ONE OF MOTHER’S COUSINS, DR BA MAW, had been jailed for collaborating with the Japanese in July 1941. Ba Maw was a minister in the Colonial Government and had always hated the British. He had been a frequent visitor to our home before the war and had constantly raised the subject of home rule for the Burmese. It was a serious subject but I remember the discussions being friendly and fun.
Uncle Ba Maw frequently teased Mother.
‘After all, you are married to the enemy,’ he would say, and she would laugh and laugh.
Dr Ba Maw was to become the puppet Prime Minister of Burma during the Japanese occupation. He was one of the Burmese pro-Independence leaders who believed Japanese promises that Burma would be granted early independence if the Burmese helped them drive the British out. Another believer was General Aung San, father of Nobel Peace laureate Aung San Suu Kyi. A third associate was Ne Win, who became Burma’s long-lasting dictator in 1962.
The hustle and bustle seemed to be dying down. Even the air-raid sirens sounded less frequently. There was a calmness about the town and the markets appeared normal. Then one day we children awoke to some news from our mother that came as a blow.
‘The time has come to evacuate our home,’ she said simply. ‘I have decided that we must move north to Myitkyina, where we will be safe in a place where we can see out the war.’
In a flurry, she called the servants. They carted many of our possessions down to the air-raid shelter to be stored. An open truck arrived and Mother handed the house over to her trusted servants, whom she hoped would be able to take care of it until our return. The truck was to transport the family with other fleeing Eurasian families to Mandalay.
‘Even though Mandalay is being bombed, we have to take the risk,’ she said. ‘It is the only point of departure for Myitkyina.’
Why did she decide to leave Maymyo when she had such a powerful relative on her side? Ba Maw had escaped from prison in March and was in hiding, but he had sent word to my mother that she should stay in Maymyo, where he said she would be safe.
‘I know he means well, but I cannot agree with him,’ she said quietly. In her view, Uncle Ba Maw was a weak man, a show-off. She would not have been surprised that he became a puppet for the Japanese.
‘I cannot believe he will be able to exert any influence over the Japanese on our behalf,’ she said.
She understood clearly from Uncle Ba Maw’s message that the Japanese occupation of Maymyo was inevitable and imminent.
‘As the wife of a British oil executive and the mother of four Anglo–Burmese children, I think the risk of staying in Maymyo is simply too great,’ she said.
The Chinese officers who came to our house had discussed privately with her the shocking atrocities perpetrated by the Japanese soldiers during their occupation of China. Rape and murder had been commonplace.
‘Anybody associated with the British regime is likely to become a prime target for Japanese retribution,’ she said. ‘My duty is to protect all of you children, and Ethel is especially vulnerable, because she is a girl and because she is so pretty.’
My mother also had her own network of contacts among the servants and the Chinese and Indian traders in the market. She had no shortage of information about the dire situation that would very likely face her family when the Japanese arrived, even though she had tried to keep her thoughts hidden from us children. She was right to be afraid. Within weeks, many Anglos in Burma were imprisoned in concentration camps and subjected to brutality from their Japanese conquerors.
Chapter 3
To Myitkyina
It was a hairy ride. The truck driver was a British army recruit who seemed more preoccupied with having a good time than carrying the families safely down the mountain road to Mandalay. There were times when he drove dangerously close to the edge of the bitumen, and his negotiation of the hairpin bends was down-right hazardous. We arrived in Mandalay after two to three hours of a horror ride. The driver took us to some government buildings in the centre of town.
‘Everyone off!’
Mandalay seemed deserted, but this large building, which turned out to the municipal offices, was teeming with confused people.
We scrambled for a square of space while Mother went looking for somebody with a bit of authority. She came across a couple of Burmese government officials who recognised her and took us to a vacant office. The high-ceilinged room, typical of colonial buildings, was to be our digs for the next few days. While it was imperative that one of us stay there to be informed of any developments, we snatched some moments to visit old friends who had stayed in the ancient city. Rumours of the Japanese advance circulated, amid turmoil and fear. There was talk that if we did not get the transport to the north, we would be captured.
Fortunately there was only one air raid during our stay and it was directed at the wharves on the river. We were camped with hundreds of families, mostly Indians who had already experienced extreme hardship and privation during their trek from Rangoon.
Nobody seemed to know what was going on, and if they knew, they were not going to tell. Whispers spread that a train would leave soon. Yet nobody could pinpoint the time of departure.
One of the officials, who was a friend of the family, arrived one morning with some news.
‘You must get to the rail station quickly. There is a a possibility that an engine will be fired up and it will be the last train. It will be driven by volunteers.’
We arrived to find a group of men working on an engine and others coupling up some carriages. Our family chose the carriage nearest the engine and deposited our gear on the hard wooden seats of a third-class carriage. Suddenly Robert, who had been rather quiet up to this point, spoke up urgently.
‘We should move to the middle of the train. If there is an air raid, the fighter bombers will attack the engine first and we will be exposed, sitting so close to the front.’
It was a valid point, but the train had already begun to fill up and any chance of finding another seat or even a spare inch of space had disappeared. We stayed where we were. It was to be our home for the next six days.
Eventually the train pulled out of the station and headed off in the direction of the Ava bridge, the only structure crossing the mighty Irrawaddy River. The bridge was a magnificent multi-spanned structure about a mile long. The train took us past towns that were once the capitals of ancient Burma, the Royal Kingdom of Burmese Kings.
‘Why are we moving at a snail’s pace?’ I asked a man who was near us.
‘To conserve fuel and to be in a position to stop if there is an air attack. The passengers travelling on the roofs of the carriages are our spotters.’
We arrived at the bridge and were confronted with a large contingent of soldiers.
‘They’re sappers – engineers – and they’ll be blowing up the bridge after our train has crossed.’ We inched our way over for fear of setting off the charges. Just before we pulled into Sagaing, the town on the western side of the river, we heard an enormous explosion and knew the job had been done.
Forty years later, during my return visit to the bridge with my son and his wife, we drove up to one of the many pagodas to photograph the Ava bridge. A Buddhist monk in a nearby house spotted us.
‘Come up for a chat!’
I went to meet him and he suddenly looked quite shocked. He came closer and said, ‘I know you.’
I could hardly believe my eyes either. He was my old friend Alfie from St Paul’s school, now the respected head monk, U. Endika. We embraced, much to the astonishment of my son.
Alfie’s father had been a Chinese teak millionaire. During the years since our separation, Alfie had gone on to study engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the United States. He had returned to his homeland after the war and one of his first assignments had been to repair the bridge.
‘The bridge was only partly destroyed by the retreating British troops at the time of your crossing in 1942,’ he said. ‘Only one span col
lapsed.’
He even produced a photo of the class of ’41 featuring two smiling larrikins. ‘Being a small lad, I used to pay pocket money to your father to protect me,’ Alfie told my son with a chuckle.
Our meeting was an unexpected and memorable reunion.
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN FASCINATED WITH TRAIN TRAVEL and, despite the obvious discomfort of the hard seats and the constant threat of attack, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Robert and I were invited into the engine a few times and travelled with the stokers and driver. At the numerous stops we would go with other passengers to collect wood for the engine fire and also join the bucket brigade that was called upon to water the engine from waterways and rivers. Yes, it was fun, until one day the train screeched to a stop and, amid warnings of aircraft approaching, we scattered and sheltered in the deep drains adjacent to the tracks. Fortunately, nothing came of these attacks. Perhaps the Japanese planes were searching for troop movements; nonetheless it was a scary experience.
All along the way, the locals in the villages gathered to help the refugees with food and flowers. They were extremely kind and were aware that our group had been driven from our homes to seek shelter at a safe haven.
After days we arrived at the station in Mogaung, a bustling trading town in peacetime, on the route from the nearby jade mines to China. No longer was it a busy outpost. There were still many people about but it was obvious that they too were preparing for some form of attack.
North of Mogaung on the track to Myitkyina, which was our destination, we came across a derailed train that blocked our progress. We were told that word had got to Myitkyina and hopefully another train would come down the track and pick us up to complete the journey. As we approached the wrecked carriages the smell of dead bodies filled the air. Evidently the Japanese had struck the engine and strafed the soldiers in the carriages. We climbed all over the wreckage.
‘Look here! Tins of food! Camouflaged oilskin raincoats! And oh, look, a gun!’
Robert had found an army 303 Lee Enfield rifle. He clutched it as if it were a prize.
‘This will help protect us,’ he said proudly.
The country was in a state of emergency, which meant that anybody could carry a weapon. Army revolvers were a common sight hanging from people’s waists. Self-protection seemed paramount, but strangely there was not much aggression evident.
We waited in the hot sunshine. People sprawled all around the rail tracks. The younger children played about, some putting their ears to the tracks to pick up the sound of an approaching train. Very slowly a train came into view. The engine was pushing the few carriages. We all climbed aboard and started the short journey to Myitkyina.
The English translation of the Burmese word Myitkyina is ‘near the large river’, and so it is. It was built on the banks of the Irrawaddy River, which flows through the centre of Burma and splits the country in half. The eastern half borders on China down to Thailand and the western half nudges the Indian region of Assam. The river itself is navigable for almost its entire 1000-mile length and is the life-blood of a country rich in agriculture and timber. Historically it is known to the locals as ‘the cold river’. Unlike many rivers throughout the world that begin their flow from the trickle of a spring, the Irrawaddy is vast even at its headwaters. Like the Bramaputra in India, it is a product of the overflow of melting snow high in the Himalayas.
It was the end of our journey north. In normal times it may well have been an adventure in search of a river, since the train tracks followed the river and for the 400 miles of the trip never lost sight of its waters. But today was different. It was, we thought, the end of our flight from the advancing Japanese troops as they stormed north, driving the British out of one of their jewelled colonial outposts.
The hundreds of people who dragged themselves off the train gathered in small chattering groups for some time before heading off in all directions.
‘Look at all the women and children. There are hardly any men, just a smattering of old ones,’ I said to Robert.
Like the faithful Christian that she was, my mother asked for directions to the nearest church.
‘I am confident we will find shelter with good Christian people until we know what we are going to do,’ she said.
So Mother, Ethel, Robert and I walked along a quiet street in the direction we had been given. Like most Burmese provincial towns the streets were wide and clean. Shade trees lined the roads.
In the south of Burma the streets are usually lined with exotic species, some tamarind and a lot of mango. They serve a dual purpose of providing shade and food. In Myitkyina, where the climate was cooler, bordering on the temperate, the trees were hardwood, with the occasional cherry or plum tree creating an avenue of cool colour.
We arrived at a teak bungalow. It was built on stilts, as in most country towns of Burma, to keep predators out of reach of the occupants. There was nobody home, so we rested in the shade beneath the building. Before long a middle-aged Burman and his wife arrived in horse-drawn carriage. They greeted us kindly.
‘Do come in,’ the lady said.
The pastor went closer to my mother and gave a start. ‘I know you! Aren’t you the lady who plays the church organ? I am sure we have met before!’
I was delighted to see my mother smile and hear her laugh. It seemed so long since she had shown any joy. The past few weeks had taken their toll and the burden of caring for us children must have been a heavy cross to bear. I was happy for her. After a fine meal the family joined in singing hymns around an old piano. Mother played tune after tune without being prompted for more. A prayer meeting followed and we children were ushered into a verandah room to spend the night.
On the following morning my mother and Ethel walked the short distance to the market. When they returned we gathered for lunch and Mother said, ‘I have changed my mind about staying in Myitkyina. We will be leaving the parsonage today for a school nearby, where a government-sponsored camp has been set up for refugees.’
‘Please, no,’ the pastor said. ‘We have plenty of room here. We would be delighted to have you stay and share our home, for as long as you wish.’
His wife agreed. ‘Please do,’ she said sincerely.
But my mother, while moved by their generosity, said no. ‘Thank you, but I really feel it is best that we move to the camp, where we are more likely to hear news of further movements. People were saying today that the airfield is still usable and that some refugees may be able to secure seats on evacuating aircraft. It is too good an opportunity to miss the chance of getting to India.’
This was the first I had heard of our trying to get out of Burma altogether. Nothing seemed to make much sense, but I could see it was not the time to start asking questions.
We duly moved, and settled in with hundreds of people – mainly Indian refugees – at a school on the banks of the Irrawaddy River.
Strangely, we knew no-one. Our friends who had left Maymyo before us must have crossed into India on the Imphal route, 200 miles south, a road that connected Burma with India and had been constructed during peacetime to ferry native labour from India.
Rumours abounded as to what steps were being taken to move the refugees out and into India. Planes flew over every day but they were Japanese aircraft bombing parts of the town and the airfield. There was talk that some of the aeroplanes sent to pick up the refugees had been shot down. There were rumours also that the Japanese had broken through from the East, where they were engaged with troops of the Chinese army.
‘It will be only a matter of days before they capture Myitkyina.’ Even as a young boy, I could believe that. It seemed there were no troops in the town capable of mounting any sort of defence. After a couple of days we were alerted to the arrival of a platoon of khaki-clad troops. Fear ran through the camp. The soldiers were dressed in tattered uniforms that looked rather like pictures of Japanese soldiers. And they were barefooted. Could they be Japanese? This group of rabble could not speak Burmese or, if
they did, they appeared not to want to communicate with the inmates of the camp. By the waving of hands and pointing they made it plain that they were about to commandeer the whole compound. Many of the Indian refugees became certain the new arrivals were a vanguard of Japanese troops and fled. It was some time before my mother found it safe to approach a soldier to speak with him. Mother had studied Asian languages at university. She spoke Cantonese and five other Oriental languages, including Japanese.
She told us what she had learnt.
‘It seems these troops were attached to the 5th Chinese Army and were cut off from their retreat into China by the Japanese. They struck out to the west with a plan to move up the northern valley of Burma and link up with the southern Chinese army in the western province of Yunnan, but they could not get there.’
The new arrivals took over the camp and organised duties for the inmates. It was like an internment camp. Robert and I were assigned to fetch water from the river. It was not an arduous job and we combined our duties with some frolicking in the clean water.
My mother soon realised no information about refugee movements was coming through to the camp.
‘I think we had better move out to the airfield. We might just manage to get a ride on a plane,’ she said.
We set off from the school with our belongings strung across our backs and headed out to the airstrip, which was some miles from the township. It was a long walk that took us back past the residence of our friend the Baptist pastor and his wife.
‘Please stay with us,’ they said once again. ‘We would be truly glad to have you here. Abandon any idea of leaving Burma. You will surely be safe here with us.’
But Mother spoke softly to the pastor.
‘There has been so much talk of Japanese soldiers taking advantage of young women. I just cannot bear to put my daughter at risk. Besides, she is so European-looking that she would be especially vulnerable.’
White Butterflies Page 3