As we flick through the black and white images sprawled across a mid-century wooden side-table, 108-year-old WW2 veteran and Highland Valley man Colin Wagener describes the memories sparked by each photo.
Colin served as a signaller in the 9th Division’s anti-aircraft regiment and his last assignment was in Japanese-occupied Borneo during the latter stages of the war.
Part of his job was to round up the remaining Japanese soldiers and oversee the final convulsions of what had been a brutal imperial campaign.
WW2 signallers were responsible for maintaining and operating military communications on the front lines, using radio, telephone and telegraph to send vital messages, as well as intercept enemy transmissions.
Highly-skilled with then-pioneering technology, Colin was also handy with an 8mm film camera, which he used to document his experiences during the Borneo campaign.
The timeless snapshots immortalised part of one of humanity’s deadliest and most significant chapters.
As renowned WW2 correspondent Robert Capa said, “if your pictures aren’t good enough, you aren’t close enough”.
Colin could not have been closer to the action – and his pictures reflect that.
The Allied war effort in Borneo was marred by what the Australian War Memorial describes as the “greatest single atrocity” committed against Australians in war, the Sandakan Death Marches.
Australian prisoners were sent to Sandakan – on the north-east coast of the island – in 1942 to build an airstrip.
Despite initial fair treatment, the plight of thousands of Australian and Allied soldiers soon changed.
In late 1944, as the Japanese war machine was faltering and Allied forces were closing in, the Japanese sent about 2000 Australian and British prisoners westward to Ranau.
The journey forced the prisoners of war through punishing rain forests and harsh terrain.
Weak or sick prisoners were given no reprieve and those unable to continue were killed.
Only six of about 1000 Australians sent to Ranau survived the war.
As Colin and I sit in his lounge room, I grab a photo of four men with an emaciated appearance.
Their demeanor was one of defeat and hardship.
The four Allied prisoners of war had survived, but the scars of their harrowing ordeal remained.
“They were the only ones left,” Colin says.
“One of them said they couldn’t last another month.”
My eyes were then drawn to what looked like an airstrip, with black smoke billowing from the right-hand side of the frame.
I asked if a plane had been shot down and Colin told me that it was an Australian plane that had crashed into two other stationary planes during take-off.
Six men had died.
“I heard an enormous bang,” Colin says.
“It went into a ditch and blew up and killed everybody on it.”
Of the more than 100 photos on the table, some were candid moments between friends, some were random snaps of vehicles, ships or landscapes.
Some weren’t taken on the front-line, but captured important moments in the stages between battle.
My interest was immediately piqued as I picked up a third photo of a group of Japanese soldiers.
Colin then tells me they were Japanese prisoners who had been suspected of participating in the death marches.
The next photo shows a plume of smoke over the horizon, with a large contingent of Australian soldiers watching on.
It was taken during the final weeks of warfare, prior to the Japanese surrender.
“A bomber came in, did a circle and came back and did a bomb run,” Colin says.
“We were watching it bomb the Japenese.”
Colin took an extended pause before explaining the context of the next photo. I picked it up arbitrarily, unaware that it marked one of the most consequential moments of the Allied campaign in Borneo.
A grounded, grainy plane dominates the image, with a pilot emerging from the cockpit to receive instruction from those on the ground.
That aircraft – a Tachikawa KI-54C – was carrying the commander of the Japanese 37th Army and supreme commander of forces in Borneo, Lieutenant General Masao Baba. General Baba was there to formally surrender to his Australian counterpart, Major General George Wootten on September 10, 1945.
Accompanying General Baba were a crew of Japanese airman who Colin managed to photograph while they were receiving instruction.
“They came in – they knew they were surrendering,” he says.
As General Baba officially surrendered inside of a traditional hut, a 21-gun salute was conducted by the Australians – using artillery guns.
“As he put the pen down, a signal was given,” Colin says.
“The gun went off and shook the hut like hell.
“It would have unnerved him very much.”
General Baba was later tried for war crimes for his role in the Sandakan Death Marches. He was executed in 1947.
Despite the war in the Pacific ending on September 2, 1945, it was a few months before Colin was finally able to come home.
“After the war, we were just forgotten about,” he says.
“We got on cargo ships – 1500 men, two cups of water a day.
“We didn’t care. Just wanted to get home.
“We came up the Brisbane River – ships spraying water, welcoming us.
“Got off dirty, hungry, wet.
“I got home Christmas morning, 1945.
“I could’ve kissed the platform.
“My father shook my hand and said, ‘you stink’.”
After returning to Adelaide, Colin felt the need to find some space, freedom and solace to decompress from years of war.
“My parents were very good to me,” he says.
“They let me go bush.
“I bought a four wheel drive and I went bush and went up to Ayers Rock and Mount Olga.”
Many of those adventures were with his wife, Peggy, whom he had married when he had four hours of leave from the army during the war.
Those experiences in the bush furthered his fascination and skill with technology.
“I bought a movie camera and I went up the Birdsville Track with the Birdsville Mail,” Colin says.
“I made a documentary crossing the Simpson Desert for the very first time.”
After returning from Central Australia, Colin and Peggy lived at Glen Osmond.
The years rolled on and, for many, memories of the war faded.
But for Colin and many of the others who fought, the scars remained – some not visible to the naked eye.
In 1988, as suburbia closed in on his Glen Osmond address Colin once again sought peace and quiet.
“Because people were building around me, I wanted to get away to somewhere peaceful,” Colin says.
“Any noise would sort of rattle me.”
It was then that he and Peggy moved to the 60-acre Highland Valley property, where he still remains today.
As well as the stillness and calm afforded by his new home, Colin was able to ride motorbikes – a passion that endured well into his 90s – and tinker with his beloved vehicles.
With the rolling hills of Battunga country visible from his sitting room and the clamour of civilisation beyond earshot, Colin has found a hard-fought refuge.
His lives on the property with his son, Paul, and the pair often have visits from historians, museum curators and members of the media who are interested in hearing Colin’s story.
Colin has witnessed some of the biggest changes in modern history, including the digital revolution.
And his ability to adapt, learn and apply his knowledge has held him in good stead throughout his life.
With 108 years under his belt and an array of experiences that those raised in modern times can barely grasp, Colin’s message to others is to “take life as it comes”.
While society has changed in many ways, the lessons learned from Colin – his stoic resilience and a willingness to adapt to change – are timeless.
