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.
2
"Boryaku"
HIGH UP on Kudan Hills, in the heart of Tokyo, was the nerve center of the Japanese war machine. Rows of grim-looking four-story buildings reached out into the sky from that hilltop. They housed the Japanese War Ministry, the Imperial General Staff, and the Dai Honyei or Imperial Headquarters.
In a remote corner of this vast set-up stood one block that was officially called the 8th Section of the 2nd Bureau of the Imperial General Staff. Few people outside the Japanese military clique knew what the 8th Section of the 2nd Bureau stood for, though the subtle influence of the small men who sat in those dingy rooms was felt far and wide.
If you saw a lone Japanese hawker on the beaches of Malaya or Madagascar, or a thrifty little Japanese fisherman on the coast of Borneo or Brazil, you could be sure that he was connected with the 8th Section of the 2nd Bureau. If some jolly little Japanese tourist made friends with you at your hotel or in the train, plied you with drinks and tried to talk politics, the chances were that he was working for the mystery men of Kudan Hills. A good many of the barbers, photographers, and brothel-keepers who migrated from Japan to foreign parts those days were subsidized by the mysterious offices at the Imperial General Staff. Some of them were specially trained officers of the Imperial Japanese Army or Navy.
But the 8th Section of the 2nd Bureau also handled big deals. Former Emperor Pu-Yi of Manchukuo was a creation of the men who directed this particular section of the Japanese war machine. So was Wang Ching-wei, who headed the Japanese-sponsored Nanking Government in China. And many of the wartime leaders of East Asia were also "discovered" and brought up or bought up by agents of the 8th Section, 2nd Bureau.
If the Japanese forces found the going extremely smooth in Malaya and Burma, if they invariably got vital information regarding enemy positions and other details connected with the military campaign, if they easily secured the services of guides and interpreters wherever they went, they knew at once that they were indebted to the long arm of the 8th Section, 2nd Bureau.
This was the organization
