by Ellie Dean
He turned away, looking back down the road, and nudged Jumbo as he saw the familiar jeeps with their red crosses come hurtling around the bend. There was a British tank burning in the middle of the road, with two more firing into the jungle less than fifty yards behind it. Dead Japs were strewn beside their overturned field gun, and injured colleagues of the 14th Army were trying to crawl to safety beneath the hail of enemy machine-gun bullets that ripped and whined through the trees and thudded into the earth all around them.
And through all this mayhem came the American Field Service in their specially adapted jeeps which had double-tiered steel bed structures to accommodate two or three casualties at a time. They passed the firing tanks and stopped by the burning one to leap out in their Red Cross emblazoned uniform and, with not a gun between them, lifted the wounded from the tank, scooped up those in the road, stacked them in the beds, turned the jeeps and shot off the way they’d come. The whole exercise had taken less than three minutes.
‘Considering the fact they’re a bunch of pansies, Quakers and conscientious objectors, they’re actually bloody marvels and have certainly won my respect,’ muttered Jim who’d always been firmly against such men. ‘I wouldn’t be brave enough to do that without at least a bazooka to fire back with, let alone go in unarmed as they do.’
‘Och, Jim, ye dinnae ken what ye’d do if the occasion called for it,’ rumbled Jumbo. ‘Although that particular lot were lucky to miss the bullets with so many flying about.’ He shook his great head and then spat into the mud. ‘The Japs have no respect for the sign of the Red Cross.’
Jim nodded, for he knew that many of those young men had been killed just as the armed fighting men were being blown up or shot to pieces. He picked up his gun, cleaned the firing mechanism and barrel of muck and reloaded. The short respite was over. It was time to return to the battle.
It had taken thirty days to push the Japanese back twenty miles from Toungoo. Jim was very aware of the number of casualties they’d suffered amongst the engineers who’d had to advance with the leading infantry to clear the road, but the tank squadrons could also count heavy losses, with every squadron depleted through direct hits, tracks being blown off by a hidden mine, and crews who were often machine-gunned down by the Japs as they tried to escape their burning tank through the turret or front hatch.
To the delight and huge relief of the battle-weary men of the 14th Army, the monsoon had washed away any last chance of the Japs being able to plan or execute a counter-offensive, and the enemy on the Mawchi Road broke into full retreat, heading for the border with Thailand. However, the fighting was not yet over, for they were soon informed of HQ’s plans to send in the mixed brigades to get ahead of them by using air and sea transport.
The Japs’ only hope of escape would be to cut through the Allies’ line and head east to Thailand, but first they’d have to come out of the Yomas on one of the very few passable tracks. Then they’d have to cross several miles of open paddy fields which were now under deep water, forcing them to use the narrow, unstable paths formed by the raised bunds above the flood. Finally, they would have to cross the Sittang River which was now in full, torrential flow, about as wide as the Thames by London Bridge and almost impossible to swim across. At every point along the route the Allies would be waiting for them.
Jim had been horribly airsick and was still feeling the effects of the extremely rough series of short flights from Toungoo to the Yomas as he and his brigade hunkered down in their sector of the thirty-mile-long line to wait for the Japs to emerge. Despite the teeming rain, swarms of mosquitoes, leeches and stinking heat, there was an almost tangible atmosphere of tense expectation for, if successful, this could prove to be the final battle of the Burma Campaign, and their ticket home.
Their machine guns covered every track out of the Yomas as well as the paths between the flooded fields. Infantry and barbed wire protected the machine guns which were dug in on the only ground above water. More field guns stood ready behind them, and waiting behind them were yet more infantry. All the boats had been removed from the Sittang River; tanks stood at road junctions and in the villages while others patrolled the road. Fighters and bombers waited on the few all-weather airfields, while patrols and scouts in the Yomas passed on information well in advance as to how many enemy were on their way, and by which route.
It was like a turkey shoot as they came screaming out of the Yomas brandishing what turned out to be empty guns, for the machine guns, Brens, rifles and tanks mowed them down. They drowned in their hundreds in the racing yellow waters of the Sittang River, their corpses floating in the fields and amongst the reeds. The brigades showed little mercy for what had proved to be a pitiless enemy, and by the time the guns fell silent, the 14th Army had killed and captured over eleven thousand Japanese.
The long, exhausting and bloody Burma Campaign was finally over.
Jim had now been on leave in Rangoon for two weeks, but most of that had been spent in the military hospital being treated for yet another bout of malaria, courtesy of the mosquitoes in the Yomas, and the suppurating jungle sores he’d gained from knocks and cuts whilst servicing the vehicles. He’d finally been passed fit enough to join his fellow officers at their comfortable billet in a seaside hotel, and was now sitting on a veranda, sipping tea and admiring the view of several pretty nurses who were playing ball on the sandy beach in their skimpy swimsuits.
‘That’s a glorious sight after all that jungle,’ he murmured to Jumbo who was making a ham-fisted effort to patch up the bullet holes in his bagpipes.
‘It is that,’ the big man agreed, glancing up from his work to give the girls an appreciative once-over. ‘It’s quiet too, thank God. Ye ken me ears are still ringing from all that gunfire.’
Jim’s were too, and although he’d been resting for two weeks, he was still weary to the bone and troubled by the memories of that final one-sided slaughter. The mixed brigades had given no quarter and shown no mercy, but then, he reasoned, if the boot had been on the other foot, the Japs would have been just as merciless. It had been a case of kill or be killed, so there really had been no choice.
‘So what’s next for us, do you reckon, Jumbo?’ he asked through a vast yawn.
‘Malaya probably,’ Jumbo replied dourly. ‘There’s already a rumour going round that the Parachute Regiment are getting ready to go in there as soon as the monsoon ends in August or September. From there it could be into Thailand – or even an assault on Japan itself. It’ll all depend on whether or not the Japs see sense and admit they’ve lost.’
‘I won’t hold me breath,’ said Jim. ‘From what we’ve seen of them, they won’t give up until every man in Japan is dead.’
Jumbo set aside the hopeless task of repairing his bagpipes and gave a deep sigh. ‘Och, Jim, I’ve had enough of Burma and even Rangoon, although it’s very pleasant here. I’m weary, and sick of the heat, the flies, and the stink of the jungle. I want to be back home amongst my own people, at peace in my glen to tend the deer and be free to roam.’
‘Aye, I feel the same about Cliffehaven,’ agreed Jim. ‘The brass talk about demob plans but nothing seems to come of them, and my poor Peggy must think I’m never coming home. I hope to God we don’t have to fight again, because I’ve seen enough bloodshed and horrors, and I don’t have the stomach for any more.’
Jumbo nodded in agreement with that sentiment, and stuck his large hands into the pockets of his baggy khaki shorts as he went to stand by the veranda railings. ‘I ken you draw great comfort from your family, Jim, but I’m glad I didn’t have anyone to worry about during this war,’ he confessed. ‘Marriage and a family is not something I’ve ever really wanted or needed, you see. I’m content with my own company out in the glen with the animals where I can play the pipes and disturb no one.’ He glanced down at the ruined bagpipes and sorrowfully tugged his beard. ‘Though I ken I won’t be playing that set again.’
Jim had heard enough of Jumbo’s stories of his life in the H
ighlands to be able to imagine him tramping through the heather like a modern-day Moses in his sturdy boots and kilt, his fiery beard flowing freely as he tended the deer, went fishing in the burns and lochs, or sought the shellfish on the rocky shores to cook over a fire on the beach with only the moon and stars for company.
In a way Jim envied him, for he was free to do as he pleased and cared nothing for what people might think of him. And yet, despite Jumbo’s protests to the contrary, it must be a lonely existence, and the thought of not having Peggy and the rest of the family around him made Jim shudder. They were his life’s blood; his reason for fighting this damned war was to keep them safe.
He idly watched the nurses laughing and splashing in the water. They reminded him of his Anne and Cissy, and the longing to be with them again was a physical pain in his heart. And yet he was stuck here in Burma with no choice but to wait for the army to decide where it would send him next.
If only the Japs would surrender, then they could all go home.
22
Somerset
Anne climbed back into the rickety old bus and sat down next to her headmaster, George Mayhew, as the driver ground the gears and they set off with a burp from the exhaust and a groan from the engine. It was the last Friday in June and they’d just accompanied the few remaining evacuee children to Taunton railway station. George’s wife, Belinda, was travelling with them to make sure they were all safely collected by their families and would then make the long journey home again. Anne had offered to do it, but with things the way they were with Martin, it was decided she should stay close to home.
Some of the families who’d hosted the children had come to see them off, and there was a sorrowful silence in the bus as they started for home. The youngsters had become a part of the village community since the start of the war, and the men and women who’d taken them in had come to love them – and were loved in return – so it had been a very emotional parting, with tears on both sides when the train had pulled away.
Anne wondered how the children would adapt to life with their estranged families in war-damaged London after the gentle, welcoming years they’d spent in the heart of the quiet countryside, and could only hope that the lessons learnt and the assurance gained during that time would sustain them for whatever lay ahead.
Many of them had stayed on until the end of term because their parents had still to find decent accommodation, but it seemed that as time had gone on, the need to have their children home became greater than any inconvenience or hardship. Anne could understand that, for if it had been Rose or Emily in the same situation, she’d have moved heaven and earth to have them with her after so long, even if they did have to get to know each other again.
She gazed out of the window as the bus trundled along country lanes where the hedges were high and the fields golden with rippling wheat and barley. She’d heard about Ivy and her young siblings from Peggy, and although the whole thing was rather tragic, she admired the girl’s good sense and courage in agreeing to them being adopted. From what Peggy had told her, the children had been so young when they’d left home that of course they felt no attachment to Ivy, or the parents who’d been killed, and had formed a close bond with the couple who’d taken them in.
Anne gave a deep sigh, thankful that she’d kept her children with her throughout, but her thoughts returned inevitably to Martin, and what they might have been up to whilst she was away. The girls were being watched over by Aunt Vi and Sally, and would no doubt be pestering young Harry, Charlie and Ernie to let them join in whatever games they were playing, but if Martin had decided for once to stay at the farm and not go wandering, she could only hope he wouldn’t become morose through drink and frighten the life out of them when they made too much noise – or, God forbid, bump into Claus and start another long, distressing diatribe against all Germans.
She’d found Martin’s secret stash of whisky at the back of the linen cupboard this morning and had been tempted to pour it down the sink, but doing so would have caused another furious row, and she simply hadn’t had the energy to risk it.
George seemed to be aware of her troubled mood. ‘How are you coping at home, Anne?’ he asked.
She knew it was pointless to lie, for nothing stayed secret in a village and everyone had seen Martin wandering the hills and fields on his own, and it had soon got round that he was staggering drunk when he finally returned to Owlet Farm each night. ‘It’s getting harder each day,’ she confessed. ‘But it’s Martin I’m really worried about. He’s not the man I married, and isn’t coping at all.’
‘Has he told you anything of what he went through?’
‘I wish he would,’ she replied, thinking of those long, lonely nights when they lay beside each other like strangers in dreadful silence. ‘Then I might be able to help him through this. But he clams up at the slightest mention of his time in that POW camp.’
She bit her lip. ‘All I do know is that the death of so many of his friends has hit him very hard. Like Freddy Pargeter – he was such a livewire. He could turn a girl’s head with just a smile, and he had that devil-may-care sort of panache. His wife had twins whilst he was in captivity, but he only lived just long enough to see them fleetingly. He’ll be dearly missed by everyone,’ she said sadly. ‘Not least of all by Roger, his brother-in-law and Martin’s wingman. Roger’s always been a sturdy, dependable sort of man, and I know Martin relied on his companionship throughout their time in the camp, and they became very close.’
‘Have they been in touch since being demobbed?’ George asked.
‘Martin writes to him nearly every day, and Roger replies, but I have no idea of what state of mind Roger’s in, or how he’s coping, for Martin never lets me see his letters. Mum doesn’t tell me much of what’s going on with Kitty and Roger, and I don’t ask, because then she’d know that all is not well with me and Martin.’
‘But why not confide in your mother, Anne? She sounds eminently sensible and caring, and I’m sure she’d be a huge help in easing that heavy burden you’re carrying.’
There had been many a time that Anne had wanted to tell her mother what was happening, but if she did she’d be admitting defeat by passing the burden on to someone who really couldn’t do anything about it. ‘She has enough on her plate already, without me adding to it,’ she said flatly. She gave a sigh. ‘I’ll muddle through somehow and keep faith that Martin will eventually come out of this and be his old, lovely self again.’
George sat in thought as the bus wheezed its way up a hill. ‘I know that when I was shot down and burned, I found it impossible to talk to anyone, let alone my poor mother who was beside herself with worry – and of course the girl I was engaged to took one look at me and shot off before I could even blink my good eye.’
He gave Anne a self-deprecating smile before carrying on. ‘The fear of what the future held for me, looking as I did, was overwhelming, and I kept having nightmares about the moment my Spit caught fire and I couldn’t release my harness to get out.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I couldn’t share those horrors with my poor little mother, so I existed in a silent world of pain and tortured thoughts until I was transferred to East Grinstead and discovered I wasn’t alone. The men there understood what I was going through, and I found I could talk to them, cry with them, rage against what fate had brought us, and finally let all that horror and fear pour out. We used a great deal of black humour to get us through the painful treatments and deal with what was going on in our heads, but the more I talked, the easier it became to let go of those dark memories, and when I left the hospital, I was at peace and ready to face the world again.’
He turned to Anne and rested his hand on hers, his scarred face lit cruelly by the bright sunlight coming through the window. ‘Martin needs desperately to talk to someone, Anne, and he’s clearly trying to protect you from whatever demons he’s fighting. That’s understandable, and you shouldn’t feel hurt by his lack of communication, even though you must find it hard not to be. B
ut if he goes on bottling it up like this he’ll send himself mad with it all.’ He briefly squeezed her fingers and then took a breath. ‘I’d be very willing to listen. He has only to ask.’
‘I did suggest it,’ Anne replied. ‘But he refused point blank, saying you’d never experienced what he had and couldn’t possibly understand.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I even hinted he might talk to the vicar, but of course that poor man would have meant well, but he knows so little of the real world he’d have been of no use at all.’
George patted her hand and then tugged at his jacket lapels – it was something he always did just before saying something the listener might not like to hear, and Anne steeled herself.
‘You say that Martin writes most days to his Wing Commander – Roger, is it?’ At Anne’s nod, he continued thoughtfully. ‘It seems to me that if they shared the same experiences, he would be the ideal person for Martin to talk to – face-to-face.’
‘That’s not possible,’ said Anne. ‘They’re on opposite sides of the country.’
‘I realise that,’ he replied. ‘But they don’t have to be if you took Martin home to Cliffehaven.’
‘I can’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m too involved with the election which is only days away, and there’s a lot of clearing up to do at school. Besides,’ she added, realising they were flimsy excuses, ‘Martin isn’t fit enough to make that long journey, and it would be a complete nightmare if the children play up and he loses his patience.’
George regarded her evenly. ‘Belinda and I can manage the school, and even at this late date, I’m sure there are plenty of people to take your place at the polling station and the count. Martin’s quite well enough to walk for miles over rough country, and if he knows that his wingman is waiting for him at the end of the journey, he’ll stay calm.’ His steady gaze bored into her. ‘Why the excuses, Anne? What are you afraid of?’