by Frank McLynn
14
On the nothern front, Stilwell was still trying to trap the Japanese 18th Division at Mainkwan in the Hukawng valley, hooking from the right with his Chinese regulars while the irregulars appeared on the left at Walawbum below Mainkwan to block the enemy retreat. Slim, hoping that his American colleague would enjoy the same numerical advantage he had had in the Arakan, also put under his command the small British garrison at Fort Hertz in the extreme north of the country, which had been holding out since 1942, and the Kachin irregulars. On 19 February Stilwell was reinforced by Galahad force, aka 5307th Composite Regiment of Northern Combat Area Command (NCAC) but better known under their soubriquet ‘Merrill’s Marauders’. Frank Merrill himself, their commander, was one of Stilwell’s favourites, a tall and gaunt-looking man who suffered from poor health, but ‘a fine, courageous leader who inspired confidence’, as Slim assessed him.1 At last Stilwell commanded US troops in Burma, 3,000 of them, but this triumph was modified by the personal inadequacy of a number of the Marauders. Recruited from units in the south-west Pacific and the island of Trinidad in the Caribbean, many of the volunteers were psychopaths pure and simple. The 33rd Infantry Regiment was well known as ‘the pits of the army’, where all the worst problem cases were sent, signing on simply to get out of Trinidad. The Marauders’ contract specified a fixed period of three months’ training and three months’ combat. The training in India had not gone well, with serious disciplinary problems every day apparent. Their three-month stay in India has been described as part terrorising the natives and part keeping the military police busy. Ten per cent of the Marauders went AWOL and the rest amused themselves by shooting at cattle, chickens and birds – virtually anything that walked or crawled, in fact – and even firing at the feet of the locals to make them dance; on the train to Ledo they fired out of the window at any passing ‘wogs’ that took their fancy.2 Arrogant, sociopathic, full of blithe self-confidence, the Marauders were a gung-ho outfit whose credo was described as follows: ‘My pack is on my back, my gun is oiled and loaded, and as I walk in the shadow of death I fear no sonofabitch.’3
The entry of the Marauders into the fray did not impress their commander. Always obsessed by speed – a quality he shared with Mountbatten – Stilwell fretted at the time it took them to cross the 130 miles over the Naga range to the battlefront. Part of the problem was that 5307th Composite was mule-based and had to bring 700 animals with them but none of them knew anything about muleteering. Whatever misgivings Stilwell had when he saw his reinforcements, he kept them to himself and addressed them simply and quietly, explaining that their mission was to hit Walawbum on 3 March.4 The 3,000 troops were organised in three battalions, each one operating in two columns, known as combat teams, and each with an intelligence and reconnaissance platoon and a pioneer and demolition platoon. Unfortunately the freak rains already experienced by Stilwell continued, so that the Marauders’ eight-day, 60-mile trek to Walawbum turned into something of a nightmare. They seized the road as ordered but were then attacked by a large force of Japanese directed by the ubiquitous Tanaka. Fortunately, the assault fell on the 3rd Battalion, which, recruited from New Caledonia and the Pacific south-west, was composed of veterans in jungle fighting. They acquitted themselves so well that Tanaka concluded he could not prevail and prepared to withdraw. Now serendipity took a hand. The Chinese had meanwhile been advancing to Monsum, fighting enemy forces all the way, but the slow progress of the Marauders meant that a Chinese regiment from the 38th Division caught up with its American allies and took Tanaka in the rear. In furious fighting the Japanese lost 1,500 dead and the survivors were harassed all the way on their retreat by Kachin guerrillas.5 But the temporary collaboration did not presage a wider Sino-American synergy, and the Marauders found operating with their allies a major problem. One issue was disease: the Americans caught dysentery in large numbers and attributed this to the insanitary habits of the Chinese, especially their refusal to boil their water, or to wash their hands after using the latrines. The American K-rations also proved unsatisfactory and unsuitable for jungle warfare, as the Chindits soon discovered.6
On 15 March Stilwell ordered the Chinese 22nd Division to its next major objective, the key ridge of Jambu Bum, which separated the Hukawng valley from the Mogaung valley, but the Chinese found it difficult to coordinate attacks by infantry and tanks and suffered badly in a Japanese counterattack. Although in bad health and with a troublesome liver, Stilwell continued undaunted and repeated his favourite credo: ‘If the Japanese are behind us, we are also behind them.’7 Finally, on 19 March, the Chinese 66th Regiment took the Jambu Bum on Stilwell’s sixty-first birthday. He celebrated by having a giant cake made and distributing slices to his commanders. The next task for the Marauders involved the 1st Battalion acting as advance guard for the Chinese 113th Regiment advancing to Shaduzup, while the 2nd and 3rd Battalions hit the Kamaing road 20 miles from Kamaing (the central Japanese position in the Mogaung valley) at Inkangahtawng. Once again Stilwell chafed with impatience at the Marauders’ slow progress towards Shaduzup; sometimes they managed only five miles a day. They contrived a surprise assault on 28 March, but once again the Japanese counterattacked ferociously. During the bitter fighting an American voice was heard to exclaim: ‘Where the hell are the other 5,306 Composite Units?’8 The other two battalions made a gruelling march in company with 300 Kachin guerrillas, but on the way to Inkangahtawng the two battalions became separated and then realised they would have to cross the Mogaung river, already in full spate. The 3rd Battalion crossed with difficulty but was immediately afterwards halted by heavy opposition, while 2nd Battalion was similarly thrown back outside Inkangahtawng.9 Reuniting once more, the two battalions withdrew to a suitable defensive position at the hilltop of Nphum Ga, getting a supply drop en route but with the Japanese dogging their heels. On 28 March the Marauders dug in and a week-long firefight commenced. The Japanese managed to drive a wedge between the two battalions and cut off 2nd battalion on the higher slopes of the hill.10 There was continuous vicious fighting, with both sides short of food, water and ammunition. The Marauders were now in a bad way, as with little drinking water, they were forced to drink from muddy pools, and were surrounded by the stench of dead mules. There was no way to evacuate or help the wounded, who began to die rapidly from disease, especially dysentery, and lack of water. Finally, on 4 April, the 3rd Battalion broke through to link with their comrades. The two battalions then fought their way out, making agonisingly slow progress until on the 7th they joined hands with the 1st Battalion. Next day the Japanese made another attempt to surround the unit and there was more bitter fighting, but the following day they departed. With another of his sudden changes of mind, Tanaka decided that he had to concentrate on Myitkyina and withdrew his attackers there. The extended battle at Nphum Ga and environs had cost the Marauders 59 dead and 379 wounded or disabled, plus a lengthy sickness roster.11
While all these military operations were going on, Stilwell had his usual half-dozen political and administrative balls to juggle. At the beginning of March, Slim flew to meet him at Thiphaga: ‘Stilwell met me at the airfield, looking more like a duck hunter than ever with his wind-jacket, campaign hat and leggings.’ He found his American friend and colleague jumpy and irritable because of both the continuing heavy rain and his uncertainty as to whether the Chinese divisions would coordinate smoothly in a major offensive.12 Daringly, Stilwell confided to Slim his most secret plan for an attempt to take the key Japanese stronghold of Myitkyina during the monsoon and extracted a promise from him not to speak of it to anyone, especially Mountbatten. Stilwell explained to Slim that he was afraid of security leaks in Delhi, though Slim thought he was merely hedging his bets in case of failure. The real reason was that Mountbatten vehemently opposed such a venture and would not have authorised it; he had already told the combined chiefs that any plan to seize northern Burma was fundamentally unsound.13 It was typical of Slim that he gave Stilwell his solemn word and kept it. The M
yitkyina revelation was, however, a diversion from the main purpose of the meeting, which was to brief Stilwell on Operation THURSDAY and the Chindits. Stilwell had never been a Wingate admirer and disagreed at a theoretical and practical level with LRP operations. He expressed doubts about the wisdom of THURSDAY but reluctantly agreed that the enemy might be rattled by having Wingate in his rear. Finally he grinned at Slim over his glasses and said: ‘That’ll be fine if Wingate does it and stays there, if he goes in for real fighting and not shadow-boxing like last time.’14 Stilwell’s low opinion of Wingate was uncannily like that of a man as unlike him as possible (and who loathed Stilwell for his rudeness), Mountbatten’s chief of staff General Pownall, who wrote at about this time: ‘If Wingate can be induced (ordered is hardly the word for him) to come westwards towards the Chindwin and if we also hold the Jap in front, we would be in a very good way to eat up two Jap divisions.’15 Slim replied to Stilwell that his worry was different: not that Wingate would shadow-box but that he would be pinned down in his strongholds. However, on the worst-case scenario he should be able to cut enemy communications for a significant period.
The conference over, Stilwell took Slim on a tour of his headquarters, which Slim found appallingly primitive. He thought the American commander was making a mistake in cultivating a ‘just folks’ persona and going around dressed like a scarecrow. He himself made a distinction between talking to his men in an avuncular way, eliminating unnecessary distinctions of class and rank – which he approved of – and giving them nothing to take pride in, for Slim, an acute student of human nature, knew that men secretly liked the uniforms, badges and paraphernalia of rank and hierarchy, despite their barrack-room pseudo-egalitarianism. Slim was right. Although the GIs appreciated Stilwell’s concern for the ‘average Joe’, they despised his tatterdemalion appearance, and the spartan lifestyle left them cold. One of the Marauders saw him and said: ‘Christ, a duck hunter.’ Another remarked, not knowing he was speaking of his commanding officer: ‘Look at that poor old man. Some draft boards will do anything.’16 Gradually in the course of the campaign Stilwell came to realise that the men liked a general to look like a general, so he started wearing his insignia. At this stage, though, Slim thought he was seriously over-playing the image of tough austerity. ‘Goodness knows he was tough and wiry enough to be recognised as such without play acting, for it was as much a bit of stage management as Mountbatten’s meticulous turn out under any conditions but it achieved its publicity purpose. Stilwell, thank heaven, had a sense of humour which some who practise these arts do not and he could, and did, not infrequently laugh at himself.’17 It was as well that Stilwell did have a sense of humour, for his enemies and critics liked to deal with him by ridicule for the most part. Mountbatten was fond of an anti-Stilwell story that he confided to his diary: ‘The first time that General Stilwell flew over the Hump into China he blew up his Lilo mattress fairly tight and lay down on it to sleep. When the aircraft got to 18,000 feet, the pressure inside the cabin had fallen so much that the Lilo burst and old Vinegar Joe [was] brought down to the deck with a bump. He woke up with a start, drew both his revolvers and looked round to see whom he could shoot. Fortunately at that moment he passed out from lack of oxygen.’18
If Slim was always welcome at Stilwell’s headquarters, Mountbatten was not, and relations between the Supreme Commander and his deputy steadily declined throughout 1944. On 6 March Mountbatten flew up to Taihpa to review the NCAC. He annoyed Stilwell before a word had been spoken by arriving with an escort of 16 fighters, which, as Stilwell complained to his staff, used enough fuel on the return trip to keep his own campaign going for a week.19 There were other tensions. Mountbatten had already diverted Hump aircraft to Arakan and would divert more to the Imphal-Kohima battle without informing Stilwell, which rankled with Vinegar Joe. Mountbatten resented both Boatner’s secret mission to Washington and the fact that Stilwell was commanding at the front when he should (Mountbatten thought) be attending high-level conferences in Delhi and Chungking, even though Slim agreed that his presence at the front was essential, for otherwise the Chinese would not fight.20 Behind the scenes the devious Wedemeyer was stirring the pot, and Mountbatten had already complained to Field Marshal Dill in Washington that it was not feasible for Stilwell to fulfil his simultaneous roles in China, India and Burma; he suggested that he be confined to the role as Chiang’s chief of staff while Wedemeyer replaced him in Delhi. Mountbatten mainly considered Stilwell a nuisance: while conceding that he had fire in his belly and was ‘a fine old warrior’, he complained that he had no understanding of global strategy and was impatient with administration.21 He was also secretly piqued (prompted by Wedemeyer’s leaks from American sources) that Stilwell considered himself the only one fighting a war, that he laboured in the jungle while the Supreme Commander was concerned only with publicity, public relations and his own image – which was true, if not the whole truth.22 Stilwell’s distaste for Mountbatten was more visceral. He disliked him in general terms as an aristocrat, a member of the royal family and a Limey with a cut-glass accent, and in particular terms as a careerist nonentity. As 1944 wore on, Stilwell’s animadversions grew more frenetic. ‘The more I see of the Limeys, the worse I hate them … the bastardly hypocrites do their best to cut our throats on all occasions. The pig-fuckers.’ As for Mountbatten himself, he was ‘a fatuous ass’; ‘childish Louis, publicity crazy’; and ‘a pisspot’.23
Since Stilwell wore the standard GI trousers and field jacket, without any decorations, when he met the Supreme Commander at the airfield, the sartorial contrast seemed almost to sum up the crevasse that separated the two men. Mountbatten’s descent from the plane was described thus: ‘In knife-edge, impeccable tan tropical uniform with three rows of campaign ribbons and six-inch shoulder bars encrusted with stars, crowns, crossed swords and batons and royal initials, the Supremo was as elegant in Hukawng as he would have been in Mayfair.’24 Superficially the two men were correct and even affable. Stilwell began by apologising for the Washington mission – an easy concession to make as he had won the strategic argument. There was a meeting at headquarters where ‘Louis made a dumb speech’, according to his host. Mountbatten’s version was that his speech failed because it was drowned out by the noise of the 16 fighters that insisted on circling round overhead.25 Then Stilwell whisked the visitor away for a tour of the battlefield at Walawbum, where Mountbatten, to Stilwell’s contemptuous disgust, complained about the smell of corpses. Next the Supreme Commander insisted on addressing the Marauders. Stilwell was always unimpressed by ‘Louis’s rhetoric’ but other accounts insist that the speeches went down well and that the GIs were impressed.26 One exchange with a soldier was reported as follows. Soldier: ‘I’m Brown from Texas.’ Mountbatten: ‘There are a lot of you Texans out here.’ Soldier: ‘Yes, that’s why the war’s going so well.’27 Yet it was clear to all perceptive observers that the two commanders were the proverbial chalk and cheese, separated not just by personal style, method and purpose but by the divergent interests of their two countries. Suddenly Mountbatten decided he wanted to see the fighting currently going on at the front. Stilwell tried to dissuade him, pointing out the danger from snipers and the fluidity of the ebbing and flowing battle. Mountbatten then protested that Stilwell himself was going up to the front, so why could he not go? ‘I am an old man and it does not matter about me, whereas I’m responsible for your safety,’ Stilwell replied. When Mountbatten insisted that he would take the responsibility, Stilwell tried to dissuade him on other grounds: he had no proper headquarters at the front and nowhere to accommodate Mountbatten’s staff. When he received the prompt reply that ‘Dicky’ would go alone and leave his staff behind, Stilwell concluded that there was no more to be said and he had better play the gracious host.28
The Chinese general Liao came forward to be introduced to the Supreme Commander, who decided to take him as his personal guide. The first night they slept in the jungle under parachutes spread on the tops of bamboo p
oles. Next morning they set out again, but Liao kept stopping every hundred yards, prompting muttered curses from Stilwell: ‘Here comes another lecture.’ Liao would then proceed to tell the Supremo and his deputy in unnecessary detail exactly what fighting had taken place in each section of jungle. Glad to shake off the attentions of this tiresome dragoman, Mountbatten begged a jeep for a drive through the jungle where Stilwell’s Pioneers were clearing the way.29 Driving too fast, as usual, he ran over a bamboo with his front wheel that ricocheted back into his left eye. At first he thought the bamboo had taken the eye clean out of its socket; it had missed, but for all that he was temporarily blinded. A US missionary who tended him at the scene said: ‘Young man, this is plenty serious. You must fly there [Ledo] and as quick as you can.’30 Mountbatten was at once rushed to Ledo, where a distinguished American eye specialist, Captain Scheie, diagnosed severe internal haemorrhage but said the eye should recover if not subjected to strain. He then endured five days of complete blindness, with both eyes bandaged, during which time he was not allowed to move his head or lie on his side. ‘They were the longest 120 hours I can remember,’ he confessed.31 Three nurses did eight-hour shifts, feeding and washing him and reading to him as if he were a baby. It was 19 March, 12 days after the accident, before Scheie pronounced him out of danger. Stilwell showed his humanity by visiting the ‘pisspot’. Mountbatten wrote: ‘I was much touched that Old Joe Stilwell should have flown up from the front on Sunday to come and pay me a visit in hospital. He and I always get on well personally.’32 The GIs were less sympathetic. Hearing that Mountbatten was in hospital with optical problems, the Marauders spread the ‘scuttlebutt’ that ‘Uncle Joe busted the Limey in the eye’.33 There is a particular irony in Mountbatten’s accident having happened on the very day the Japanese launched U-GO. It was while he was in bed, still in great pain and unable to read, that (on 14 March) he was told of the desperate need for transport aircraft to relieve Imphal and gave the appropriate orders orally. It is perhaps unnecessary to dwell on Mountbatten’s characteristic impetuousness. If he had not insisted on going up to the front, against Stilwell’s advice, he would have saved himself days of grief and agony.34