To convince the men in the less spectacular or less obviously important jobs that they were very much part of the army, my commanders and I made it our business to visit these units, to show an interest in them, and to tell them how we and the rest of the army depended on them. There are in an army, and for that matter any big organization, very large numbers of people whose existence is only remembered when something for which they are responsible goes wrong. Who thinks of the telephone operator until he fails to get his connection, of the cipher officer until he makes a mistake in his decoding, of the orderlies who carry papers about a big headquarters until they take them to the wrong people, of the cook until he makes a particularly foul mess of the interminable bully? Yet they are important. It was harder to get this over to the Indian subordinates. They were often drawn from the lower castes, quite illiterate, and used to being looked down upon by their higher-caste fellow-townsmen or villagers. With them, I found I had great success by using the simile of a clock. ‘A clock is like an army,’ I used to tell them. ‘There’s a main spring, that’s the Army Commander, who makes it all go; then there are other springs, driving the wheels round, those are his generals. The wheels are the officers and men. Some are big wheels, very important, they are the chief staff officers and the colonel sahibs. Other wheels are little ones, that do not look at all important. They are like you. Yet stop one of those little wheels and see what happens to the rest of the clock! They are important.’
We played on this very human desire of every man to feel himself and his work important, until one of the most striking things about our army was the way the administrative, labour, and non-combatant units acquired a morale which rivalled that of the fighting formations. They felt they shared directly in the triumphs of the Fourteenth Army and that its success and its honour were in their hands as much as anybody’s. Another way in which we made every man feel he was part of the show was by keeping him, whatever his rank, as far as was practicable in the picture of what was going on around him. This, of course, was easy with staff officers and similar people by means of conferences held daily or weekly when each branch or department could explain what it had been doing and what it hoped to do. At these conferences they not only discussed things as a team, but what was equally important, actually saw themselves as a team. For the men, talks by their officers and visits to the information centres which were established in every unit took the place of those conferences.
It was in these ways we laid the spiritual foundations, but that was not enough; they would have crumbled without the others, the intellectual and the material. Here we had first to convince the doubters that our object, the destruction of the Japanese Army in battle, was practicable. We had to a great extent frightened ourselves by our stories of the superman. Defeated soldiers in their own defence have to protest that their adversary was something out of the ordinary, that he had all the advantages of preparation, equipment, and terrain, and that they themselves suffered from every corresponding handicap. The harder they have run away, the more they must exaggerate the unfair superiority of the enemy. Thus many of those who had scrambled out of Burma without waiting to get to grips with the invader, or who had been in the rear areas in 1943, had the most hair-raising stories of Japanese super-efficiency. Those of us who had really fought him, believed that man for man our soldiers could beat him at his own jungle game, and that, in intelligence and skill, we could excel and outwit him.
We were helped, too, by a very cheering piece of news that now reached us, and of which, as a morale raiser, I made great use. In August and September 1942, Australian troops had, at Milne Bay in New Guinea, inflicted on the Japanese their first undoubted defeat on land. If the Australians, in conditions very like ours, had done it, so could we. Some of us may forget that of all the Allies it was Australian soldiers who first broke the spell of the invincibility of the Japanese Army; those of us who were in Burma have cause to remember.
But all this could not be convincingly put over by talking and education alone. It had to be demonstrated practically. This is what my predecessors had tried in Arakan, but they had been, amongst other things, too ambitious. A victory in a large-scale battle was, in our present state of training, organization, and confidence, not to be attempted. We had first to get the feel through the army that it was we who were hunting the Jap, not he us.
All commanders therefore directed their attention to patrolling. In jungle warfare this is the basis of success. It not only gives eyes to the side that excels at it, and blinds its opponent, but through it the soldier learns to move confidently in the element in which he works. Every forward unit, not only infantry, chose its best men, formed patrols, trained and practised them, and then sent them out on business. As was to be expected, the superior intelligence of our officers and men told. These patrols came back to their regiments with stories of success, of how the Japanese had walked into their ambushes, how they had watched the enemy place their observation posts day after day in the same place, and then had pounced on them, how they had followed their patrols and caught them asleep. Our men brought back a Japanese rifle, an officer’s shoulder-straps, a steel helmet. Sometimes they brought back even more convincing exhibits, as did the Gurkhas who presented themselves before their general, proudly opened a large basket, lifted from it three gory Japanese heads, and laid them on his table. They then politely offered him for his dinner the freshly caught fish which filled the rest of the basket. The buzz went round each unit. ‘Have you heard about Lieutenant Smith’s patrol? Cor, they didn’t ’alf scrag the Nips . . . !’ ‘We rushed them as they were cooking, Havildar Bhupsingh bayoneted three. . . .’ ‘Rifleman Gingerbir crept up luki-luki behind him with his kukri. The Yellow-belly’s head bounced three times before it stopped rolling!’ The stories lost nothing in the telling, and there was no lack of competition for the next patrol. It went out with new men but under an experienced leader, and came back with more tales of success. Even if it returned with little to report, it had stalked its quarry without finding him, and that is one way to whet a hunter’s appetite. In about ninety per cent of these tiny patrol actions we were successful. By the end of November our forward troops had gone a long way toward? getting that individual feeling of superiority and that first essential in the fighting man—the desire to close with his enemy.
This recovery had already been accomplished to a very large extent in the two divisions, the 17th and 23rd, which held the Assam front during the monsoon of 1943, before I took over command of the whole Burma front. All I did was to see that this became an army method and was carried on in all formations.
Having developed the confidence of the individual man in his superiority over the enemy, we had now to extend that to the corporate confidence of units and formations in themselves. This was done in a series of carefully planned minor offensive operations, carried out as the weather improved, against enemy advanced detachments. These were carefully staged, ably led, and, as I was always careful to ensure, in greatly preponderating strength. We attacked Japanese company positions with brigades fully supported by artillery and aircraft, platoon posts by battalions. Once when I was studying the plan for an operation of this kind submitted by the local commander, a visiting staff officer of high rank said, ‘Isn’t that using a steam hammer to crack a walnut?’ ‘Well,’ I answered, ‘if you happen to have a steam hammer handy and you don’t mind if there’s nothing left of the walnut, it’s not a bad way to crack it.’ Besides, we could not at this stage risk even small failures. We had very few, and the individual superiority built up by successful patrolling grew into a feeling of superiority within units and formations. We were then ready to undertake larger operations. We had laid the first of our intellectual foundations of morale; everyone knew we could defeat the Japanese, our object was attainable.
The next foundation, that the men should feel that they belonged to an efficient organization, that Fourteenth Army was well run and would get somewhere, followed partly from these mino
r successes. At the same time the gradual but very noticeable improvements that General Giffard’s reorganization of the rear areas and Snelling’s and the line of communication staff’s almost incredible achievements within the army itself were making themselves felt. Rations did improve, though still far below what they should be; mail began to arrive more regularly; there were even signs of a welfare service.
An innovation was to be the publication of a theatre newspaper—Seac. One day I was told its editor designate was touring the army area and had asked if I would see him. A hefty-looking second-lieutenant was ushered into my office and introduced as Frank Owen. I had strong views on Service newspapers, and sat the young man down for ten minutes, while I explained to him exactly how his paper should be run and what were an editor’s duties. He listened very politely, said he would do his best, saluted, and left. It was only after he had gone that I learned he had been one of the youngest and most brilliant editors in Fleet Street and had characteristically thrown up his job to enlist at the beginning of the war. Seac under his direction—and Admiral Mountbatten wisely gave him complete editorial freedom—was the best wartime Service journal I have seen. It—and Owen himself—made no mean contribution to our morale.
One of the greatest weakeners of morale had been the state of the rest and reinforcement camps. In these camps on the line of communications all reinforcements to the various fronts were held often for weeks until required or until transport was available to take them forward. Almost without exception I found these places depressing beyond words. Decaying tents or dilapidated bashas, with earth floors, mosquito ridden and lacking all amenities, were the usual accommodation; training and recreation were alike unorganized; men were crowded together from all units. No wonder spirits sank, discipline sagged, and defeatist rumours spread. Worst of all, the commandants and staffs, with a few notable exceptions, were officers and N.C.O.s who were not wanted by units or who preferred the rear to the front. This lamentable state of affairs had to be taken in hand at once. The first step was to choose an officer with energy, experience, and organizing ability to take overall charge. I found him in Colonel Gradige of the Indian Cavalry. The next was to select really good officers to command and staff the camps. Fighting unit C.O.s were naturally reluctant to spare their best, but when the need was explained, and in some cases a little pressure applied, they produced them. General Giffard was the first to appreciate the need and he gave us every possible help from the still meagre equipment and resources he had. Each camp was allotted to a forward division. That division provided its officers and instructors; the divisional flag was flown and its sign worn. Divisional commanders were encouraged to visit their camps, and from the moment a man arrived he was made to feel that he belonged to a fighting formation in which he could take pride. Training became real, discipline was reasserted, and in a few months the Fourteenth Army reinforcement camps, although still on a scale of accommodation and amenities much below what I could wish, were clean, cheerful, active parts of the army. Although Gradige controlled on an average fifty thousand men I was never allowed to give him even the acting rank of brigadier. Few colonels did more for the success of the Fourteenth Army than he.
Behind these camps, Generals Auchinleck and Giffard had established two training divisions, the 14th and 34th, who drew their commanders and instructors from battle-experienced officers and N.C.O.s of the Fourteenth Army. Here, recruits who had completed their elementary training passed on to practical jungle work. Within a few months the quality of the reinforcements reaching us from these divisions through the camps had completely changed, not only in skill but, above all, in morale.
In the main, as always, the men judged the efficiency of their show by the qualities of their leaders. Corps and divisional commanders had their men’s confidence to the full; they were capable, experienced, and above all they were known to their troops. Our brigadiers and unit commanders had been carefully weeded and were an active, tough bunch of professional fighting soldiers. We kept them such. I was often throughout the campaign pressed to take straight into appointments as brigadiers or battalion commanders, sometimes even as divisional commanders, officers from home or India without war experience in command. I always resisted this. I would take them as seconds-in-command of brigades or battalions for a period of trial and instruction, but it would not have been fair, whatever their peacetime or training records, either to the men they were to command or to the officers themselves to have thrust them raw into a jungle battle. Let them win their spurs. Most of them did, but some did not. It was as well to find out first.
The setting up of South-East Asia Command, divorced from India, was itself a promise of better things, of new drive, new resources. When Admiral Mountbatten, the new Supreme Commander, appeared these hopes were confirmed. Youthful, buoyant, picturesque, with a reputation for gallantry known everywhere, he talked to the British soldier with irresistible frankness and charm. To the Indian he appealed equally. The morale of the army was already on the upgrade; he was the final tonic.
I met him for the first time on the brick-floored airfield at Barrackpore near my headquarters. He was an hour or so late, and I sat in my car, chatting to an American air general. There had been some confusion between the markings on Japanese aircraft, the single round red blob, and on our own, the R.A.F. red, white, and blue roundel, with its red centre. As a result the R.A.F. in the Burma theatre had repainted their markings to do away with their red centre and we had issued orders that an aircraft with any red on it was an enemy and could be shot at. The first thing I noticed, as Mountbatten’s large transport aircraft came in to land, was the conspicuous red centres of the roundels on its wings and fuselage. Luckily no one was trigger happy, and he landed without incident.
His visit was very brief. He came to our headquarters, met the commanders and staff of the R.A.F., the U.S.A.A.F., and my chief staff officers, and gave us a short speech on what he intended to do. It seemed a lot, but we were all for it. I gathered from this talk and from the few minutes we had together that ideas of taking Burma from the north were off. The main offensive was now to come from a landing in the south. This seemed to be eminently sensible. It had often been discussed before, but was hopeless until we got the necessary naval covering forces and landing craft. When I asked him if these would be forthcoming, ‘We’re getting so many ships,’ he told us, ‘that the harbours of India and Ceylon won’t be big enough to hold ’em!’ We saw him off in his aircraft for Delhi—the red roundels would not matter much inside India—and went back to our work all the better for his visit and with confidence that the Burma front was at last moving up the priority list. We began to feel that we belonged to an efficient show, or what was going to be one, and that feeling spread.
A most potent factor in spreading this belief in the efficiency of an organization is a sense of discipline. In effect, discipline means that every man, when things pass beyond his own authority or initiative, knows to whom to turn for further direction. If it is the right kind of discipline he turns in the confidence that he will get sensible and effective direction. Every step must be taken to build up this confidence of the soldier in his leaders. For instance, it is not enough to be efficient; the organization must look efficient. If you enter the lines of a regiment where the Quarter Guard is smart and alert, and the men you meet are well turned out and salute briskly, you cannot fail to get an impression of efficiency. You are right; ten to one that unit is efficient. If you go into a headquarters and find the clerks scruffy, the floor unswept, and dirty tea mugs staining fly-blown papers on the office tables, it may be efficient, but no visitor will think so.
The raising of the standard of discipline throughout the army, which, especially in many of the newly formed units, had deteriorated, was taken vigorously in hand by all commanders. We tried to make our discipline intelligent, but we were an old-fashioned army and we insisted on its outward signs. In the Fourteenth Army we expected soldiers to salute officers—and officers to sa
lute in return—both in mutual confidence and respect. I encouraged all officers to insist whenever possible, and there were few places where it was not possible, on good turn-out and personal cleanliness. It takes courage, especially for a young officer, to check a man met on the road for not saluting properly or for slovenly appearance, but, every time he does, it adds to his stock of moral courage, and whatever the soldier may say he has a respect for the officer who does pull him up. I would have made only one exception to the rigid enforcement of saluting. I would have declared Calcutta a non-saluting area. That city was crowded with officers and men on leave; they had no mufti clothing, and to walk down Chowringhee, Calcutta’s main street, was a weariness for all of us. Either one saluted every five steps or one was constantly checking soldiers for failing to salute. However, I was not successful in persuading my superiors to accept this innovation.
With growing confidence in the possibility of defeating the Japanese, the lift that the establishment of South-East Asia Command gave to our hopes, and the rapid improvement in discipline, the intellectual foundations of morale were laid. There remained the material. Already the greater backing we were getting from Auchinleck’s India, the steady improvement in transportation, and the general toning up of all rearward services were having their effect. Material conditions, though lamentably low by the standards of any other British army, were improving.
Yet I knew that whatever had been promised to the Supreme Commander from home, it would be six months at least before it reached my troops. We would remain, for a long time yet, desperately short. In my more gloomy moments—and in private I had plenty—I even doubted if we should ever climb up the priority list. There was only one thing to do if the hearts of my men were not to be sickened by hope deferred—admit to them the shortages, already only too obvious, but impress on them that:
Defeat Into Victory Page 24