White Butterflies

by Colin Mcphedran

  ‘My only regret is that I never ever had the opportunity to fire a bullet at the enemy,’ he said.

  I think he would have liked the chance to kill one of them because he could have returned to his village and boasted of his deed.

  ‘You might get an opportunity to go back into action when you recover from your wounds,’ I said, but I did not fancy his chances. He surely would be invalided out.

  Not once during the long sessions he spent alongside my bed did he mention or ask after my family. He, like the other patients, had probably been instructed not to ask me anything about the trek. It was the way things were handled in those days. Nowadays children are encouraged to talk about their traumas in an effort to help them, but things were different then. It was considered best to leave painful memories alone.

  Some time later, the nurses propped me up on the charpoy [bed] which gave me a better view of my surroundings. During the day, when the long side flaps that acted as windows were opened, I could view the surrounding countryside and the mountains beyond. Initially, the blue hills in the distance did nothing but bring on a deep sense of sadness. All I could think about was the trail beyond and the horror of the trek: the days my family and I had spent pulling ourselves out of the mud at every step, the torrential rain and the flooded crossings. The nights, too, haunted my thoughts as I lay looking at the distant hills thinking of the darkness and the hours spent scraping off the blood-sucking leeches.

  So obsessed was I with this view of the hills that in my dream world I used them as a gauge of my progress to better health. On good days I pictured myself returning to those mountains and once again tackling the obstacles. On other days my mind would conjure up the gloomy scenes of the trek. Whenever my favourite nurse sat beside me on a better day, I would talk about one day tackling the ranges again. She never questioned me about the past, but encouraged me to speak positively about the long walk.

  ‘I would love to accompany you,’ she said.

  Time went by and still I was kept on a fluid diet. Every time the other patients were fed, the smell of curry made me wish I could sit down and join them. To see those poor soldiers tucking into the rice and chapatis made me long to be well.

  ‘Couldn’t I just have a small bowl of rice and curry? I’m fed up with clear soup.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Colin, but we cannot risk setting your recovery back with a bout of diarrhoea.’

  All I could do was look on and hope that one day soon the staff would bring me the meal I longed for.

  My medication was changing. Quinine tablets were discontinued and I was dosed with a new wonder drug for the treatment of malaria. Atabrin and Metabrin tablets were pumped into me and I was forced to drink what seemed like gallons of water. They also introduced a new treatment for the wound on my shoulder, which was a relief. The daily draining of pus via the gauze cloth was replaced by a medicated pad that drew out the pus. The constant chafing of the rope-bed caused bedsores to break out. The humidity was not helping the process of healing.

  Despite these minor irritations, I was on the mend. I began to ask a lot of questions of my whereabouts.

  ‘Has anyone told my father that I survived? What is happening with the war? When will it end?’

  My carers took my new-found curiosity as a good sign.

  ‘The fact that you are asking all these questions means you are definitely getting better!’

  I detected a change in them. They appeared more cheerful when they attended to me. Even my Indian friends in the ward appeared happy with my progress. As they walked past my bed I remember their display of white teeth as they smiled.

  Then one day the doctor had news for me.

  ‘The authorities have been informed that your father is an employee of the Shell Burmah Oil Company. You are soon going to be transferred to the oil company’s modern hospital at Digboi, an oilfield to the south.’

  ‘But I don’t want to move!’

  ‘You will receive better medical treatment there. But we won’t allow you to be moved until you have been tested on a diet of something other than soup.’

  His other concern was the imminent threat of bombing, or even of being caught up by the advancing Japanese army. This alerted me to the fact that the Japanese were still on the offensive and were heading into India.

  My diet was altered and I was fed boiled rice three times a day in a very watery gruel. It was very palatable, I thought, even if the cook was heavy-handed with the salt. The nurses watched me closely in the days that followed: I was to be taken off the partial solids if my bowels reacted in any way. They did not. I was gaining a bit of weight. Sweetened condensed milk was added to the rice for the evening meal. It was delightful, and tinned milk in my tea made drinking it a pleasure instead of the chore it had become.

  The sound of planes increased.

  ‘What’s going on? Will anyone tell me?’

  ‘Now, Colin, you know that in wartime nobody talks very much.’

  The airraid alarm sounded on numerous occasions but as I lay in bed awaiting the thud of bombs nearby, nothing eventuated.

  By now I really had a feeling that I would make it. My whole body seemed to be responding to the kindness of my carers. Again I asked for a mirror, but again my request was turned down.

  ‘But you are looking fine,’ I was assured by the nurse who had always shed a tear whenever I had had my wound treated in the early days of my hospitalisation.

  ‘Your hair is beginning to grow nicely and your teeth are beginning to return to a white colour after all that scrubbing.’

  I knew I was thin and the fact that I could not yet hold up my arms signalled that all my muscles had wasted. The only part of my body I could view as I lay on my back was my lower torso. It reminded me of the walking skeletons on the trek. Nonetheless I knew I would get better as the days went by, and a tinge of desire to live on became evident. Every day seemed to bring with it positive news of my recovery. The Indian doctors, always smiling, would give me a good report.

  ‘You are making excellent progress. Soon you will fly the coop!’ One day they said the hospital would be evacuating its patients. ‘Why?’

  ‘The Japanese are advancing on India and it will be safer to move further inland and away from the range of their bombers.’ In the early hours of one morning a nurse came alongside my bed. ‘Colin, are you feeling well enough to travel?’

  It did not occur to me that I would be carried. All I could say was, ‘How can I move? I cannot even stand on my feet.’

  But a stretcher was brought and two nurses lifted me on to it and carried me out to a waiting ambulance, which was to take me to the oil company hospital at Digboi.

  The trip took about four hours. It was slow and bumpy, and when we arrived I was hungry and thirsty.

  ‘I think I will pass out if I do not have some water,’ I said to my carer. He was kind enough to fetch me a drink while I waited to be admitted and handed me a clay cup of rose water, a favourite with Indian children.

  I was lifted out of the ambulance and laid on the grass near the entrance to the hospital. I lay there looking up at the large series of buildings, all painted in white, as most public buildings in the East are. I was left for what seemed an eternity and became frightened of being abandoned. I longed to be back in the military hospital at Tinsukia. As I lay there I thought of the many friends I had left behind. The memory of being carried through the large ward and the waves of the other patients was fresh. The roughly constructed military hospital had become my haven.

  A European couple came by, both dressed in tropical white. They looked down at me. I managed a smile.

  ‘Is the hospital admitting natives nowadays?’ the woman asked the man with a surprised look on her face. I must have looked like a poor village boy.

  Eventually I was carried into the building and up some stairs to a room. The place was spotless. Even the floors glistened, as if they were scrubbed every day. The bed was a welcome change from the military rope cots an
d the sheets were bleached white, but as I was lifted on to the clean bed I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was horrified and my spirit hit a low. I did not believe I would pull through after seeing the skeleton in the reflection. I could even appreciate the remark that woman had made out on the lawn because I looked so brown and sick. I now understood why the doctor had refused to allow those good nurses to furnish me with a mirror.

  Doctors and nurses came and went and I spent the next few days crying and completely depressed. Many people walked past my room, visiting friends and relatives in other rooms, but the only visitors for me were the professionals who cared for me.

  Then one day, while the nursing staff were getting me up for my first steps in a long time, a giant of a man entered the room. He watched while the two nurses coaxed me to take a step. He beamed at me and cried out, ‘Come on, laddie, you’re not going to give up again!’

  I recalled his Scottish voice instantly and recognised him as the man who had rescued me on the track. It all came flooding back. His words were similar to those he had used when he picked me out of the mud when I had begged him to let me lie in peace and he had shouted, ‘You’re not going to give up the will to live!’

  Now he came up to me and, plucking me from the two nurses, forced me to stand up and make the effort to move.

  It was soon afterwards that he came to tell me what had happened to Ethel. I was overwhelmed with grief.

  I soon got my thoughts into focus and for the first time in months became aware of the days of the week and the months. It was October now; almost five months since I had set out with my mother, Ethel and Robert on that early morning, the sixth of May, from the deserted railway station at Mogaung. I had witnessed the death of many thousands and the thought of those tragedies brought me no joy as I lay in the comparative comfort of a clean hospital. People I had never met began to visit me. I suspected that the burly Scottish tea-planter who was responsible for my survival was also responsible for the visits of these people.

  Despite my poor physical condition, I was forced to undertake mandatory air-raid drills. They entailed climbing out of bed when the alarm sounded and lying on the floor beneath the mattress.

  It was a huge undertaking for me. Lying on the hard floor for even five minutes was not easy because I was still skin and bone and the lack of any body padding made contact by my bones with the floor hellishly painful. During my stay at Digboi we experienced many false alarms. Japanese planes approached, but their main targets were the airfields some miles away.

  As the weeks went by, I grew stronger and with the aid of the staff was able to take a few steps and wander down the corridor and out to the balcony. It was good to be able to sit in the open verandah and view the countryside. The township was down to the left and to the right I could see the oil derricks at work. Digboi was not a vast oilfield and the number of derricks seemed quite insignificant compared to the fields in central Burma, at Yenangyaung.

  One day the doctor said, ‘The time has come to upgrade your diet.’

  ‘That’s good. May I have some rice and curry please?’

  He laughed. ‘I’m afraid not. We have to keep you on very bland food for some time yet, young man.’

  The meals were indeed completely tasteless but no doubt they were nourishing and they were certainly performing the job of getting me fatter. It was still a slow process but I could feel myself getting stronger as the days sped by.

  Very soon I was able to wander along the corridors of the hospital, chatting with the staff. Everybody seemed happy going about their duties. I still kept things close to my chest. Some of my European visitors would ask about the trek, but I was not keen to talk about the immediate past. I had pulled the curtain down, creating a refuge.

  My hostility towards those who had forced me into this situation grew. The question, ‘Why my family?’ kept haunting me. I began to blame almost anybody in authority for my condition.

  My bodily functions repaired well and gradually I gained the energy to undertake longer walks in the gardens. My hair grew longer and I could now view myself in the mirror and comb the locks. Even my teeth seemed to have lost that dark stain and though they were not entirely white, I was now much more confident of smiling at people. The deep brown tan I had developed during those months in the jungle was fading. There appeared to be more activity about the place. Native staff were kept busy clearing up and the buildings were given a new coat of paint. I also saw festoons of lights being strung across trees. It dawned on me that all this hustle and bustle was taking place in preparation for Christmas.

  Chapter 14

  Calcutta

  Christmas Day was not a joyous one. I was still depressed, and could not push myself to join the staff and celebrate the day.

  Besides, I was still on a restricted diet and the goodies were denied me.

  Unbeknownst to me, my future was being mapped out by oil company executives, government agencies and the missionaries whose lot it was to care for refugees. One day the doctor gave me a thorough medical examination and pronounced me fit to travel.

  ‘Arrangements have been made for you to go to Calcutta, to stay with some people who belong to your father’s church. They will care for you until the end of the war.’

  I was kitted out with basic clothing, provided with a suitcase and driven to the railway station. There I was introduced to a European woman, the wife of an oil company official. She was returning to Calcutta after a short visit to Digboi. We were to share a carriage for the four-day trip. The woman was pleasant but distracted as she checked out other passengers. Thankfully, this saved me from telling her too much about myself. I was keen to take in the sights as the train moved through this strange land. She settled down to read a book and drink liquor which she had brought aboard in an ice box.

  It was a spacious two-berth carriage and, just before nightfall at one of the stops, she said a railway attendant would come aboard and convert the carriage into a sleeping unit. The trains were not equipped with refreshment cars and all meals were taken at the refreshment rooms at designated stations along the way.

  We had been travelling for the better part of the day and I was enjoying the ride. The countryside was lush and there seemed to be pockets of water everywhere. The rivers we crossed were swollen by the recent monsoonal rains and the thawing of the snow on the higher slopes of the Himalayas which fed the many rivers and streams in the eastern part of India.

  We travelled through mile after mile of cultivated fields dotted with villages. Children waved and cheered as we sped past. I was beginning to feel good. The smiles on people’s faces at the stations cheered me up immensely. Dinner in the refreshment rooms was a grand occasion. Despite the war raging not far away, European travellers were always treated to a feast.

  During the first dinner, which I ate quickly, I excused myself from the table which I shared with two British army officers, and wandered along the railway platform to mingle with the throng of natives. There seemed to be so many people rushing about with possessions on their heads seeking a seat on an already full train. The food hawkers walked back and forth, loudly proclaiming their wares. I was completely absorbed in this mass movement of humans. Some appeared anxious and others were laughing merrily and talking loudly as they farewelled their friends and relatives.

  I spent the night listening to the wheels on the track. As the train pulled into a station early the next morning a man arrived in our carriage carrying a tray.

  ‘Breakfast!’

  The server stayed in the carriage until the next stop where he alighted with the trays. Not long after, the train stopped at a large town. As we drew slowly towards the platform it seemed as if the whole community had trotted down to the station to welcome us. My mind went back to the months gone by, when the very sight of even a small group of people moving about signalled life. Now the mass of people boosted my spirits. Living was beginning to be worthwhile.

  Further down the track the train came
to a stop. I looked out the window and beyond the mass of people I saw the river. It was probably a tributary of the Bramaputra. It was very wide and still muddy from the rains.

  Railway staff came along. ‘Everyone must disembark here.’ ‘Why?’

  ‘The bridge was washed away a few weeks ago and passengers will be ferried across the water to join another train on the other side.’

  The European woman travelling with me put on a turn and became abusive to the staff.

  ‘This is terribly inconvenient. Isn’t it dreadful how inefficient the Indian railways are compared to ours in England!’

  I walked away and let the porters take care of my scant belongings. We crossed on a barge and were directed to our carriage. I rather enjoyed the break in routine. During the crossing, my companion joined a group of travellers. They were all of the same ilk, a miserable bunch of colonial types who gave me the impression that they were here in this vast and beautiful country under sufferance.

  Back in the train the English woman had not got over the incident.

  I asked, ‘Did you have prior arrangements in Calcutta that have been broken now?’

  ‘Not exactly, but it means I will miss out on another day of fun in the city.’

  I could not think of anything to say except ‘Enjoy the journey.’ That night during dinner in the refreshment room she consumed a deal of liquor. She was in a happy mood and appeared to have hit it off with one of the officers and took me aside.

  ‘Colin, I wonder whether you would be agreeable to switching carriages with this officer.’

  I moved into another two-berth carriage with another army officer. Evidently, they were on leave from the front line. My new companion was full of war talk and, with a tongue loosened by the alcohol, he tried to impress me with tales of his exploits in the jungle. I resisted telling him that what he had endured was a Sunday outing in comparison to what I had been through.