The Railroad along the River.

Triggers of war, death, violence.

Before the world falls apart, life in Kidiri is good. During the harvest, work on the sugar plantation is 'round the clock with long shifts. But the rest of the year, life is good. With a lovely wife, a one-year-old son, friends, tennis and plenty of G&T. And servants who take care of everything.

After the bombing on Pearl Harbor, after the fall of Singapore, it is just a matter of days before the rag-tag reservists, who have few arms and even less ammunition, surrender. By Japanese standards and morals, surrendering is the most despicable thing a soldier can do and thus deserves whatever he gets.

For months they languish in one POW camp or another. They learn that yes, bowing to the conqueror is part of their life now. They learn to tolerate a 'slaapie", someone who shares your bed. They learn to do their assigned tasks, no matter how menial. And They learn to tolerate idleness, heat and worry about wife and child.

In the fall of '42 they are transported from Java to Singapore. First a 200km ride standing in the back of a truck, holding on to each other to keep from falling off. Then the cross to Singapore. Six days in an assigned space of 120cm (4ft) long, 40 cm (16") wide and 75 cm (30") high. They are allowed on deck twice a day for food and taking care of nature. Once in Singapore they have a two-hour march to the next camp. Changi Village, a large British army establishment that is turned into a POW camp. (King Rat by James Clavell)

They don't know it yet, but Changi is the Hilton. Though the camp is no picnic, with too little and bad food and not enough space. Often, asmall space is shared with ten or more other officers in what used to be tiny servants' houses. But at least these tiny houses, as opposed to the barracks, do have a small yard, where a form of spinach can be grown to stave off scurvy. They learn what native plants and animals are edible and how to catch, prepare and make it tasty. Rat sambal, or any kind of sambal is preferable over the watery gruel or spoilt meat that comes from the kitchen.

In spring '43 the 'good life' is over. The officers are moved from their camp in Changi. Under the guise that food will be more plentiful in Siam. They are stuffed into cattle cars. Twice daily stops are made. Anyone who died, and many do, is swept off the car and left behind. One car at a time the prisoners are made to step out of the car next to a make-shift latrine. A large pit with a bamboo pole over the top. Side by side the POWs sit on the pole and try not to look down, try not to see the maggots crawl over the mountain of excrement left by other POWs.

After five days, they arrive at their new camp. Here they have to work. They are to hack their way through the jungle to clear a path for the railroad. The tracks run alongside a river. The river Kwai. They fell trees and dig out stumps that are hauled away by elephants.

Food, however, is less plentiful, a rare commodity, really. One bowl of rice per day and one cup of boiled water. Sometimes the jungle will provide a treat, like a monkey or a snake. Unless the guards confiscate it for themselves, this meat can be added to the hot water which goes by the name 'soup'.

Any scratch will get infected. Any infection will become a sore. Any sore will fester and work its way down to the bone. The only way to clean the wound is to use maggots. Malaria, dysentery and beriberi are just some of the diseases that are rampant. Sickbays are built. The less sick, the ones who can stand on their feet, tend to the ones who can't.

Every day graves are dug and filled. If the men don't succumb to illness, they die from exhaustion, beatings or malnutrition and starvation. Escape attempts are useless. Not only are the natives reluctant to help, but the terrain is treacherous and inhospitable. The coast is 300 km to the west. And should you survive the trek, go undetected or betrayed - after all a Caucasian man does not blend in - you still have a 150km sail in a borrowed or stolen dugout canoe to Ceylon. When you are captured, you will be beheaded in front of your campmates who must stand close enough so that they are bespattered with your blood.

In the summer of '43 the work becomes harder, true slave labor. A stretch and a curve of the planned track needs to be leveled; the grade made more user friendly for the train. In groups of five, they must dig up 25 cubic meters of dirt each day and move what they have excavated to a wall, a dike. The shift is not over untill the guard has carefully measured and approved the work. Two teams of two men, holding a blanket stretched between two bamboo poles carry the dirt to the ever-growing mountain. While the fifth man breaks up rocks and roots and defends their daily ration of rice from other prisoners.

With the increase of infectious diseases, separate hospital camps are built. These camps are run and staffed by the prisoners and overseen by Japanese guards. First the barracks need to be built for the sickest men. Then the less sick build barracks for themselves. Though food is even more rationed here, there is the possibility to grow vegetables, such as the native form of spinach. Here, once your fever lessens, you have time to think. You let your mind worry about loved ones left behind, wonder about the state of the world and think about food. Food is always on your mind.

Once the track is complete, in May '44, life becomes a little easier. Camps are combined. The POWs are moved to larger camps. One such camp has 10 US, approximately 3000 UK, about 1200 Australian and around 1800 Dutch officers. Here is a semblance of organization. Kitchen duties, scavenging and gardening duties as well as tending to the ill and injured. And repeatedly groups are sent out to make repairs on the rail. Whether the land has shifted, or the jungle is encroaching, or the rail is damaged from bombing, the line needs to be repaired.

By the end of '44 the RAF is able to resume and increase their attacks in southeast Asia. Unfortunately, and understandably, they will attack and bomb the railroad. Many POWs are injured and killed during these attacks.

Everybody finds their talent, whether it is hunting, scavenging or gardening. One gentleman repairs eyeglasses. The Japanese commandant tells him to clean the mildew discolored lenses in his binoculars. The question of whether to aid the enemy is debated long and heatedly. In the end four binoculars are repaired, the fifth one is 'damaged'. So sorry.

A crude microscope is fashioned from bamboo.

Practically every British officer owns a silver cigarette case. Few if any are buried with them. These cases will for instance give a new patella to one of the prisoners. Small drill bits and nails are made.

One of the doctors diagnoses a US Navy officer with a brain tumor. He is able to open the skull but unfortunately, he is not able to remove the tumor. A piece from a silver cigarette case is used to cover the wound. The patient is one of the first to be evacuated in the summer of '45. He lives another three months after he comes home, long enough to say goodbye to his family.

In August '45 the men in the camp are moved from Ban-Pong to Nakom-Nayak. The train stops for a while at the station in Bangkok. The prisoners, locked inside the cars, hear excited talk from the Thai that there was some large bombing on Japan.

The train ride is followed by another two-hour march to the new camp. About ten days later, a US officer in full dress uniform walks into the camp and takes over command from the Japanese. He announces that Japan has capitulated, that Mae West is still buxom, that Marlene Dietrich is still very lovely and that ladies now wear nylon stockings. And other such nonsense. His speech is almost at once followed by an airdrop of food. Many a man spends that night in the latrines, their stomachs not being used to chocolate and other rich foods.

The American officers are airlifted out first. Transport ships come for the British next, then the Australians go home.

Later that year, weighing less than 100 lbs., riding a borrowed bicycle, my father rides back into camp Changi where now my mother and oldest brother, now 5, are waiting for transport home. My mother and brother spent the war in a protective internment camp on Java.

The three, owning little more than the clothes on their backs, arrive back home in the Netherlands in the spring of '46.

That period of his life was often on my father's mind. Things like standing in line or barbecuing and more, would remind him of his POW years. He never was able to sit all the way through the movie. Can't blame him.