Runway to hell: The Sandakan Death Marches remembered

Borneo Post

2 days ago

Origins of Sandakan Airport
I have called Sandakan home for many years. Like countless travellers, I have walked through the departure hall, waited at the gates and watched aircraft come and go against the endless Bornean sky. Today, Sandakan Airport is a modern gateway. From a military airfield, it is now a civilian facility, the airport was expanded in 2014 to a 12,500 m² terminal. A 2022 runway extension to 2,500 m now allows it to accommodate larger aircraft like the Airbus A330 and can handling 1,000 passengers an hour. It hums with the ordinary rhythm of life – homecomings, farewells, business trips, holidays – and remembrance. Yet beneath this routine, few realise the ground beneath the tarmac is heavy with a darker history. Long before it welcomed tourists and commuters, this site was carved out in war, its runway laid not by engineers in safety helmets, but by men in rags and chains. The British Royal Air Force had first marked the spot as a possible airfield during World War 2. But when Japanese forces swept into Borneo in early 1942, they seized the location, recognising its strategic value as a refuelling point between Malaya and the Philippines. The task of building it fell to approximately 1,500 British and Australian prisoners of war, brought from Singapore, along with local and Javanese labourers. On treacherous tufa soil, under pitiless heat and watchful bayonets, they hacked, hauled and laid the 1,400-metre runway. The work was brutal. Food was scarce, beatings were common and disease spread faster than hope. By December 1942, the airfield was operational, marked by the landing of Japanese General Yamawaki Masataka. But as the war's tide turned, its importance waned. What remained, however, was not mercy – but a new chapter of suffering and deaths. By 1945, with Allied forces advancing, the Japanese began moving the surviving POWs inland – a journey that would be seared into history as the Sandakan Death Marches. Those who left the airfield would never return.
I have visited the Sandakan Memorial Park in Taman Rimba many times over the years. Each visit is a step back into a silence heavy with memory. Standing amid the quiet trees, I feel the weight of history pressing in – and the goosebumps rise unbidden. The airfield at Sandakan Airport is not merely concrete and steel; it is a graveyard without markers, a witness without words. Beneath its tarmac lies a story of unimaginable suffering, etched forever into the soul of this place.
80th Oak Anniversary – 15 August 2025
This year marks the 80th anniversary of the Sandakan Death Marches. On 15 August 2025, Sandakan will once again host its annual memorial service. It is also a Holy Day, the Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
A soldier observing a moment of silence at the Sandakan Memorial.
Eighty years on – the Oak Anniversary – the name itself speaks of strength and endurance of oak trees, qualities that echo in the memory of those who perished.
This is my humble contribution to that remembrance: a tribute to the men who endured unimaginable misery, a reminder that war can strip away humanity until only cruelty and endurance remain. Lest we forget.
Remembering the Unreturning – The Atrocities of the Sandakan Death Marches
Late May 1945. In the dim haze of dawn at the Sandakan POW camp, hundreds of skeletal figures stir. They rise slowly, clothed only in ragged loincloths, their hollow eyes dulled by three years of captivity. Starvation, untreated wounds and relentless disease have stripped them of their strength – proud Australian and British servicemen reduced to skin, bone and suffering. Their bodies are ravaged: sores and scabies, matted hair alive with lice, ulcers so deep the bone shows, legs grotesquely swollen from beriberi. Ahead lies a 260-kilometre march through Borneo's unforgiving jungle to Ranau, on the slopes of Mount Kinabalu. Few will reach it. Fewer still will live. These men had arrived in Sandakan in 1942-43, captured during the fall of Singapore and shipped in appalling conditions to North Borneo. Their task: to build a Japanese military airfield by hand, using little more than picks, shovels and baskets. For a while, survival seemed possible, but this illusion ended in mid-1943 when the Japanese discovered a hidden radio and evidence of contact with Allied operatives. The dreaded kempeitai, Japan's military police, descended on the camp. Interrogations were merciless: beatings with rifle butts, bamboo slashes, water torture and starvation until men broke. A number were executed outright. From that point, conditions spiralled into calculated neglect. Rations were steadily reduced, tropical diseases spread unchecked and work became increasingly brutal. Men who collapsed were beaten or left to die. The airfield was eventually bombed by Allied forces in late 1944, rendering it useless. By then, most prisoners were emaciated and unfit for labour. In January 1945, with Allied advances threatening Borneo, the Japanese decided to move the prisoners inland. This was no evacuation for safety – it was a death sentence disguised as relocation. A crude jungle track was hacked out to Ranau, deliberately routed through remote and mountainous terrain to avoid villages and potential rescue. The first march saw around 455 men set off. They carried heavy loads of Japanese supplies on their backs while surviving on a handful of rice a day. Many were barefoot, some wearing the rotting remnants of army boots tied together with wire or vines. Guards showed no pity – men who stumbled or lagged were bayoneted, shot or clubbed to death. Their bodies were often left where they fell, to be consumed by the jungle. In May, another 536 prisoners were forced along the same route, this time in even worse condition. Survivors' testimonies describe men staggering with tropical ulcers so large the bone was visible, shuffling on swollen, weeping legs from beriberi. Water was often denied despite the heat and humidity; men drank from muddy puddles or drainage ditches alive with insects. The third and final group – fewer than 75 men left in June. Most could barely walk. They were carried in relays by their fellow prisoners, who themselves collapsed from exhaustion. Few made it more than a few kilometres before they were executed or simply died. It has been reported that many Japanese soldiers also died from starvation, with some even turning to cannibalism in order to preserve their fighting effectiveness. At Ranau, those who survived the marches entered another circle of hell. Rations were almost non-existent; prisoners fought over scraps of rotting food, chewed on grass, leaves and bark to stave off starvation. Japanese guards killed for the smallest reasons – a glance deemed disrespectful, a request for water, or simply to demonstrate their power. Some prisoners were tied to trees and left to die slowly. Eyewitness accounts from locals recall seeing prisoners so weak they crawled on all fours, only to be executed moments later. Acts of kindness from villagers – offering food or water – were punishable by beatings or death, yet many locals still risked everything to help. These acts of humanity are credited with saving the six Australians who eventually escaped and survived. When the war ended in August 1945, the full scale of the atrocity emerged. Of the 2,434 Allied prisoners of war who had entered Sandakan, only six Australians survived. All others died in the camp, along the track or at Ranau. The death toll was 99.75%. It is widely considered to be the single worst atrocity suffered by Australian servicemen during WWII. During the second march, Gunner Owen Campbell and Bombardier Richard Braithwaite fled into the jungle, sheltered and fed by locals until Allied rescue. In July 1945, from Ranau, Private Nelson Short, Warrant Officer William Sticpewich, Private Keith Botterill and Lance Bombardier William Moxham also escaped, surviving only through the bravery of Sabahan villagers who hid them at great personal risk until the war's end. Today, the jungle has reclaimed the trail. The birds sing again, the rivers run. But the earth remembers. Even in the quiet of present-day at the memorial site, one can almost hear the shuffle of weary feet, the groans of the dying and the whispered words of encouragement exchanged between men who knew they would never see home again. Standing here, the air grows heavier – for this is sacred ground. The Sandakan Death Marches are not just a chapter of history; they are a warning etched in blood and bone. They remind us that peace must never be taken for granted. War is not a noble adventure, it is a brutal machine that strips away humanity, turning neighbour against neighbour, soldier against prisoner and man into beast.
The men of Sandakan and Ranau endured the very worst of what war can unleash. To remember them is to commit ourselves to a world where such cruelty can never take root again. Their suffering and death must not be in vain. Lest we forget.
Soldiers retrace the March to pay tribute
Last year, personnel from Rifle Company Butterworth (RCB) Rotation 144 were honoured with an opportunity to spend four days retracing the steps of the Australian soldiers that came before them. For Captain Luke Gollschewski, the company's second-in-command, it was both humbling and confronting. 'It was an eye-opening experience,' he reflected. 'The Sandakan Death Marches are not something widely known, nor something most Australians truly grasp in its full significance. We only completed a fraction of what they endured, and we had water, food and regular rest. To think of what they went through, with none of those things, makes you wonder how they even managed to take another step.' The Sandakan Death Marches are aptly named. Even today, fit and trained soldiers would find its 260 kilometres of steep ascents, treacherous descents and dense jungle a formidable test. Yet for the prisoners of war, already skeletal from starvation and wracked by disease, it was a road of no return. As they walked, members of the company felt an unshakable mix of emotions: anger at the cruelty, sorrow for the suffering and a deep ache for the families who never saw their sons return. Along the way, they paused for historical lessons – not just of how the prisoners lived and died, but of the spirit they carried to the end.
Local stories tell of Australian prisoners who never surrendered their dignity, who clung to courage and comradeship even as life ebbed away. They never stopped fighting, even in the face of death. Today, their footsteps echo still. And as long as they are remembered, they will not be lost to history. Lest we forget.
The Woman Who Refused to Forget Sandakan
The death marches, a cruel war crime cloaked in secrecy, were apparently concealed for decades before historian Lynette Silver's painstaking research revealed the true scale of the tragedy and the heroic suffering of those involved. She has made it her mission to tell the world about the tragedy. Her work inspired more than awareness, it sparked memorial action across generations.
Lynette Silver will lead one of the largest groups of relatives yet to Sabah this year, a pilgrimage woven from threads of grief, pride and enduring love. Among them are descendants of men who perished in 1945. Over the years, the annual commemoration has grown beyond its beginnings. It now draws local communities, members of the Australian Defence Force (ADF), the Australian and British High Commissioner to Malaysia, and other dignitaries.
Lynette Silver's painstaking research revealed the true scale of the tragedy and the heroic suffering of those involved.
For Lynette, this journey began humbly. She organised small Anzac Day services for POW families at Sandakan, slowly building awareness until the Australian Government committed to an official service in Malaysia. That grassroots effort bloomed into a national event, carrying the stories of the fallen across oceans and generations.
The Sandakan Memorial Park on the original POW camp grounds stands as a somber tribute to both prisoners and local civilians who suffered alongside them. At Ranau, the Last POW Camp Memorial is the final station of the 'POW Route' during the three death marches. The names of the 183 prisoners who perished at the last camp are etched into the memorial.
The Last POW Camp Memorial in Ranau.
From the sorrow of Sandakan has grown a legacy of hope – the Sandakan Memorial Scholarship Trust. The Trust honours the Australian and British POWs who died in the Sandakan Death Marches and the local people who risked their lives to help them. Founded in 2005 by the Trustees of the Sandakan Memorial Trust, it offers secondary school scholarships to girls from remote Kadazandusun villages in Sabah's interior, giving them the chance to study at St Michael's School in Sandakan.
For girls, especially, it is life-changing; without it, many would remain in their villages, their talents unrealised. Students live in a hostel at St Michael's Church, learning not only academic subjects, but also about community and faith. It is a living memorial and a bridge of friendship – a promise of a brighter future born of tragedy. Kudos to the tireless work of Lynette Silver and the Trust.
Enduring Bond of Friendship
The Sandakan Death Marches, though born of unimaginable suffering, have forged an enduring bond between Australia and Sabah in Malaysia, anchored in the town of Sandakan. The shared history of sacrifice – of Australian and British POWs and of the local civilians who risked their lives to aid them – has created a legacy of respect, gratitude and remembrance. Each commemoration, whether through solemn services, memorial scholarships or the stories passed down, reaffirms this connection. I also recall during my time with IJM Plantations Bhd (IJMP), when we were promoting the sport of rugby in Sabah, we often invited and hosted Australian ruggers. Those exchanges were more than just sporting events; they were living bridges of friendship through sport that carried the same spirit of camaraderie and mutual respect born of history. My latest visit to the Sandakan Memorial was just last month, accompanied by a visiting priest from Uganda. I noticed the fresh facelift – the Interpretive Pavilion, first built in 1999, has been rebuilt and upgraded after years of wear in Sabah's tropical climate. Thoughtfully, it preserves the soul of the original: the front iron gates, the stained-glass window, and seats and floorboards fashioned from reclaimed timber. It feels renewed, yet still carries the same quiet nostalgia. We paused there in prayer, honouring the memory of those who suffered and perished. Eighty years on, the echoes of the Sandakan Death Marches still haunt these hills and rivers. They warn us that when peace is neglected, cruelty rushes in to fill the void. War is madness – a fire that consumed more than 2,400 lives here, and countless more across the world. We must guard peace with unblinking vigilance and humble hearts, so that understanding outshines hatred, and compassion overcomes cruelty. Let these graves and memories stand as a warning: this must never happen again. And as travellers fly in and out of Sandakan Airport, remember the sorrow beneath its tarmac. Once, it was not a gateway to paradise, but a runway to hell. Lest we forget – always, and again.
NOTE: For those seeking a deeper understanding of this chapter of history, start with the many available video clips on the Sandakan Death Marches, including the six-part series 'The Last Survivor of Sandakan', which bring firsthand accounts to life with vivid clarity. Then, delve into Lynette Ramsay Silver's seminal work 'Sandakan: A Conspiracy of Silence' – a meticulously researched book that sheds light on the events and their lasting impact. Many other resources await those willing to explore further. For another recent reflection on the WWII persecution focused on men of faith – missionaries and laypeople, read 'Martyrs of One Fire, Witnesses in Two Lands' at www.theborneopost.com/2025/07/26/martyrs-of-one-fire-witnesses-in-two-lands/
Sandakan: Voices of the Unreturning
Beneath the earth, beneath the skies,
An aching truth before us lies.
Where jungle paths once drank the pain,
Now peace breathes soft – yet grief remains.
They walked with hope through fire and dread,
On hollow feet, by hunger led.
From distant shores they came to stand,
And gave their breath to this sad land.
Sabahan hearts beat side by side,
With strangers bound in fate and pride.
Through whispering leaves, their courage calls,
A beacon burning through night's walls.
No stone, no cross, no written line,
Can bind the depth of loss in time.
Yet still we gather, year on year,
To speak their names, to shed a tear.
O hear, O world, this solemn cry –
They walked to live, yet walked to die.
Let Sandakan not fade away,
But burn within each breaking day.