The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy

by Brian W Aldiss

  There were now two miles to cover over pretty dicey terrain to the village of Merema itself, and then rather less down to the outlying areas of Naga Village. Once through that, we were almost at Kohima. How easy it is to set it down – indeed, how easy it appeared in that day of our first success, although we had had a taste of the territory and the Jap resistance.

  We felt optimistic then – in Assam, our spirits were up and down pretty regularly. The Pathans and their mules were bringing the supplies up and a cookhouse was dug in against shelling and mortaring. There was no water to spare for washing.

  Everyone got some rest during that day. The plan was to move again after dark, and keep on progress as fast as possible.

  It took us three days to reach Merema. Even on top of the ridge, the going was virtually impossible. We kept hitting dense patches of bamboo and thorn. The monsoons were gathering, and rain hampered everything. In Assam, the rain falls in a solid lump. There were Japs about too, but no more fortified positions. Patrols we could deal with – Japs above ground were as vulnerable as anyone else: more vulnerable, because they did not have our initiative. That old Forgotten Army spectre of the Invincible Yellow Man was broken for ever. (After the war, when the British, French, Dutch, and other European nations tried to re-establish their rule over their old territories, they found that the older myth of the Invincible White Man had also been shattered for ever.)

  We wanted to have a go at Merema, where a seventy-five-millimetre gun gave us a lot of trouble, but it was heavily defended and the plan was to by-pass it and press ahead towards Naga Village and Kohima beyond. This meant coming off the ridge and down into the nullah again.

  Unfortunately, as we started to descend in pouring rain, we were ambushed by a Jap patrol. Our chaps were badly shot up and most of the Jap patrol escaped behind thickets of thorn. In no time, we got a hell of a pasting from the seventy-five-millimetre gun and from mortars. The Jap mortarmen were always deadly. A mortar exploded among some Pathans, killing two of them and sending a mule stampeding madly among the trees. It fell headlong down over the khud taking a consignment of rifle oil and four-b’-two flannelette with it.

  We spread out and got our heads down. In doing this, our right flank walked slap into a concealed advance bunker which had been keeping quiet until then. It opened fire with all it had got and several Mendips were killed, including old Chalkie White, who had owed Ali the char-wallah five rupees for eight years. So we were involved in a nasty two-cornered fight, in neither comer of which we had an advantage. A storm banged and clattered overhead, rain came down with renewed violence. I could not get anything but atmospherics out of the set. Eventually, a runner was sent back down the trail to ask for smoke, under which we could advance. The runner was killed a mile back along the trail.

  We had to settle in where we were. The Japs weren’t coming in to us and we could not get at them. A lousy situation. It was impossible to retreat. We had to work away with entrenching tools and dig in as best we could. There was no proper defensive position at all.

  Hot soup came up as we rested. I was off the set, manning a rifle pit with Carter the Farter, when Geordie crawled over, mess-tin full of soup in his hand, and climbed in with us.

  ‘How did you manage to do that without spilling your fucking soup?’ Carter asked.

  ‘Oh … I was sort of lucky … I don’t know …’

  ‘You see, you aren’t such a Jonah, Geordie!’

  ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, my fucking feet ache, like.’

  Carter began singing ‘Tell me the old, old story …’

  ‘Here, Stubby, mate, I killed a Jap.’ His Adam’s apple started bobbing again. ‘I shot the poor bastard smack in the chest!’

  ‘Shoot as many as you can. That’s what we’re up here for. Don’t fuck about.’

  Carter said, ‘If you don’t shoot them, Geordie, they’ll fucking shoot us. That’s what it’s all about. If you haven’t got that through your tiny Newcastle skull by now, you’d better get to Inskipp jhaldi and ask to go fucking home, because you’re no fucking use to us.’

  He looked really vicious, showing his teeth and glaring ahead over his gun barrel. Geordie stared at him and said, half in a whisper, ‘You’re scared too, Carter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking scared,’ Carter said, still looking ahead.

  Geordie drank up his soup and then crawled back to where he had come from.

  By now, we had several wounded. Some of them were lying in the open and it was impossible to reach them. The Japs were firing at anything that stirred. We could only lie there and wait for dark. The set still yielded nothing but static. Word had finally got back, and some supplies were coming up, but it was still almost impossible to move. Part of the trouble was that we were hampered on our right flank by a sheer drop of cliff face.

  Towards dusk, during a lull in the downpour, a levy of Nagas appeared over this cliff face. Dug in though we were, word quickly got round. These heroic fellows had come to take the wounded away down one of their trails, inaccessible to us. With the aid of some of our own stretcher-bearers, the wounded were slowly collected.

  One of our staff-sergeants, Badger Collins was supervising this movement with Charley Meadows when they conceived an alternative plan of attack. Crawling on his belly, Charley dragged himself in the hole where I was on duty on the set next to Gor-Blimey.

  ‘If we stay here all night, sir, the Japs are going to pound us with that seventy-five from Merema. It’s just this bunker that’s holding us up. If we could get two or three men on top of it, we could lob grenades inside and put it out of action, and the others would be a push-over. We’ve just got to get round the cliff-face. The Nagas will lead us.’

  ‘It’s a sheer drop into the valley!’

  ‘The Nagas are managing, sir. It’s not too bad – I’ve had a dekko. But we’ll have to move at once, before it’s too dark to see.’

  Maybe I’d grown tired of calling ‘Report my signals!’ into the microphone.

  ‘You might as well throw this set down the khud-side, sir! I’ll volunteer to go, if that’s okay with Sergeant Meadows.’

  Gor-Blimey gave me one brief glance. ‘All right. You stay here, Sergeant, and I’ll take Stubbs.’

  ‘No, sir, you hang on with the set. Stubbs and I’ll go. It just needs the two of us.’

  Charley passed me some grenades. We looked at each other; his normally soft face was rigidly set. We worked our way out of the trench on our bellies. I kept his boots in sight. The skin of my back crawled, preparing itself for Jap bullets. We hauled ourselves over the edge of the cliff almost face first – I took care not to look down into the distance.

  The lip of the cliff had fallen away. There was a ledge of sorts, and roots to hang on to. You couldn’t help seeing the dangers of the situation. Once we were over the edge, we were out of the line of fire but, my God, the view was frightening! Far below, the injured were being lowered gently into the jungle. The valley bottom lay at least a thousand feet below. Across the way, Kohima Ridge stood out like a stranded ship, and the beleaguered position of Kohima was also visible. Dakotas were circling it. Two of the Nagas had stayed behind and were waiting for us. One shuffled behind, one in front of us.

  ‘Thik-hai, Stubby?’

  ‘Thik-hai, Sarge.’

  The Nagas led us immediately over a cross-path, where the footing was very slippery. We moved with our hands against the rock, sideways, a nasty drop below our heels. This side of the Jap defences was so sheer that they had not fortified it. With luck, we could get on top of the advance bunker and lob grenades in without being spotted from other bunkers.

  I unglued my eyes from the muddy cliff-face and looked at the Naga beside me. He smiled encouragement – young, a soft face, pretty, almost girlish. The girlishness was emphasized by strings of beads round his neck and an orchid in his hair. Christ, it was a girl! – A fucking Naga pusher, climbing about as cool as you like! I nearly fell into the khud
in sheer surprise!

  Her throat, the line of tit under her tunic – for that sort of thing we were staying alive.

  She motioned me on and after what seemed like an hour we went scrambling up a bank and into thick bamboo, Charley and I on our own. Two yards from the cliff and you wouldn’t have known the drop existed. As we crawled among the foliage I could feel ants scampering on to my neck. I could not see what lay ahead for the sergeant’s arse in my way. He moved slowly, although the platoon was now putting down covering fire, so that it was unlikely anyone would hear us. Then we were climbing on to the top of the bunker, well camouflaged by earth and growing things – which would have instantly seized hold even if they had not been planted there.

  ‘Get over a firing-slit – pin off, lever away, count three, throw in fast, get down!’ Charley said. We looked at each other with a quick glance, then worked forward. We lay ready, Charley raised his hand, and in a moment our covering fire ceased. I leaned forward, pulled the pin, flung the grenade through the aperture below. Charley yelled as he bunged his in. As I flung my grenade, I heard the little sods below me shout out and presumably make a dive for the pineapple. It exploded, Charley’s exploded, the logs beneath us heaved and jarred our bodies. We hung on, thinking our last moment had come.

  Yelling, our lads made a great charge forward, while Charley and I lay where we were.

  So the bunker was ours in the last quarter-hour of daylight. By the look of its late inhabitants, we saw they had been diving for the grenades – their faces were cut to paste. Charley and I gazed at each other and nodded curtly. I put a couple of bullets into one little sod who was trying to bring his rifle up, despite half a hand missing.

  The Japs had been manning a Taisho, a light machine-gun which had caused us a lot of discomfort. Our grenades had done no more than buckle its stand. We turned this light machine-gun on the nearest support bunker. Although we could not do much damage, we could make the marksmen keep their heads down. Our sections advanced and stuck pole-charges into the bunker – we watched them do it, and saw one of the sappers shot down from concealed firing-lines.

  Although the situation had now greatly improved, we were still stuck on the lousy hillside. With all the Japs in the jungle alerted to us, there was no question of moving on till we had mopped this bit of trouble up, so we just stayed where we were and waited. The two Nagas who had guided us – perhaps it was a man and his daughter – picked up a few Jap souvenirs from the advance bunker and departed, smiling and making the thumbs-up sign.

  ‘They were head-hunters a couple of generations ago!’ Gor-Blimey said reverently.

  There were picks and shovels in the advance bunker, as well as a litter of filth. Badger Collins got a party of us to dismantling part of the front of the bunker. It seemed almost impossible at first, but once we had one timber out, we were able to break open a crude doorway. We fortified the rear and could use the bunker as stronghold and HQ. Under cover of dark, communicating trenches were dug. Now our position was more secure.

  Everyone was shagged out. As many men as could be spared got their heads down. It was a question of sleeping under monsoon capes where you lay. I found sleep came as soon as I shut my eyes. Even in sleep, you went on endlessly fighting – I must have climbed on to that bunker fifty times.

  Our patrols reported more Japs moving in from Merema as reinforcements. Just past midnight, I was roused and went back to the wireless set, which was now in the bunker. We were receiving a Strength Five signal from Brigade. Orders came over that we were to move on immediately and remember our real objective, Kohima. Our officers swore; officers at the rear never understood the problems of the men under fire. Brigadier Grey ought to come and have a shufti at this little lot for himself. The whole shagging mob of Base Wallahs in New Delhi ought to be dragged from their chota pegs and dropped into Assam.

  There was nothing for it – we were going to have to go round and not through this collection of Japs. Orders were orders.

  The trick was to disappear without letting the enemy know your next intentions – not too difficult in thick jungle at night. Everyone was roused. Leaving a rear detail to fire on till the last, we slipped into the bush more craftily than Sato himself. The rain had cleared, the night was fine. Over the way, Kohima was still taking punishment.

  As we were withdrawing, a horrible voice woke over the jungle.

  ‘Hello, Johnny! Hello, Johnny! Give up the battle, go away from this country. Go back to the UK or you get kill! Go back to London, Johnny!’

  They had a loudspeaker in operation. We learned that members of the INA, the so-called ‘Indian National Army’, were working with the Japs. They were allowed to use loud-hailers, even if the Japs would not trust them with rifles.

  Later, the voice broke into crazy singing. ‘It’s a long long way to Tipperary, It’s a long long way ago, It’s a long long long to Tipperary To Tipperary ago …’ The temptation to blast away in the general direction of the voice was almost irresistible. At least it helped cover our withdrawal.

  To this foul music, we moved off into the night, down a precipitous trail – led again by the Nagas.

  By mid-day, after some kip, we were feeling in good shape again. This was 18th April, a memorable day. ‘A’ Company had dug itself in on a saddle of ground overlooking the nulah towards Kohima itself and protected from higher ground above us by a false crest. Patrols were posted, of course, but those off duty got a chance to rest up a bit, clean rifles, and get themselves bandaged if necessary. We could dry out our blankets, for it was a spectacular and hot morning, the sun blazing down and not a cloud in sight.

  I woke feeling ghastly and dragged myself off to have a shit in the latrine trench, which had been built behind a ruined basha. There was a certain pleasure, generally, in squatting and smelling the raw meat stink of one’s own turds, but I had a touch of dysentery now, and that was hardly enjoyable at all. When I dragged my pants down, the sight almost made me sick. I had ripped the skin of my right leg off from knee to ankle on a rock. My trousers were scarcely torn. Blood was caked everywhere, and the leeches were at me, little grey bastards that fattened up to a dull purple like a plum until you burnt them off. I applied the hot end of a cigarette and saw them fall away. I squidged them underfoot. If you rashly pulled them off, their heads stayed embedded in your flesh and an ulcer formed which could eat away your muscle and bone – the ‘Naga Sore’ it was called.

  While I was getting myself patched at the first-aid post, the mules came up with the supplies: water, food, mail, ammo, and the rest. The old Pathans did a wonderful job. They brought big cans of fags too. Ernie Dutt issued me with two packets.

  ‘What, de Reskes again, Ernie? Can’t you do better than that?’

  ‘These are special, boy – present from the base-wallahs at Delhi.’

  ‘What sacrifices they are making on our behalf!’

  ‘Yes. They’ve been saving this issue for us ever since the Great War.’

  He could have been right. The paper on the de Reskes was a pale brown, the tobacco a pale green. But we sat back and smoked them and enjoyed them. We had acquitted ourselves well, had not been too badly mauled, and Kohima was very near. Its relief was not far off, after almost a fortnight of siege.

  ‘By Christ!’ Dusty Miller said, ‘We deserve more medals than fucking Sato’s had NAAFI suppers!’

  One of our look-out posts was picturesquely sited behind a spur of rock, festooned with creeper, which stood on the edge of an escarpment. I was put on the noon-till-two watch with Feather, and we had a good view across to Kohima through the thick afternoon heat. We could see some action round Garrison Hill and the DC’s bungalow, at the centre of the redoubt. It looked a complete shambles because, under constant bombardment, the area had been denuded of cover. The trees were mere stumps, some of them smouldering like spent matches. On some of the stumps, gay fabrics hung. These were parachutes used in the air-drops, and they lent an inappropriate air of festivity to the scene, as i
f the Japs had caught the DC holding a fete in his back garden.

  ‘Look at it all!’ Feather said. ‘It doesn’t seem real! How the hell are we going to settle down in Civvy Street again after seeing this lot?’

  ‘You’ll forget all about it once you’re back on the farm again.’ He had a little fruit farm in Kent.

  Feather shook his head. ‘After all this, I don’t know how I’ll settle down again with my old woman, I’m sure.’

  ‘I shouldn’t start worrying about that until you get home!’

  He shook his head again.

  The 2 Div guns opened up on the Japanese positions on the other side of Kohima so suddenly that we both jumped. You would wonder how anyone survived unless you had seen the bunkers.

  RAF fighter-bombers were having a duffy too.

  After a while, there was activity down on the road, of which we could glimpse one short stretch. We saw jeeps go by. Perhaps the road was open all the way at last. We saw dust rising, and in a minute tanks were visible. On the ridge opposite us there was movement, where columns of infantry – the Punjabis, we found later – were fanning out on to higher ground. Behind the tanks was a transport column, our transport! Old Jock McGuffie would be there somewhere, if he had not managed to bum his way back to Calcutta.

  Feather nudged me and indicated something to his side of the rock. I peered over his shoulder. On one of the trails that ran below our position, several hundred yards away, a column of Japs was moving, taking no trouble to conceal themselves and chatting to each other as they went along. But what amazed us was what was with them. They had an elephant at the rear of the column. Feather slithered back to get the guard corporal, Warry Warren. Warry fetched Lieutenant Boyer. Word spread. Soon everyone who was spare was lining the edge of our escarpment, staring down at the elephant, toy-like in the distance. It was plodding along steadily, a ten-pounder gun on its back, with little Japs leading it.

  ‘It may have come from one of the Burmese logging camps as part of the spoils of war,’ Boyer said.