was circulated among the correspondents.

Thailand was invaded by Japan at 2:00 a.m. The Thai defense forces put up a heroic resistance. But, in the face of the overwhelming might of the enemy and the threat to bomb Bangkok and other major cities by dawn, the government had ordered the cessation of hostilities, to save the country from total destruction. The resistance ended at 7:00 a.m. and an agreement with Japan was to be signed.

So, that was that. The war in Thailand had begun and ended while I was asleep, while almost the entire journalistic fraternity in the city was asleep. And, in the wake of a lightning victory, the Japanese were speedily occupying all the strategic points in the city and perhaps taking over the major publishing concerns.

The thought was staggering. But the call of duty prevailed again. Until 6: 30 that morning, it seemed the world outside was unaware of the Japanese invasion of Thailand. So, the first thing to do was to get the news out.

I rushed to the central telegraph office, trying to brush aside all kinds of vague doubts and fears. At the telegraph office, these doubts and fears became stronger. A couple of Japanese army officers were standing beside the clerk at the counter.

On that sunny morning in Bangkok, it seemed that the world had gone dark all around me. Thailand's communications with the outside world was closed; and my job as a correspondent meant nothing. On the other hand, it meant that I had lost contact with my family indefinitely. Besides, my job as a newspaper editor depended, if at all, on the pleasure of the Japanese military authorities. The question was whether the Japanese would put me in a concentration camp as an enemy subject. And, from that arose another question: how about trying to make a getaway?

Even with this thought in the background, the immediate urge was to know more about the war, though I knew that any information I collected had little chance of getting out of the country.

Bit by bit, news started trickling in. Momentous events had taken place in Bangkok since midnight. At midnight Japan had presented an ultimatum to Thailand. The "mysterious movements" we saw on the streets were the activities of Japanese residents, collecting their women and children and taking them to safety to a Japanese warship in the Gulf of Siam, just in case Thailand turned down the ultimatum.

Shortly after the Japanese Ambassador's visit, the British and the United States ambassadors called on the government leaders, told them they had information that Japan was ready to invade Thailand. Neither Britain nor the United States could send immediate military help but they urged all-out resistance by Thailand.

While the government was considering the crisis, the Japanese Ambassador called again, this time to announce that the invasion was on, and to deliver the warning that a Japanese aircraft-carrier was in the Gulf of Siam and that Bangkok would be in shambles by dawn.

That did the trick. After less than five hours of scattered resistance, Thailand ordered the surrender.

Everywhere in Southeast Asia and the Pacific, the opening phase of the war reflected the most perfect planning. In Bangkok, nobody knew that war had broken out until it had ended. In Pearl Harbor, nobody was awake until the Japanese had virtually destroyed the American base. In Singapore, the air raid siren did not work; the man at the switch board had been knocked down by some unseen hand just before the raid.

Thailand's warships at the naval station on the Gulf had all gone temporarily out of order that night. The navy commander also happened to be away on a joy ride. Even the Prime Minister, Marshal Songkhram, was away from the capital. He was at the Indochina border in the east, thinking that the main Japanese assault would come from that side.

Wars certainly have a very tricky way of breaking out. And, if truth is the first casualty of war, the independence and neutrality of the weak nations come next on the list.

By afternoon, the city was full of Japanese troops. Foreign embassies, banks, and business houses were surrounded by them. The airport and railway stations were occupied by them. Everybody was scared.

There was no possible exit. In the East, in Indochina, the Japanese were in control. Fighting was going on all along the Malay peninsula ; so it was futile to attempt the southern route. The only hope was to get across to Burma in the northwest—400 miles by rail and road from Bangkok and a 200-mile trek across the mountains. I made up my mind to take a chance.

Bangkok was a dead city that night. Grim-faced troops with fixed bayonets, stood guard at street corners. Giant military trucks raced along the streets. I got to the railway platform through a side entry and quietly climbed into a crowded local train, bound northward. From nearby compartments I could hear Japanese soldiers challenging "enemy" nationals and dragging them out to the platform. I stood still in a corner until the train moved out; and then heaved a sigh of relief.

Would I get anywhere on this desperate, unscheduled trip? The thought was disconcerting. So I tried to think of the glow and gaiety of the previous night and the joy ride on the river.

I hoped for the best and was ready for the worst. Little did I know that my adventure would come to an abrupt end after a six-day trek across jungles and mountains, almost within reach of Burma. Little did I suspect that I was trying to run away from destiny.