Escape to Pagan

by Brian Devereux

  In the back street shadows, the dimly lit “last-stop” opium dens flourished. Young Chinese men handed over their life savings for this long looked forward to moment. They would never know hunger or pain again. The rest of their short life would be spent in the confines of a small bamboo cubicle gently slipping from one moon-poppy induced dream to another. Their final dream would be a dream of painless death in the soft arms of Morpheus’ beautiful daughter. A noisy funeral with gongs and cymbals, plus a loud “wailing and a weeping” (real tears shed) by a crowd of professional Chinese mourners, were all included in the initial price of entry.

  Hong Kong was also a haunt of various dissidents. One of the better known was Nguyen Ai Quoc, better known in later life as Ho Chi Minh. We saved Uncle Ho from the French. In the lantern lit shadows of the Chinese quarter, Triads lurked.

  The British troops soon realized that they could have made-to-measure cotton shirts and slacks within an hour for a pittance. These items of clothing would be used by those who harboured devious intensions of gaining sexual pleasures without paying. “Jolly Jack Tar a-shore” was the most consistent offender and had all the advantages: a moveable home that had more passageways than a termite hill, bulging pockets that had to be empted in fourteen hours’ shore leave and a sailor’s desperation and poor taste in judging the qualities and age of the opposite sex when “Oliver Twist”.

  Servicemen found that all the best places and bars were out of bounds to the common ranks. Snobbery in the British Armed Forces was rampant. Each layer of humanity looked down on those below. A common serviceman could get drunk several times a week, eat well and still have some money over for other pleasurable pursuits that alcohol seems to inflame. Friday and Saturday nights were usually the same for the Royal Scots and the Middlesex Regiment. Primed and ignited by alcohol and the old jokes concerning the Jocks favouring the company of sheep etc. would erupt into fights. Once these matters were settled, there were other attractions of the female variety.

  If a soldier had the money, he could afford the price of a higher class female. These beauties resided on Golden Hill (where the officers went). At Golden Hill, a common soldier could nimbly caper in the chambers of a beautiful Chinese girl without the fear of catching the dreaded “French disease” – or, as the French called it, the “English disease”. The dispute as to which seafaring nation had introduced this unpopular malady to the innocent natives of the beautiful Pacific Islands had gone on for centuries. In 1941, the treatment for this aliment was akin to the worst kind of torture. It was a case of “five minutes pleasure on Venus; two years of agony on Mercury.” The instrument of excruciating pain was the dreaded “umbrella” applied to the one eyed “trouser snake.” Old soldiers and sailors of that period loved shocking younger men like me with tales of the umbrella and it was always someone else who had suffered the indignity and screamed their heads off when it was applied to the short arm.

  However, for the more tight-fisted, there was the other end of the market: the dark harbour. Indeed, sometimes it was so dark it was difficult to see the faces of the ladies (often with good reason) plying their ancient trade. It was the case of Hobson’s choice. However the delights of the dark harbour were not to the taste of the modest, the particular or the faint hearted.

  A punter had to stand in line on the quay and wait; similar to standing in a taxi queue. When a taxi did arrive you couldn’t say: “I don’t fancy the look of mine” and offer it to the next man. The sampans containing the ladies would be queuing up in cab rank just out of the glow of the dim harbour lights. As the sampan hove-to out of the gloom, to the horror of a first time punter, the presence of the Chinese male rower was observed. He would be facing them during the act. The presence of this potential voyeur would be rather off putting to the self-conscious first timer. The indignant and protesting new punter would be vigorously assured by the female concerned, that the rower was as blind as a bat, deaf and dumb and to back this up at no time did the man in question ever speak or make a sound.

  There was no time for hesitation, with curses from the impatient men behind: “make your bloody mind up Chum, who did you expect, Marlene Dietrich?” Many a faint-hearted punter would exclaim “bugger this for a lark” and leave. A willing client then had to carefully negotiate his way onto the rising and falling sampan. Money had to be handed over first as these ladies had been caught out before in the past, usually by a skint “Jolly Jack”. The rat-arsed sailor concerned had no problems boarding the bobbing sampan. Taking his hurried pleasures, the sailor would then smartly hoist up the Blue Peter along with his bell bottoms and promptly abandon ship, briskly striking out to a conveniently lowered Jacob’s ladder. Once aboard his vessel and swinging snug in his hammock, the guilty sailor would be as difficult for the Military Police to locate as the ship’s cat at midnight.

  Once the money had changed hands the “blind boat-man” would leisurely cast off into the shadows. Needless to say, many a serviceman found it impossible to perform under these conditions. There were no refunds. Business completed, the new punter would soon find himself sitting in a rickshaw heading for the barracks. He would no doubt be pondering the oriental skill of the inscrutable boatman who despite being blind, deaf and dumb, found his way perfectly around the busy harbour and never once collided with the dozens of other milling sampans and their copulating occupants, floating restaurants and the numerous other harbour craft. He would also be hoping and praying he had not caught the dreaded “French disease”!

  The more enterprising, health conscious and particular ne’er-do-wells went to Golden Hill to meet a better class of lady, harbouring fraudulent intensions. They would be wearing cheap white cotton slacks, shirt and plimsolls. They would take their pleasures; being a high class establishment you paid after the event. These fraudulent punters would then politely excuse themselves wearing only their underwear and plimsolls and head for the toilets outside. Once outside, they would leg it leaving behind their cheap clothes with the lady, who by then was going through their empty pockets. Then after a few minutes the lady in question would become suspicious and realize she had been well and truly had. She would then rush out and shout down to the crowd below the Chinese equivalent of “Stop that dirty, thieving, long-nosed white bastard!”

  All the pimps, street vendors and any lurking redcaps or NCOs would give chase. Stealing sexual pleasures was taken very seriously in Hong Kong, the island of fair trade. This practice continued, I am told, simply because the officer clients considered payment before the event was an insult to their honour.

  I once asked Tam and Willie (tongue in cheek after a few pints) if the above had anything to do with one of dad’s nicknames, “Spring-heeled Jack”? They both smiled and explained that he acquired the name when he won the Indian Army hurdle championship. Dads other nickname was the “Bolshevik.” I never did find out the reason why.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Train Station

  BURMA

  “Against all the odds we reached the station to catch the train to Myitkyina Airport before the train was due to depart, only to see the train slowly pulling away. We were desolate. Mother urged my two brothers to chase after the slow moving train and jump on and save themselves. This they would not do. If it was not for us, both my brothers would have already escaped into the hills and stayed with the hill tribespeople.

  “While my brothers went looking for a more suitable and smaller vehicle to get us to Myitkyina Airport, Japanese planes appeared and began to bomb the departing train. In the distance we could see the train stop and watched as all the passengers began running from the compartments and hiding in the surrounding jungle. My brothers returned. All the motor vehicles abandoned outside the station were without petrol.

  “When the bombing raid was over, passengers began to re-board the train. This gave us our chance. We quickly ran towards the train; on reaching it, we found all the carriages crammed full of people and baggage. Luckily Victor, who worked on the railway, knew one
of the guards well and we shared his end carriage with his wife and family. And so began our journey to the airport.

  “The only damage to the train was a few broken windows and as far as the guard knew, no passengers were injured. In fact, it made us wonder what the Japs had been bombing. All the cooking had to be carried out on a makeshift stove and it was not long before my mother had a hot meal comprising of jungle fowl, vegetables and rice which we shared with the guard and his family. He told us that the train would only stop when necessary to take on water and fuel, so passengers would have to use this time as best they could as all the toilets on the train were not working.

  “Large groups of armed Burmese dacoits were also rampaging through the countryside taking advantage of the chaos and the breakdown of law and order. They were seeking out the Indians and any Europeans who were now considered enemies of Burma. The train travelled through the night. Both my sister Lucy and I were hoping to use the toilets at Mogauwg, the last big station. We did not like the idea of using the jungle. The train began to slow down just before we reached Mogauwg. There were hundreds of people waiting on the platform and a few British soldiers sitting on their kit bags looking lost. I was disappointed; Mogauwg was just a big Burmese village; only the station buildings were built of bricks. As the train was already overcrowded the driver continued past the station and stopped some way out of town to take on water for the engine.

  “I looked out of the window to see if any of the other passengers were getting off, then I looked down. My God! Our carriage was on a bridge and there was a river below. If we were bombed and the bridge gave way, our carriage would fall into the river. With this in mind, Lucy and I decided not to get off. Thank God the train stopped again soon after to load wood just as it was getting dark, giving us the opportunity to find a quiet spot in the jungle; we had no choice.

  “At about one o’clock in the morning, the train pulled into a small jungle station and stopped. We were all surprised and delighted to find Burmese and Indian food vendors selling their wares as normal: cooked snacks, meals wrapped in banana leaves, fresh fruit and soft drinks. My mother was skilled at bargaining with native tradesmen and the amount of food and tasty snacks she bought for ten rupees was amazing. Here, we were able to stretch our legs and use the jungle for our convenience.

  “We all knew the stationmaster; he often went hunting with my brothers Harry, Cyril and Victor. On seeing the cramped conditions on the train, the station master added another three carriages that were standing on a siding. We moved into the last carriage with a young English woman called Anne (I can’t remember her surname) who came from Brighton. She had two small children, both daughters, one was about two years old and the other was about four. The whistle blew for all the passengers to get back on the train. Everyone was sad to leave that little jungle station, as it still seemed to be operating as if in peacetime.

  “Suddenly the English woman began screaming hysterically that her older daughter was missing. She left the youngest with us and suddenly jumped off the train. She then began rushing through the station looking for her child and screaming her name desperately, accusing the food vendors and tradesmen of kidnapping her little girl. The woman was now in a state of extreme agitation not knowing what to do. Returning to the carriage, she stood hesitantly by the doorway. She looked such a tragic sight as the train slowly began to build up steam. Lucy and I were now also crying. My mother told my brothers to do something. Cyril and Victor jumped off the train; the station master was still standing on the platform. Victor asked him to hold up the train while Cyril looked for the little girl. The station master held up the train despite the complaints of some of the other passengers. Although Cyril searched the whole platform area he could not find the little lost child. He then went into the jungle and called out, still no little girl. Cyril was about to turn back when he heard a small voice whispering. A little further on he found her. She had fallen into a steep ravine and could not get out. She was exhausted.

  “Meanwhile a terrible row had broken out on the platform between the stationmaster and some of the European passengers who threatened him with violence, until he was backed up by my brother Victor. Everyone re-boarded the train and after five minutes the train slowly began to pull away. The English woman was exhausted, her face badly sunburnt. She had only been in Burma for a short while and seemed to have no possessions to speak of, save one small case. I gave her some clothes and other bits and pieces; her surname was Mrs Taylor, I remember now.

  “Now we had all the room we needed to stretch out. I lay down and listened to the sounds of the train and could smell the wood burning engine as it wafted in through the open windows. My thoughts then turned to my husband Jack, was he still alive? I prayed my mother was wrong about her dream the night before I got the telegram.”

  Both my Guardians were superstitious. My grandmother, I have often been told, was born covered with a veil (afterbirth). This, according to her Anglo-Burmese mother, gave Grandmother certain insights into the future.

  “The night before I got the telegram telling me that Jack was dead or missing in Hong Kong my mother woke up with a start and saw Jack standing at the foot of the bed, in uniform. Blood was dripping on his shoulders: his head was missing!”

  Perhaps my grandmother was preparing her daughter for the worst? Or perhaps it was just a dream; Grandmother took her dreams seriously.

  “I must have fallen asleep. My mother woke me with some food and tea. It was now daylight. The train had stopped again for wood and water. My two brothers and my sister had wandered off along the carriages looking for people they knew, hoping for news of other members of our large family. Suddenly there was an explosion and the train nearly jumped off the tracks then stopped. My mother and I grabbed you and as many possessions as possible and jumped off the train and ran into the jungle. In the jungle we waited for more bombs to fall; none came. The next thing we heard was the train pulling away and could see the engine smoke rising above the trees as it disappeared into the distance. We were heartbroken; the train had gone without us!

  “We found out later that my two brothers and sister had also got off the train but as soon as they saw the Japanese plane leave, re-boarded the train and found us missing. Because many of our belongings were still in the carriage they presumed we were somewhere onboard. They then began going through all the carriages looking for us. Not finding us they realised we had been left behind. By then it was too late, as they were miles from where we had got off. They knew my mother would not carry on to India without them.

  “Cyril, Victor and Lucy then left the train when it stopped again for wood. They believed Mother and I would make for Indaw, so that is where they headed. If they had carried on to the next station or the airport, we could have all been reunited again. Cyril, Victor and Lucy stayed together and headed for Indaw which had already fallen to the enemy but it was not as yet garrisoned. Finding we were not there, they split up. Cyril and Lucy made their way back to the Shan States somehow, while Victor made his way to Mandalay.”

  I believe Victor returned to his old job on the railway at Mandalay. Being Herman Unger’s son, a German citizen may have made this possible. Perhaps my grandmother was also using the name Unger, for two years later she travelled from our internment camp at Tada u to bring back her dying son from a village somewhere near Mandalay. She used rubies as bribes. Victor died of cholera soon after. There were so many more questions I could have asked Mother but did not. I believed she would be around for ever.

  “Under a full moon, mother and I walked most of the night along the railway track to the next station. I was exhausted. When we finally arrived, it was crowded, everyone was shouting. It was impossible to search for Cyril, Victor or Lucy in the chaos of the milling crowd, so we sat down and rested. Many people at the station had also lost members of their families and went looking for them. This of course gave other people a chance to climb into their vacated space. My mother took this opportunity to squeeze
into a goods carriage with you and made room for me. Then the worst thing happened, every time I think about it I always want to cry. I had forgotten a valise that I was sitting on which contained your clothes and some of my valuables. When I rushed back I could not find it. Mother was shouting at me to leave it. Suddenly the train began to pull away; there were so many people in the way that I could not get back on the train. I was left behind. I ran as fast as I could but I just could not catch up. I watched the train pulling further and further away. Mother was shouting instructions at me, but I could not hear a word. As young as you were, you realized what had happened and were crying. I was so desperate, even now I don’t like thinking about it. I will never forget the feeling of utter despair. I had ruined everything. I just stood there balling my eyes out. I had probably lost my husband, my home and now my nearest family. In anguish I began to chase the train again, which by now had disappeared.

  “I was now alone surrounded by scrub jungle and away from the safety of the station. I was drained of energy and just sat on the tracks crying my eyes out. I did not know what to do. Without hope, but urged on by an instinct I followed the tracks and prayed for a miracle.”

  This was one story Mother seldom related. Burma is three times the size of Britain. She would never have found us.

  “It was now getting dark and the jackals began calling in the distance. I felt vulnerable as I walked on the sleepers to make less noise. Jackals will lead a tiger to any helpless human in the jungle, just to scavenge their remains. I was convinced a tiger would appear at any moment out of the jungle and crouch on the railway track.

  “There is little twilight in Burma; soon it would be pitch-black before the moon and stars appeared. This hour of total darkness according to my brothers was known as ‘the dangerous hour’. It is the time of the nocturnal predators. I felt like screaming. Then to my astonishment and total relief I saw a dim figure walking towards me in the fading light – my mother! She was carrying you; it seemed to me that all our remaining possessions had been lost, left on the train. But I did not care, my prayers had been answered. ‘Don’t get separated from us again Kate’ was my mother’s only greeting. But I knew she was so relieved to see me.