Escape to Pagan

by Brian Devereux

  “Some pro-Japanese villages were ordered to deny retreating British soldiers water by removing the pulleys, ropes and buckets. For us to obtain water we would have to enter the village; this could be dangerous. This practice was new to my mother and was against Buddhist principles to deny water to travellers, for Buddha himself was a traveller. We always kept some water for emergencies and to fill your bottle. The water shortage would continue till the coming mango showers. Until then we had to make do. We travelled two or three miles a day. The pram was heavy to push; the land we crossed was full of deep cracks and ruts. Sometimes we were forced to cross dry sandy chaungs. The heavy pram had to be heaved and shoved, it was very hot and we tired quickly. We also had to keep an eye on you. When we were distracted you ran off laughing. Although we saw no dangerous wildlife during the day, the sandy beds of the chaungs were full of animal tracks – mostly snakes, deer, jungle fowl and peacocks.

  “As soon as we saw a tree or a big bush providing shade we stopped and rested and cooked our main meal. Now that my mother had all the right ingredients, the food was always lovely. We saved the kungi water [water the rice was cooked in] for you. Mother always cooked more than enough lunch, leaving some for the evening, which we ate cold; that way we did not always have to light a fire that could attract unwelcome attention. Villagers usually investigated fires that were nearby. Some of the big trees had large noisy bats in them that we called flying foxes; we never slept under these trees. Crossing a well used bullock track, my mother spotted a stone water trough that was used to water bullocks. The water in the trough was undrinkable but the thin trickle that fed it was clear. We filled our tin cups and drank, but only half-filled our containers as we were so nervous that Japanese soldiers or Burmese dacoits could appear at any moment.

  “One hot furnace-like afternoon we stopped in the shade of a tree surrounded by bushes; we hid the pram full of food out of sight. Sitting in the shade, Mother began cooking a Burmese curry. We noticed people walking nearby and realized we were near another bullock track. Then a young pretty Burmese girl came into view; noticing us, she left the track and began walking towards us. My mother told me to keep my mouth shut and let her do all the talking.

  “In Burma it is not unusual to be approached by strangers who may politely enquire as to your destination and place of departure; in return they will give you their opinion on the route you have chosen. They may even enquire about your marital status and occupation etc.

  “The smiling Burmese girl greeted my mother politely and sat down. She started a conversation about the coming monsoon. She said she was a student from Rangoon, heading to her village a few miles away for the coming water festival. Like all hungry students worldwide, she was anti-this and anti-that, in fact anti-everything, favouring anarchy. Students in Burma were anti-British. They desired self-rule and independence. And like all students she had strong political opinions.

  “’The long nose “Meow phue” (white monkeys), have left Burma – Burma is now free. The Japanese are Buddhists and rice eaters like us. Soon Burma will be independent and govern itself’ the girl said.

  “’Where are the British now?’ asked my mother.

  “’Running to India’ she answered.

  “This was terrible news. Even though we knew the war was going badly, we always hoped for a miracle. India was such a long way away. It was hard to believe there was no British Army left in Burma after all those years. The young female student was obviously hungry and enquired about all the ingredients my mother was using, as if testing her knowledge of Burmese cooking. We invited her to join us and share our food. The young student was impressed with mother’s curry.

  “’Stay the night at my village’ offered the pretty Burmese girl, ‘we have plenty of water and empty huts. My uncle is the headman.’

  “I hoped my mother would accept this offer but she said we had to cross the dry belt before the rains; her mind was made up. It was such a shame; I was looking forward to sleeping under a roof and drinking fresh well water.

  “’You speak excellent Burmese’ said the girl to my mother.

  “’I am Burmese’ said my mother, ‘from the south west.’

  “’Ahhh … then you are more Mons than Khmer’ said the girl knowingly, ‘but why are you here in the hot season?’

  “’We came here to escape the Chinese Army’ answered my mother.

  “You were quite taken by this pretty Burmese girl and kept trying to lift up her longyi, she found this quite amusing because of your age. Thank goodness she did not ask any more awkward questions. After eating and thanking my mother, the pretty young Burmese student left. We packed our things and crossed the bullock track immediately after the girl was out of sight, picking up as many mangoes as we could along the way. These mangoes were small and very sweet; they were our favourite and called ‘Alfonzo mangoes’, first brought to Burma from Goa by the Portuguese. We moved away from the direction of the girl’s village. My mother was not taking any chances as we were now carrying a great deal of money.

  “We walked as far as possible that afternoon and were thinking of finding a place to sleep when we noticed palm trees in the distance. This was now the real dry belt; water would be extremely scarce. Before we could reach the palms, peacocks informed us of the approaching night with their weird calls. That night we slept in the middle of a cactus thicket; the ground was so hard. We eventually fell asleep to the calls of the roosting peacocks. The following morning we walked towards the tall palms to seek water. There were no wells or springs above ground, but all the tall sugar palm trees were being tapped high up in the canopy by somebody for their juice. It would have been lovely to be able to drink fresh palm juice, but the trees were too high to climb.

  “After two or three days travelling we had no water left and were very thirsty again. My mother tried cutting cactus plants; some cacti stored water but all we got was an inedible sticky milky substance that was poisonous. Eating the sweet mangoes now only added to our thirst.

  “That afternoon we came to a small village surrounded by palm and coconut trees. Where there’s a village, there is always water. While I waited, Mother took out small rice bags from the pram and hid them among the cactus plants to be picked up later. As we got nearer to the village we could see it was by the side of a large dirt road. On the far side of the village there were many guava trees growing around a massive banyan tree that gave plenty of shade. Under the palm trees were women making palm toddy. Further back from the track stood several huts, under which lay many large earthenware containers full of fermenting palm juice. These huts belonged to toddy makers. These people had darker skin and came from the hills; they were gypsies. As usual it was the village dogs that spotted us first and raised the alarm. The women and children stopped their work and came out to watch us. We approached them slowly, looking forward to sitting in the shade. Seeing we were only two females and a child the toddy makers relaxed. They were pleased when my mother asked to buy their toddy and some palm fruit. She then offered to buy water. Water was given freely. To charge strangers for water is considered taboo.

  “There were two types of toddy, sweet or dry; you always loved sweet toddy and could not get enough. The native women used to keep giving you sips of sweet toddy when we were not looking. They were also selling blocks of lovely ‘guava cheese’ also known as ‘guava jelly’. The large fruit of the palm trees were also for sale. This fruit called ‘nungue’ by the Burmese had a soft, firm opaque jelly-like centre that was full of sweet water and was very tasty. Although they spoke Burmese, these native traders looked different and had their own language that my mother did not understand. They were small in build without tribal tattoo markings like most hill tribes and their dress was unfamiliar to us. As they used the word ‘paani’, Indian for water, perhaps they were of Indian descent. It was never wise to enquire as to where these tribes were from. While their men travelled to the main bullock tracks and the distant main roads to sell toddy to the passing t
ravellers, the women stayed and brewed the alcoholic palm juice, made the guava cheese, and baskets from palm fronds. They seemed totally unaware that a major war was going on.

  “There was a boulder strewn spring nearby where these people drew their water. We asked permission to drink. The pool was not very big and these tribespeople had earthenware jars collecting water as it fell from the rocks in a thin trickle so it took us some time to collect water, but the water was cool and clear. Several red-faced working macaque monkeys were chained to the trees and pulled faces at us. We had to keep you away from these vicious monkeys, even the dogs were afraid of them. These big primates were trained to climb the trees and bring down the cup of tapped palm juice without spilling a drop; they would be closely watched by their owners. The monkeys would also be watching their owners; if distracted for one moment, the monkey would take a quick drink. I used to love watching the monkeys and the faces they pulled at their owners, when their backs were turned.

  “After drinking the spring water, we settled under the shady palms and bought more sweet toddy and Guava jelly. These tribal women were fascinated by your size and the trusting way you approached them and sat on their laps. Soon you were running around with their tiny dark naked children in the shade of the palms. Many of the hill tribes near the Chinese border considered any newborn baby a year old at birth, thus a two year old child of theirs was in fact considered to be a three year old.

  “My mother warned me to be careful as some of these tribes would often kidnap children who took their fancy and take them back to their distant villages. This was a habit of many of the small hill tribes; it introduced new blood and genes to their race.

  “We noticed an empty hut on stilts; although tattered, it would be more comfortable and safer than sleeping on the ground. The tribespeople had no objections to us using the hut. These people were not rice growers and were delighted when my mother gave them some rice and salt. When we were alone we emptied the contents of the pram into the hut and used the small bags of rice as pillows hidden under blankets along with our other valuables. And as a safeguard one of us stayed close to the hut at all times.

  “It was at this village that I heard the cry of the Outoasan for the first time, even though I had heard many stories relating to this frightening sound from my mother, brothers and other members of our large family. The Outoasan arrived that evening while we were all sitting outside around our fires. Everyone stopped talking, as it was believed that human voices attracted the being. Mothers quickly grabbed their children and valuable monkeys that were now chattering nervously and rushed into the safety of their huts. We did the same but we could see straight through the big hole in our tattered door. We made the sign of the cross and covered ourselves with our blankets with you tucked in-between us. We listened to the screams of the Outoasan as it came nearer. Then silence. We breathed a sigh of relief hoping the creature had moved on. Suddenly a scream, the creature was now sitting in the banyan tree opposite our hut. We could see this tree in the moonlight through the large gaps in our tattered door and expected the creature to appear at any moment. Although we waited, the Outoasan did not scream again.”

  To add foundation to this superstition, this creature came to Tada u and screeched the very night my uncle Victor died of cholera. As I grew older I certainly became very afraid of the Outoasan’s arrival (Mum always reminded me). I firmly believed these screams were the doings of an evil spirit. It was not until many years later that I found out the truth from a devout Jain who had lived in isolation in the wilds of both India and Burma. These frightening, spine-chilling calls are made by a big creature of flesh and blood, a solitary migrating “brain-fever” bird and not by a Banshee, Sherrill, Outoasan or Djinn. This big speckled bird is the largest member of the cuckoo family and migrates from beyond the Himalayas south, across south East Asia. It seems this bird only calls in April and May just like its close European relative.

  I am surprised that the source of this yearly terror was unknown to the endemic people at that time, for they knew the jungle and the wildlife intimately. Perhaps they were all too afraid to go out and investigate at night. Maybe Grandmother knew the truth. Our family always loved a good ghost story.

  “We stopped in the toddy-maker’s village for quite some time, but one morning we were surprised to find that they had all left. These hill tribes did not trust the lowland Burmese and felt safer back in their jungle-clad hills. Now having the pick of the accommodation we moved into a better, stronger hut with an intact door.

  “The mango showers were now beginning to grow heavier and the flow of water in the spring had increased. With the toddy-makers gone, there was enough water for us to bathe every day. By now fuel for cooking was becoming a problem and we had to use coconut husks, which made a great deal of smoke when burnt on a fire. This could attract unwanted attention and with this in mind, we began to burn old dry palm fronds instead that we pulled from the roof of a dilapidated hut. There were many old coconuts lying around which contained a sweet fungus that my mother began to harvest. One night I woke up and heard an animal under the hut. It was moving around making loud sniffing noises. I prayed it was not a tiger or a leopard. I quietly woke your grandmother, who listened and said it sounded like a pig. After a while the animal moved off. The following day Mother decided that because the pig had visited she would go and check to see if the rice we had hidden before entering the village was still there.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Grouper’s Second War Patrol

  EAST CHINA SEA

  The American submarine Grouper was attached to the Midway Patrol Group, comprising Cachalot, Cuttlefish, Nautilus, Trout, Flying Fish, Grayling, Gudgeon and several other submarines. After the battle of Midway Island, Grouper (a new submarine) had not sunk a single enemy ship. On her return to Pearl Harbour Grouper received a new, more aggressive commander; Lieutenant Commander Rob Roy McGregor. He was a man proud of his Scottish ancestry; a sprig of wild heather hung by the periscope, his lucky charm. The battle of Midway Island was a turning point, a great success for the American Navy but this good news was unknown to the prisoners of the Japanese (or the Japanese public). The prisoners aboard the Lisbon Maru did not know that the Japanese navy were no longer the masters of the Southern and Eastern Oceans. The Imperial Navy had lost some of its finest aircraft carriers, battleships and experienced pilots at the battle of Midway. The “Floating Chrysanthemums” as the Japanese proudly called their Imperial Navy, were now on the defensive.

  The Grouper was now on her second war patrol. Unknown to the new commander and the many crew aboard, the submarine was soon to become famous or infamous, through no fault of her own. The Grouper was one of the new impressive large submarines but like all American submarines she had one drawback: defective torpedoes. These weapons had faulty firing mechanisms, many failed to explode on contact and another problem was that they often ran too deep in the water. Surprisingly the British and German Navy had the same problems. In fact a British destroyer suffered the indignity of sinking itself by one of its own torpedoes while escorting an artic convoy to Russia. It seems the torpedo did a lively U-turn! It was the Japanese who had developed the most deadly and reliable torpedoes, a torpedo known as the “Long Lance.” This torpedo had the longest range, ran straight and fast at the correct depth and when it hit an enemy ship it always tended to explode. Fortunately the Japanese Navy did not see fit to share this technology with their German allies. If they had, we may well have lost the Battle of the Atlantic. In one sense we are lucky that the warriors of Nippon did not like sharing anything – apart from the clap.

  The above facts remained unknown or made little difference to the half-starved and ill POWs suffocating and dying in the filthy holds of the Lisbon Maru, now sailing around the Zhoushan archipelago.

  Reaching its patrol area in mid-September, Grouper damaged a small merchant vessel but soon lost her in a heavy rain squall. A few days later Grouper targeted another merchant vessel and fir
ed three torpedoes; all three torpedoes missed due to faulty and erratic mechanisms. Again Grouper moved position and headed along the Chinese coast, hoping her luck would change: it did. On 20th September she spotted a Japanese cargo ship of around six thousand tons. The Submarine fired a single torpedo; it was enough to break the ship’s back and she sank in a matter of minutes.

  The Grouper moved position and soon spotted another target. The ship began to zigzag, having seen the submarine. As it was a clear moonlit night Commander McGregor decided to abort the attack and move again. He knew his intended victim had sent out a signal to an anti-submarine patrol and given them his position. He and his crew were well aware that all American submariners caught by the Japanese Navy were usually tortured then beheaded on deck almost immediately.

  The next night Grouper sighted a large freighter heading north hugging the coast. This ship seemed unaware of the submarine’s presence. Commander McGregor decided to steam ahead on the surface then dived and waited in ambush: the Grouper had found the Lisbon Maru. As usual with the Japanese, there was no red cross displayed on POW ships signifying their human cargo.

  On board the Grouper everyone was tense and concentrated on their given tasks. The torpedo crew went to their stations; all six fish (torpedoes) were loaded into their tubes. They waited for the order to fire from McGregor. Having made his adjustments, the order came to fire three of the torpedoes at short intervals.

  “All torpedoes running fast and straight” reported the tracker. A hush fell over the submariners. The crew knew how long the torpedoes would have to run before impact and carefully counted the seconds waiting for the explosions: none came. All three torpedoes missed! Immensely disappointed at the results, the crew silently cursed their faulty torpedoes, the American Navy, the man who designed them and his family. It seems they were risking their lives to no purpose. Disappointed, Commander McGregor ordered the remaining three torpedo tubes to be fired. Incredibly, they also missed.