64 POSTMAGAZINE
with Stephen McCarty

THE LONG MARCH

In 1945, more than 1,000 prisoners of war were forced by Japanese troops to embark on
a gruelling 250km trek through dense Borneo jungle from Sandakan to Ranau. All except
six men perished en route or at their destination. Stu Lloyd traces their steps.

The gentle thwack of croquet mallets. The ruffle of white
canvas umbrellas as frangipani-scented breezes from the
Sulu Sea soften the tropical night. Waitresses in blackand-
white pinafores ferrying pots of tea. Behind us, is the
somnolent stateliness of Agnes Keith’s house, where the
many-chinned, bounteously bosomed socialite author of
Land Below the Wind held sway. Below, are the twinkling
lights of Sandakan Bay.
At the English Tea House and Restaurant it’s as
though the 1930s – when Sandakan was the capital of
British North Borneo – never ended. That was a time
when timber created the world’s highest concentration of
millionaires in what was a languid pocket of lawned-andlouvred
splendour. “If the war hadn’t wrecked Sandakan,
it would have been one of the great towns of Southeast
Asia,” says military historian Lynette Silver.
Today, downtown Sandakan is a hotchpotch of
underwhelming medium-rise apartment and industrial
buildings. What wasn’t flattened by the Allies in June
1945 was razed by the retreating Japanese. Miraculously,
four buildings survived: a mosque, two temples and
St Michael’s church. The granite church, built in 1893,
stands as the only remaining connection with the second
world war prisoners with whom Sandakan is most readily
associated. It was here that many of the 2,700 Allied
POWs camped when first transported from Singapore
in 1942 and 1943 to construct, together with Indonesian
civilian prisoners, a runway, before being marched inland.
It is in their footsteps that Silver will lead us in the next
six days on the inaugural Sandakan Death March
Challenge Trek, covering a 120km section of the route
recently reclaimed from the jungle.
The balmy air is filled with nervous anticipation. In
the group are adventure seekers – many have done the
Kokoda Track – and those on personal pilgrimages.
Graham and Alan each had an uncle die here. Doug
lost his father on the Thai-Burma Railway and is keen to
walk in the shadow of other members of the Australian
2/29th Battalion. “It’s an odd process that brings me
here, trying to get a clean sheet,” he says. “I’ve had a lot
of anger and resentment about the war, having grown up
without a father.”
An original boiler, excavator and water tank litter
the now-suburban 11-hectare Sandakan Memorial Park,
which occupies the original camp site. Myths are
debunked: “Not everyone that was sent to Sandakan went
on a death march and not all those who went on the
death marches died,” explains Silver. Many of the 1,053
Allied starters reached the final camps, only to perish
later. Only six Australians – assisted by local villagers –
escaped to tell the tale.
While the POWs had six cucumbers to sustain 50 men
for four days, we load up with energy-rich Sabahan
staples – noodles, rice, eggs and chicken wings. Tham
Yau Kong’s team of cheery, sure-footed Dusan porters
will lug water and food rations. “How much extra is the
sedan-chair option?” someone jokes.
The trek begins in a fashion with which we are to
become overly familiar: a 45-degree climb. “Jim would
have been shot on that first hill,” remarks Silver,
referring to one of our group who stopped to catch his
breath. Once POWs stopped, they stopped for good.
“Big Bob”, a moustached mountain of a man, plies a
lively line of banter: “If I was a diesel, I’d be blowing black
smoke”; “I went to put myself into overdrive and found
I was already in it”; and “I think I need a new ring valve.”
But the jungle is friendly: never-ending thickets of kapok
and suriya trees have a humbling beauty. There are no
wild animals to contend with (despite guide Jimmy’s
orang-utan calls) – no boars, no cobras – but leeches
hitch free rides on us and limbs are soon slashed to
ribbons by leaves, thorns, roots, slips and tumbles in the
boot-sucking clay. At least we have footwear: 90 per cent
of the POWs marched barefoot.
The terrain and challenges constantly change. There
are rickety suspension bridges and river crossings. On
day two, we traverse relatively flat palm plantations:
despite a temperature of 38.5 degrees Celsius in the
shade and 100 per cent humility (sic), we cover about
28km. “Harder than Mount Kinabalu,” says Jimmy, a
veteran of more than 1,400 ascents of that peak. “Longer,
hotter.” Those who’ve walked Kokoda agree: the humidity
is a killer. We rest in the shade of parap trees, eating
fleshy breadfruit. Malladin, a jungle-survival expert,
forages for wild ginger, bamboo shoots and strawberries.
At day’s end we collapse fully clothed into the soothing
waters of the Taviu River. By night, we have the choice
of camping out or staying in comfortable Forestry
Department rest houses. Two nights are spent in
Sabah tea plantation longhouses.
The ups and downs of rearing mountains and
disappearing valleys echo the emotional roller-coaster
we are on. Each of us have “adopted” a POW. Jacquie,
a school teacher, has come to pay respects to Gerald
Cummerford, whose nephew is a family friend. He hopes
she finds the place the 25-year-old died. She does, on a
little track a couple of kilometres past Malio. She is too
overcome to read the card, placing a gum leaf and little
Australian flag on the ground for him.
I have adopted the Dorizzis. In shades of Saving
Private Ryan, three brothers were shipped to Sandakan.
Herb, 26, made it through 238km before collapsing of
cardiac beriberi half-way up “The Big Hill”. That same
day Gordon, 28, who was too sick to march, died of
malaria in Sandakan. Tom, 31, carried on but died one
month later at Ranau, in March 1945.
Sweating buckets, I go into zombie mode, one foot
plodding in front of the other. Suddenly, thankfully, the
Ranau Plains stretch beneath us. Along Jalan Marakau,
Muslim schoolgirls in pastel headscarves egg me on with
their chanting of “Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!” from a
verandah. “The legacy the POWs left is an enduring
friendship with the people of Sabah,” explains Silver.
As I stumble up the long, dusty road to former Ranau
POW Camp 1, tears well in my eyes. Why? Perhaps it’s
my failure to get any closer to understanding how any
POW managed to finish this march. “It’s amazing how
emotional you become about guys you didn’t even know,”
says Peter.
Under a sprawling pukul lima tree we hold a moving
memorial service. Doug delivers an emotional first-hand
account of “the Shearer”, a con artist from 2/29th
Battalion who fleeced everyone in this camp. “I came
to wrap things up, which I’ve done,” he confides. His
teary partner, Liz, adds: “And they’re still sending our
young people off to fight silly wars.” As she speaks, a
passing shower produces a magnificent rainbow over
the walking track.
Alan locates the original burial site of 23-year-old
Ray Wiseman of 2/4th Mechanical Regiment, at Ranau
Jungle Camp 2. “Uncle Ray,” he says, “you were always
just a photo on the wall. Now you’re a hero to me.” Mount
Kinabalu, with rainforest dating back 130 million years,
overlooks us. Named after Aki Nabalu, “home of the
spirits of the dead”, the locals believe its clouds protect
the departed.

POSTMAGAZINE 65
Getting there: Cathay Pacific (www.cathaypacific.
com) flies from Hong Kong to Kota Kinabalu.
For Sandakan Death March information contact
TYK Adventure Tours, Kota Kinabalu, Sabah,
Malaysia, tel: 60 88 720826; www.sandakandeathmarch.
com or e-mail thamyaukong@
hotmail.com.
Pictures: Stu Lloyd