White Butterflies

by Colin Mcphedran

  They were mostly Anglo–Burmese families and a few Burmese.

  ‘What’s going on? Why are they still on the train?’ Robert asked one of the engine-drivers.

  ‘They are prepared to take their chances and travel south into the Japanese-occupied towns,’ he said heavily. ‘They think a bit of hostile treatment by the enemy is preferable to the long and dangerous walk over the mountains to India.’

  He paused, then said, aside, to my mother, ‘They have endured too much and the urge to get back to friends and relatives in occupied territory is irresistible.’

  We said goodbye to those few brave ones.

  Even before the train pulled out, I could hear the thud, thud, thud of field guns and bombs further to the south-east. Fifty years later, at a function in Perth, Australia, I came across one of the people whose family had decided to take their chance with the enemy. That particular family were educated Burmese people and they survived the war unscathed. Many of their Anglo–Burmese fellow travellers, however, would have ended up in dreadful internment camps.

  We planned to move out the following day, along the route west through the Hukawng Valley.

  ‘Before we go, we must find the Baptist church and the Pongyi Chaung [Buddhist monastery] to seek guidance,’ my mother said.

  In a surprisingly light-hearted manner she added, ‘We will seek their help and advice on the physical path to India and, failing that, they might offer some guidance on that other “path” to spiritual joy.’

  Even though everything around us seemed to be falling apart, my mother still displayed a ton of faith in the Almighty. I often wonder at the torment that must have been her lot as she struggled to make the right decisions for the safety of her children, keeping us together without much food or shelter, with the constant danger of bombing and the threat of being captured.

  The Buddhist monks received us kindly and gave us food.

  ‘Please reconsider your plans. It is a very treacherous journey. The monsoon is not far away and the rain comes down like a water-fall in the mountains.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind thoughts, but I feel I have no choice but to set out towards India. I have to put my daughter’s safety first. Besides, the war may not last much longer. I have faith that everything will work out for the best.’

  Next we made contact with the Baptist pastor and his wife, who were delighted to see us. They fed us and talked late into the night. This pastor, too, had met my mother previously at a church convention. All the talk centred on our immediate welfare and the Christians took the same view as the Buddhists.

  ‘Please, I beseech you, don’t try to take your family over the mountains. There are so many obstacles: mountain crossings, waterways, the mosquito menace, monsoon rains and Naga headhunters.’

  None of this swayed my mother. Deep in her thoughts were those stories of Japanese atrocities.

  ‘My overriding duty is to protect my young daughter from being ravaged by the Japanese,’ she repeated. It was her main theme and in her typical Burmese way she sought to explain their behaviour in terms of her own unshakeable faith in the power of learning and education.

  ‘It is not that they are bad people, but they are unskilled.’

  We gathered for prayer and spent a comfortable night with this truly Christian couple.

  Very early the following morning they accompanied us for about a mile and set us on the road to India. It was 6 May 1942, the start of a journey that would take three and a half months to complete. It was a journey that claimed the lives of tens of thousands of men, women and children. General Joseph Stilwell of the US army (dubbed ‘Vinegar Joe’) travelled the same route in reverse, two years later, and described it as ‘the path to Hell’. Stilwell had fled Burma at almost exactly the same time as us, but had travelled on the lower route to Imphal.

  One week after we began the walk, unbeknownst of course to us, the Japanese commanders made contact with Uncle Ba Maw. Soon afterwards they met the other Burmese pro-Independence leaders in Maymyo, to canvass installing Ba Maw as chief administrator.

  Monsoon clouds were building up in the west but the locals said the rains could still be a few weeks away. The road was dirt, like many that connect villages all over the north of Burma. Kamaing, approximately 30 miles away, was our destination the first day. The track ran along the valley of the Mogaung River, a tributary of the Irrawaddy.

  Robert had arranged for each of us to carry a share of the goods. ‘I’ll take the rifle, the rice and the condensed milk. Colin, you carry the water bags and the tea. Mother and Ethel, you take the blankets and the change of clothes.’

  We sat close together and Mother prayed. She felt better and said, ‘Whatever happens to us, it will be the will of God.’

  The track was flat and there was not much in the way of trees. I looked ahead and away in the distance I saw a streaming mass of people, our fellow refugees. They were all Indians as far as I could tell.

  It was a wave of human movement, stretching as far as the eye could see. In front of us there were literally thousands of people; we brought up the rear.

  Now I felt good, and thoughts of an adventurous journey played on my mind. We all handled the first few miles well. There was a lot of talk of what we could expect on the road ahead. Around mid-morning the sun became hot and we decided to take our first rest when a shady spot could be found. We ate a decent meal of rice and fried vegetables, washed down with tea, but wasted little time.

  ‘We have to reach Kamaing before nightfall,’ Robert said, urging us on.

  In the mid-afternoon we came across the first casualties. Dead bodies began to appear along the way, mostly Indians who had probably been on the road for weeks, fleeing from the southern towns. Other groups sat about resting or nursing sick companions. I had not expected to be confronted with refugees giving up so early in the trek. My early thoughts of an adventure walk were soon dispelled. Japanese planes flew overhead and we scuttled off the track and lay in the deep trenches alongside, trenches that would carry the rains when the monsoon hit. The planes seemed to be targeting the refugees in the vanguard.

  ‘Try not to look up at the skies all the time. It’s slowing our progress. We have to keep up a good pace,’ said Robert.

  We were in grass country and he had learnt it was tiger territory. ‘Camping out at night could be a hazard. We must average three to four miles an hour to reach Kamaing before dark tonight.’

  The sun was setting when we passed some cropped fields. ‘Look! We must be getting near a village or a township.’

  A few miles further on there appeared the first cluster of thatched houses. We were entering Kamaing. The track improved and other paths appeared, heading in various directions. The place was almost deserted, which seemed strange. At the village well we inquired if there was a church. One of the local Chin people pointed in the direction of what seemed the village centre. Just off the main track and close to the river we saw a sign indicating a church. Adjoining the wooden hall was a residence in which the pastor lived. Mother walked through the gate into the compound and was met by a man who introduced himself.

  ‘You are most welcome. Please come inside,’ he said, ushering us into the residence.

  We explained our mission.

  ‘Well, then, you must stay with us for tonight at the very least. We have plenty of room. Please, make yourselves at home.’

  ‘Let’s leave Ama and Ethel to use the bathroom in the house and walk down to the river for a swim and a clean-up,’ Robert suggested. We did, and felt much better for it.

  The pastor and his wife were very kind. They talked about the work of the Christian missionaries in these far outposts and exchanged news with my mother about friends in the church.

  The pastor said, ‘No doubt you children are aware of the wonderful contribution your great-grandfather made in spreading the gospel throughout the country.’

  We had always known that my mother’s grandfather had translated the St James version of t
he Bible into Burmese. My mother brightened up.

  ‘I always feel happy talking about the good times,’ she said.

  The pastor produced the Bible and took particular pride in pointing to our great-grandfather’s name printed on the inside cover. He chose the Old Testament story of the first refugees, Moses leading his tribe out of bondage into the Promised Land. We sang hymns and Mother led the prayers. Again the pastor pleaded with us.

  ‘Please, go no further on this treacherous journey. Ours is a small but strong Christian community and we would be delighted if you would live out the war with us.’

  Again my mother explained her reasons for undertaking the hazardous trek. ‘I am resolved that this is the right thing to do,’ she finished.

  With no destination targeted for the next day’s walk, we did not leave until sunrise.

  ‘The next section of the trail will pass some villages, but they are of no significance,’ our host told us. ‘The first hundred or so miles will be flat and the last large village before the mountains is Shimbuyang.’ The trail out of Kamaing led north but a few miles out turned directly west. We passed slow bullock carts hauled by bony oxen filled with families of Indians. Occasionally a battered truck loaded with noisy Chinese soldiers would speed by recklessly, as if being chased by an enemy. These soldiers were remnants of the Chinese 31st Army who had been cut off from the main group as they retreated into China.

  It was a slow and hot walk. We were constantly alerted to Japanese fighters who, not content with having driven the might of the British army out of Burma, now enjoyed destroying the trail of hapless refugees as they walked west. We were past estimating distances and cast aside the goal of reaching a certain place by a certain time.

  ‘I just wish it would get dark so we couldn’t walk any further,’ I said to Robert, and the others murmured their agreement.

  This was a dangerous situation so early in the trek, a weakening of the spirit of survival. I was acutely aware of it, even at my age. But then I remembered that while we were 36 hours into the trek, we had really been on the trail for weeks, since leaving Maymyo. The sad sight of weeping people gathered in groups as they sat beside dead family members was beginning to awaken me to the realisation that we were indeed on a dangerous trail and that the days ahead would be filled with the sorrow of people parting from loved ones. Already, I could cope with seeing a bloated body, lying face-up, as if pleading to the gods for help.

  The flood of refugees early on in the trek was slowing to a thin line of stragglers as many fell by the wayside, exhausted or dead. The flat bed of the Hukawng Valley stretched for miles and in the heat haze we longed for relief from the blazing sun, some shelter and a hiding place in case of an air raid. Terror gripped us whenever we heard the sound of planes. Everyone was preoccupied with an attack from above, and constantly looked up to the skies behind. Along the way we crossed some creek beds which had dried up since the last monsoons. Tiny puddles of water helped ease our sunburnt faces, though the prospect of a cool dip was remote. The four of us walked with little conversation. The shrapnel wound on my shoulder was not improving and I was constantly changing the position of the pack on my back. When we stopped for a rest, Robert rigged up a pole.

  ‘Why don’t you tie your pack in two separate parcels and sling the pole over your shoulder? That should stop the pack chafing the wound on your back.’ It worked.

  ‘The coolies who used this method of transporting goods knew a thing or two!’ I said.

  It took a while to get the balance right, but the rhythm of movement made the task a lot easier. We camped that night in the open air with no shelter. Sleeping in the valley floor was an eerie experience. It seemed that everything around us was dead; there was not even a rustle of leaves in the breeze.

  Another day.

  ‘When do you think the mountains bordering India and Burma will come into view?’

  We encountered a few more bullock carts. Evidently these people had set out from places south of Mogaung and had picked up the trail at Kamaing. The bullocks were on their last legs and made very slow progress. Robert could not bear to see the animals suffering, and approached the families huddled in the carts.

  ‘Please, release the animals from their yokes. Honestly, you will make better progress walking like us,’ he said. They just gazed past him.

  We were on the outskirts of another large village, the township of Maingkwan.

  Night was falling and lights appeared, dotted about the place. ‘I hope the lights are those of the villagers, rather than the vanguard of refugees,’ my mother said.

  We were desperately short of food.

  ‘I hope we will be able to buy some supplies from the locals, since the refugees themselves will have little to spare,’ she said.

  Fortunately we found the village intact despite the flow of refugees through it. Again we sought and found the local church and camped in the grounds for the night. Next day we found the pastor who, in the spirit of his religion, helped us top up our food stocks and rinse out our clothes. We washed at the village well.

  ‘I feel much better now I’ve scrubbed off the dust and grime,’ I said.

  ‘So do I,’ said Robert. ‘Let’s put our fresh spare clothes on top of our packs to dry out.’

  We set off once again for the mountains.

  We had passed through the driest section of the vast valley and as we drew nearer to the hills, which now began to emerge in the distance, we crossed many partially dry creeks.

  ‘No doubt they’ll become raging rivers when the monsoon arrives,’ Robert said.

  The numbers of people who had succumbed to exhaustion and sickness grew alarmingly. Every creek bed was a chosen spot for those who had given up their will to continue. Bodies lay close to the stagnant pools. Some were dead and others beyond help. Despite the hopelessness of the sick cases Mother always stopped to comfort the dying. It was beginning to worry the three of us.

  ‘Ama, you’re holding us up. We must keep moving. Just leave them be.’ She would have none of it.

  ‘Just imagine if one of those people were you. Wouldn’t you welcome the kindness of a stranger?’

  How could we argue with her? We did, however, stop her from straying off the path in answer to a moan or cry from a dying person.

  ‘Ama, you must not waste our precious water supply on those we know will inevitably die,’ Robert urged that night. ‘We are in a terrible plight ourselves. If we use up our water, we will die too. We must conserve what little we have.’

  She was saddened. Mother was never known to raise her voice and shout any of us down, even when we were wrong. She simply reverted to her native tongue. In difficult situations she always felt better speaking in Burmese. I recall her once telling our father that she felt more comfortable using her language.

  ‘It lends itself better than English to sermonising, rather than chastising or scolding,’ she had said.

  As we drew nearer to the mountain ranges, the countryside changed. The ground cover was transformed from stubble and stone to clumps of tall grass. We knew the grass as ‘tiger grass’ because it was generally believed that wherever it abounded, there would be tigers. While we were approaching a clump of grass we heard planes. The sound caught us by surprise because we had been spared an attack for a few days. Four planes flew over as we raced for cover. Robert shouldered his rifle and prepared to take a pot shot at the planes. However, they kept their altitude over the trail and then turned south and headed away. I don’t suppose what was left of the refugee line presented much of a target.

  Still the people died and the stench lay heavily around. It was a strange phenomenon, the sight of the dead lying in groups. It seemed that all along the trail people surrendered to death at given spots. One often reads of elephants choosing a single area as a final resting place, and here a similar scene seemed to be played out. Would it be that some humans were loath to leave their dead loved ones and in so doing gave up their own will to carry on?
r />   Chapter 6

  The Last Outpost

  We reached the large village of Shimbuyang at midday. It had once been a thriving trading outpost at the end of the valley. The surrounding fields appeared to have been tilled for cash crops. Although not shown on any map, it has been said that a lot of tracks led out of this remote post to China and India and were used by smugglers of jade and opium. The village was on the banks of a fairly large river that no doubt originated in the foothills of the Himalayas. It was clean and cold and, during this dry weather, still flowed well.

  It was devilishly hot and the air was still, so still that the smell of death lay like a shroud over the whole area. The first thing that greeted us was a corpse in the middle of the track. I shall never forget the sight of this body, even though I had already seen hundreds. It was covered in what appeared to be a white sheet. As we stepped carefully around it, our movement appeared to disturb the shroud. Then we saw a cloud of white butterflies rise up with a whirring, humming sound, exposing the bloated, shiny corpse of an Indian refugee. The body looked as if it had been smeared in oil and laid out in the midday sun. The butterflies must have been drawing on the juices secreted from the skin. When we had moved away, I looked back in amazement to see the cloud of white settling back on the corpse, a fitting veil for the deceased. It was a sight we were to encounter often after that.

  There appeared to be no life in the village. It was an eerie experience inspecting each hut, looking for one without any bodies in it. Robert suggested we split up to look for a clean hut for the night.

  ‘Don’t mention this to Ama, but if by chance we find anybody near to death in any of the huts, let’s all agree not to tell her. I don’t think we can afford to lose any more time or rations to anybody we can’t help.’

  The three of us nodded to one another and set off.

  We converged on the far western side, nearest the river. There were three groups of Indians in some huts and they waved us on to an empty hut next to theirs.