JAF Diary, 12 March 1946

Stepped off the ship in Tokyo today, sent by External Affairs to help with the occupation work. After the war, after Kokoda, Point Cook, and all that, I never thought I’d see Japan. The harbour’s a mess—wrecked ships half-sunk, cranes creaking, Yanks everywhere with their clipboards. The city’s battered, whole streets bombed flat, wooden houses gone to ash. Yet it’s still alive. People move quick, heads down, carting bundles or pedalling bikes through the rubble. Air’s sharp with coal smoke and something like grilled fish. I’m just a bloke from Sydney, used to sweeping tennis courts for sixpence back in the Depression. This place feels like another world.

Checked into a billet near the Ginza, a sort of boarding house the Yanks fixed up for us. Streets are narrow, signs in kanji I can read, thanks to Point Cook. Shops are half-empty, but there’s tea stalls, old women pouring from iron pots, and kids darting about, laughing despite it all. Saw a temple, red gate still standing, surrounded by charred lots. It’s humbling—3,000 kanji got me here, and that Sorbonne scholarship I never used, but Tokyo’s bigger than any book. Locals nod politely, even to us Aussies. I’m meant to translate, maybe interrogate again, but it feels different now. 

No jungle, no rifles. Just a city trying to breathe.Smoked a cigarette by the Sumida River tonight, watching barges drift. Tokyo’s got a pulse, even after everything. I’m no big shot—graduating top in NSW was just hard yakka, same as learning Japanese. But standing here, I’m a bit awed. Dad—Andrew—came from Ireland with nothing, built our life in Sydney. He’d say keep steady, do your job. I will. But this place, broken and stubborn, makes me feel small. Got a cup of weak tea from a stall, no beer to be had. Bed now. Work starts tomorrow.

JAF Diary 15 August 1942

August 15, 1942, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea 

Landed in Port Moresby yesterday, shipped from Point Cook after months of kanji and drills. This place is a shock—hot as Colombo, but wilder, like the earth’s still half-formed. Camp’s a sprawl of tents and mud near the airstrip, planes roaring day and night. Blokes are a mix: sunburnt Aussies, local Papuans hauling supplies, and Yanks with their loud chewing gum. Smells of sweat, diesel, and jungle rot. Nights are alive—frogs croaking, bugs the size of my fist. I’m 24, a linguist turned soldier, and I feel like a kid playing at war. Japanese are out there, somewhere, and I’m meant to fight ‘em. Smoked half a pack today, staring at the hills. Locals call ‘em “fuzzy wuzzy angels” for carrying our gear. Good blokes, quiet, know the land. Beer’s scarce, but I scrounged a warm one. War feels far, but it’s coming. I’m not ready.
August 29, 1942, Kokoda TrailTwo weeks on, and I’m on the Kokoda Trail, a muddy hellhole carved through jungle. Camp’s just tents, slit trenches, and leeches that cling like glue. Rain never stops—boots squelch, socks rot. We’re humping packs up hills so steep you slide back. Mates are solid—Bluey from Brisbane, always joking, and Tom, a quiet shearer. We share smokes, talk about home. Sydney’s a dream now; this green maze is real. Locals guide us, barefoot, machetes flashing. They know every root. Japanese are close—scouts saw ‘em. My rifle’s heavy, and I’m memorizing kanji still, daft habit. Tonight, we heard gunfire, distant but sharp. Heart’s racing. I’ll be shooting at blokes soon, and they’ll shoot back. Drank muddy water, lit a fag, and tried to sleep. Jungle’s loud—birds, bugs, my own thoughts.
September 10, 1942, Kokoda TrailWeeks in, and this place is part of me, like it or not. Camp’s a routine now: dig trenches, clean rifles, swat mozzies. Jungle’s a beast—vines snag you, mud sucks boots off. We’re near Ioribaiwa, and the Japanese are real. Patrols clash daily; we found a dead bloke yesterday, theirs, bayonet still fixed. Looked my age. I know their lingo, could’ve talked to him. Instead, I’ll kill ‘em. Trained for it, but it’s heavy. Mates keep me sane—Bluey’s got a filthy limerick for every meal of bully beef. Shared my last smoke with him. Locals bring yams, grin despite the madness. I’m not the green kid from Port Moresby anymore. Rifle’s an extension of me. Japanese are dug in ahead. Tomorrow, we move. I’m scared, but I’m ready. Dad—Andrew—would say get on with it. So I will.

JAF Diary 15 November 1939

Last night at the Point Cook bar, thick with smoke and banter, I got into it with Jack, a mate from the language course. Over beers—cold, crisp, hits like home—I bet him I could learn 3,000 kanji in a day. Just kanji, mind, the proper ones, like Chinese characters, none of that hiragana fluff. Jack smirked, offered a tenner, thinking I’d crash. Lit a smoke, told him, “You’re done, mate.” I’ve hustled before—swept Sydney’s tennis courts for pennies in the Depression—so a bet’s nothing new. Bar was loud, flyboys shouting, but I was already planning.

Today was a grind. Locked in my bunk, books everywhere, kanji staring me down like a puzzle from hell. Smoked a pack, fingers black with ink, head throbbing. French was child’s play at uni; kanji’s a beast, but I’m no mug. Sorbonne’s gone, but I’ve still got my edge. By evening, I marched to the bar, recited all 3,000 to Jack, stroke for stroke. 

His face—priceless. Handed over the tenner, bought me a beer. Blokes roared, and I grinned through my cigarette’s haze. Felt like Sydney, winning big. Dad—Andrew, tough old Irish bugger—would’ve raised a glass. I’ll be telling this one forever. 3,000 kanji, one day. Bloody smashed it.

JAF Diary 15 October 1939

Landed in Brisbane this morning. SS Baradine creaked into the river like it’s half-dead. Colombo was a fever dream—spices, heat, war news hitting like a punch. They sent us back, said Australia’s calling men up. 

River’s muddy here, not like Ceylon’s clear blue. Wharves stink of tar and fish, but it’s orderly—blokes in hats, crates stacked neat, none of that tropical chaos. City’s low and sprawling, weatherboard houses, wide streets, trams rattling. Feels like a big country town, not Hong Kong’s mad crush or Shanghai’s flash. Locals move slow, talk slower, but there’s a buzz—war’s on, and everyone’s got an opinion. I’m knackered, but the air’s clean, and I’m glad to be back on Aussie soil, even if it’s just to face what’s coming.

Walked to the enlistment office after a pie and a beer at a pub near the quay. Brisbane’s got this sun that bites, but it’s not Colombo’s wet blanket heat. Office was in a brick building, flag flapping out front. Queue of blokes—some cocky, some quiet, all young. Felt like I was signing my life away, but what else do you do? War’s real now—heard it on the radio in Ceylon, saw the Brit officers’ faces. Pen scratched my name, and that was that. Army, they said. Training soon. Mum’ll have a fit when I write.
Stood outside after, lit a smoke, watched the trams clang by. Brisbane’s solid, but it’s small-time compared to Asia’s ports. Still, it’s home, and home’s worth fighting for, I reckon. War’s a bloody mess, but I’ve seen enough of the world to know sitting it out’s not an option. 
Reckon I’ll miss the steamer’s sway and the open sea, but not the uncertainty. Something about signing up feels right, even if it scares me stiff. 
Tomorrow, I’ll find a cold one and figure out what’s next.

John Ackland Forsythe: the found diaries. 30 August 1939

I've been shuffling, snuffling, ruffling around Dad's old camphor wood chest he and my mum bought in Japan in 1946 or thereabouts. It's full of his Japanese flash cards. Kanji characters on one side, with fine brush strokes, done by his teacher. On the other side, how you say the character, and its meaning. 

Digging down a little more, I come across a leather bound book, a kind of a Moleskine, but old, wrinkled, hard from age. 

It turns out it's my Dad's and starting from his first voyage overseas, to go to take up his scholarship at the Sorbonne University in Paris. Just as war was about to break out. He got only as far as Colombo in what was then known as Ceylon, no Sri Lanka, before war was declared and his boat turned back to Australia. 

I've edited a bit. And tidied up a bit. And maybe even interpolated a bit. But I'll jump right in to arrival in Colombo. Maybe later circle back for some catch ups to his life, as described by him, shortly before the war. 

30 August 1939

Me on my Baradine steamer chugging into Colombo, Ceylon.

Dawn’s breaking, sky’s all mango and fire. The island’s a green hump like it’s been there forever. Palms sway, hills roll, and some Buddhist dome glints in the light. Water’s clear, fish dart, gulls scream.

Dock’s a madhouse: coolies haul tea and spice, sweating through their rags, chanting to keep rhythm. Carts rattle, horns blare, and the air’s thick with salt, cinnamon, and fried fish from stalls slinging curry and noodles.

Colombo’s crazy color. British buildings—fancy, white, verandas—sit next to Tamil temples, their gods carved in loud reds and golds. Sinhalese women in saris glide through bazaars, baskets on heads. Men in sarongs haggle over rice and coconuts. Rickshaws dodge horse carts; some rich guy’s motorcar honks like it owns the place. Monks chant somewhere, cutting through the noise. It’s chaos, but it seems to work. 

 

1 September 1939

I stop at a tea shop under a tree I learn is a banyan. So lovely with its arial roots. Take a cup of local tea. Nice, like ours back home. Locals jabber in Sinhala, Tamil, bits of English. Radios hum with news from Europe.

Then it drops—war has been declared in Europe. Germany rolled into Poland; Britain and France have declared war. What does this mean for me? For us? Here is all quiet. A British officer nearby freezes, tea ignored. A Tamil trader grumbles about ships and shortages. Another shakes his head, like, What’s this got to do with us? 

Life goes on. Harbor’s still buzzing—crates unloaded, vendors yelling. But you feel the shift. War’s far, but it’s coming. Maybe. We've been told to return to Australia, I just heard. Board the Baradine. Sun’s up, heat’s like a wet towel. Island shrinks behind us, green fading into blue.

It’s gorgeous but fragile.