On the 10th December our engineers completed a floating Bailey bridge over the Chindwin. Its length was 1,154 feet, then the longest Bailey bridge in the world. The Indian Sappers and Miners assembled the spans in the Myittha River under cover, floated them in to the Chindwin, and put the bridge in position in twenty-eight hours. It was an obvious target for air attack, and so we brought from Calcutta barrage balloons no longer needed there. Two days later an attack was made on the bridge, but luckily without success, and our anti-aircraft fire brought down two aircraft. For several days the bridgehead was expanded by minor advances and clashes, until, on the 13th December, Shwegyin was occupied, and the area around it cleared. The 11th East African Division by mid-December thus occupied a firm bridgehead east of Kalewa extending to about eight miles by twelve, and the pursuit that had begun at Imphal had now set the stage for the next act.
The Imphal–Kohima battle which now ended was the last and greatest of the series that had been fought continuously during the past ten months on all the Burma fronts. They had achieved substantial results; the Japanese Army had suffered the greatest defeat in its history. Five Japanese divisions (15th, 18th, 31st, 33rd, and 55th) had, at any rate temporarily, been destroyed as effective fighting formations, while two other divisions, an independent brigade, and many line of communication units had been badly mauled. Fifty thousand Japanese had been killed or died, and their bodies counted on the Arakan and Assam sectors. Allowing only half that number for badly wounded—and a very high proportion of their wounded died or were maimed—the enemy had lost permanently some seventy-five thousand men. Add to this fifteen thousand casualties suffered on the North Burma sector of N.C.A.C., and the total irrecoverable losses inflicted in operations under Fourteenth Army command were some ninety thousand men. The Japanese themselves later estimated their casualties in these battles at this figure. In addition, there were the four or five thousand Japanese accounted for by the Yunnan Chinese.
A most remarkable feature of the fighting had been the few prisoners we had taken. Some six hundred had been captured, and of these I do not believe that more than a hundred and fifty were physically capable of further resistance; the rest were either grievously wounded or in the last stages of exhaustion. This proportion of prisoners to killed, about one in every hundred, is notable compared with that in European or African theatres, and is an indication of the fanatical nature of Japanese resistance.
Japanese losses in equipment were also high. Nearly all the tanks and most of the vehicles that the enemy brought into Assam were destroyed or captured. Over two hundred and fifty guns were taken, besides those thrown into rivers or buried by the Japanese themselves. Of course, given time, these losses both in men and material could be made good, and the divisions would fight again; but whether, even if we allowed them that time—and I had no intention of doing so—they would ever become once more the same aggressive, arrogant fighting formations was another matter.
Our own losses, as was to be expected in such fighting, had not been light. The Fourteenth Army, alone, had suffered some forty thousand battle casualties, killed and wounded. Many of the latter would recover and return to fight again, but losses had been heaviest where they were hardest to replace, in the officers and N.C.O.s of the fighting units. We had yielded only a handful of prisoners; of these the wounded had almost invariably been murdered or left to die. We had lost no guns. An area of Burma more than twice the size of Ireland had been liberated. We had done well.
If you are a general, whether your army has won a great battle or lost it, it is hard not to slur over your own mistakes, to blame others for theirs; to say, if you lost, what bad luck you had, and, if you won, how little luck had to do with it. My army had indubitably won this battle and I look back now on its conduct with considerable personal satisfaction, allowing myself, in the warm glow of success, a good deal more credit, no doubt, than I deserved. Yet the plan of the Imphal battle had been sound and we had adhered to it. Basically, it had been to meet the Japanese on ground of our own choosing, with a better line of communication behind us than behind them, to concentrate against them superior forces drawn from Arakan and India, to wear them down, and, when they were exhausted, to turn and destroy them. All this we had done in spite of my mistakes in mistiming the withdrawal of the 17th Division from Tiddim and underestimating the strength of the Japanese thrust at Kohima. These errors would have been disastrous but for the way in which, supported by the Supreme Commander and General Auchinleck, General Giffard sent so speedily to my rescue reinforcements from India. They and the fighting qualities of my troops saved me in the first days of the battle.
We had proved right in our reliance on the air forces, British and American, first to gain control of the air, and then to supply, transport, and support us. The campaign had been an air one, as well as a land one. Without the victory of the air forces there could have been no victory for the army, and, when it came, the shares of the soldier and the airman were so intermingled that it was a joint victory. Air supply and close support by fighters and bombers had been carried out with precision and effect in full view of the army, but far beyond the range of its sight the enemy’s line of communication and administrative installations had been kept under almost constant attack by the Allied bombers. The cumulative effect of this was immense; his river craft, his motor transport and railway trains slunk along haltingly only at night. The air forces never stopped him moving his formations, but they slowed them up, destroyed their vehicles, and disrupted their communications. In future we knew it would be safe to put even greater reliance on our air arm.
Our estimate of the Japanese mentality and generalship had also proved right. Kawabe and his subordinates showed the over-boldness, the rigidity, and the disregard of administrative risks that I had expected and which gave me my opportunity. We had learned how to kill Japanese; how to use tanks in any country that was not a swamp; how to build roads and airfields with little equipment and strange materials. Our troops had shown themselves steadier, more offensive, and better trained than ever before. They did not now accept any country as impassable, either for the enemy or themselves. They refused to be jittered by encirclement; they were as ready as the enemy to strike out into the jungle and to infiltrate. We had by degrees become better in the jungle than the Japanese. Most important of all, every British, Indian, African, and Chinese division that had served under Fourteenth Army had met picked Japanese troops in straight, bitter fighting and had beaten them. Our troops had proved themselves in battle the superiors of the Japanese; they had seen them run. This was the real and decisive result of these battles. They had smashed for ever the legend of the invincibility of the Japanese Army. Neither our men nor the Japanese soldier himself believed in it any longer.
Shortly after we had recaptured it, I visited Shwegyin. There, still lying in the amphitheatre of hills on the river bank, were the burnt-out and rusted tanks that I had so reluctantly destroyed and abandoned in the Retreat, two and a half years before. As I walked among them, resavouring in imagination the bitter taste of defeat, I could raise my head. Much had happened since then. Some of what we owed we had paid back. Now we were going on to pay back the rest—with interest.
BOOK V
The Decisive Battle
The Battle of Meiktila
NORTHERN FRONT, AUGUST 1944—MARCH 1945
THE BATTLE OF CENTRAL BURMA
CHAPTER XVII
APPROACH TO THE IRRAWADDY
IT often happens that, when the first phase of a hard-fought campaign has been successfully completed and the second is in full swing, the commander will be as much occupied in preparations for the next stage as with the actual fighting in progress. This was so with me during the pursuit to and over the Chindwin. My mind and my time were largely filled with plans and preparations for the great battles that must follow the establishment of our bridgeheads over that river.
Nor was I the only one so employed. As soon as it was clear that the Imphal b
attle would end in decisive victory, an orgy of planning broke out at all levels. On the 2nd July, with Baldwin, commander of the Third Tactical Air Force, I met Admiral Mountbatten to discuss future operations. His headquarters was at this stage examining various alternative plans. I gave it as my opinion that an offensive would require no greater manpower than would be needed to hold a defensive line in North Burma, and that my army could be ready to begin such an offensive on the 1st November. The Supreme Commander, like the rest of us, was determined on an offensive as soon as possible after the monsoon, but its overall plan had not yet been decided upon. Baldwin and I returned to our headquarters, and at once got down to planning what we hoped would be our share in it.
A month before, the Chiefs of Staff in London had issued a directive for Burma. In it they laid down the objects of the next campaign as:
To develop, broaden and protect the air link to China, in order to provide maximum and timely flow of POL (Petrol, Oil, Lubricants) and stores to China in support of Pacific operations. So far as is consistent with the above, to press advantages against the enemy by exerting maximum effort, ground and air, particularly during the current monsoon season, and in pressing such advantages to be prepared to exploit the development of overland communications to China. All these operations must be dictated by the forces at present available or firmly allocated to S.E.A.C.
This directive was plainly a compromise between British and American views, with the American predominating. To me it seemed much too modest. I believed that the best and quickest way to secure worth-while communications with China was to clear the enemy out of Burma, and use Rangoon. The extent of the Japanese defeat at Imphal, which did not seem to have been appreciated, made this now feasible. I was sure that Admiral Mountbatten would be more ambitious in his plan. I, therefore, set my staff to work on plans for the capture of the Mandalay area, but always with the intention that this would at once be followed by an advance south on Rangoon. Indeed, we ran an unofficial private Fourteenth Army plan to effect this, which my Chief of Staff, Tubby Lethbridge, christened ‘Operation Sob’—Sea or Bust.
Meanwhile, above us in S.E.A.C. Headquarters three alternative plans were being prepared:
Plan X. Stilwell’s N.C.A.C., reinforced by more British and Indian divisions from Fourteenth Army, to be the main striking force, and to secure up to the line Katha–Mongmit–Lashio, while the Yunnan Chinese pushed to join up with them about Lashio. The reduced Fourteenth Army to conduct a limited offensive across the Chindwin.
Plan Y. The Fourteenth Army to be the main striking force, and to secure the Mandalay area. The N.C.A.C. and Yunnan Chinese to stage an offensive from the north, and join up with Fourteenth Army about Maymyo.
Plan Z. The capture of Rangoon by an amphibious and airborne operation, followed by a drive to meet our forces coming from the north.
I was heartily in favour of Plan Y. Apart from the fact that it allotted the major role to my army, it seemed to me to offer the best prospect of making the Japanese fight a battle with their main forces on ground favourable to us, and so giving us a chance of really smashing them before the next monsoon. I did not at this stage favour Plan Z. It was strategically most attractive, but I doubted if we could get in time either the equipment or forces that would be required for an amphibious attack on a defended Rangoon. I thought our ‘Operation Sob’ would get us there at least as quickly.
However, when the Supreme Commander shortly afterwards issued his overall directive, allotting each part of the South-East Asia forces its task, we discovered that both Plans Y and Z were to be attempted. The plan for the offensive, to be known by the code word Capital’, was:
(i) An advance across the Chindwin by Fourteenth Army, supported by 221 Group R.A.F., to occupy the area between that river and the Irrawaddy. Success to be exploited to include the capture of Mandalay.
(ii) A complementary advance by N.C.A.C. and the Chinese Yunnan Force, supported by the 10th and 14th U.S.A.A.F., to the line Thabeikkyin–Mogok–Lashio.
(iii) A limited advance in Arakan by 15 Corps, supported by 224 Group R.A.F., to secure our forward positions and to prevent interference with our airfields.
(iv) As these operations progressed, a sea and airborne assault (code name ‘Dracula’) to seize Rangoon some time before the 1945 monsoon, i.e. about March 1945.
If I had been doubtful of our ability to carry out Plan Z (‘Dracula’) with the forces available, I was still more so at the prospect of attempting both Z and Y simultaneously. I felt we were likely to fall between two stools and be strong enough neither in the south nor the north. Of course, if new divisions and air squadrons were to come from Europe, it would be a different matter; but that was obviously improbable until Germany was defeated—and optimistic views on the imminence of this were beginning to fade. However, I cheered myself with the thought that I was in no position to judge such high-level matters, and that there had, so far, been no suggestion to take away any of my troops.
When General Giffard came to see me on the 28th July 1944, he confirmed this. Plan Y, he said, was possible with what we had; Plan Z would require outside resources. Whether these would be available could not be known until September at the earliest. Meanwhile, he directed me to prepare plans for my share in Plan Y, which I was to carry out in three phases:
(i) The occupation, by a land advance and an airborne operation, of the Kalewa-Kalemyo area.
(ii) An overland and airborne advance to secure the Shewbo plain.
(iii) The liberation of Burma, as far south as the line Pakokku–Mandalay, where Fourteenth Army would make a junction with N.C.A.C. about Maymyo.
I was happy to be able to tell him that our Fourteenth Army plan was in essentials the same as Plan Y. It differed only in my intention to maintain my forward formations as they advanced mainly by air, and the consequent necessity to keep all supply aircraft for this purpose, rather than for the airborne operations suggested. I explained that, not only did I think that I could advance faster in this way and inflict heavier losses on the Japanese, but that it would simplify my line of communications problem and reduce the amount of road-making required to something practicable. He agreed to my continued preparation on these lines. I had to confess, however, that my estimate that my army would be ready to begin the great offensive on the 1st November was too optimistic; the 15th November was now the earliest date.
One reason for this was that manpower, especially in British infantry, was becoming an anxiety. The flow of reinforcements from home was not nearly enough to keep my British units up to strength. As a result of dwindling numbers, British battalions in Indian divisions were becoming so weak that they could not be used equally with Indian units. This led to adverse comment from the Indians, who had to take a greater strain. Then, too, it was not possible to reinforce British battalions with men of their own regiments. This gravely detracted from the regimental spirit, which has always been the strength of the British soldier, and morale was affected. So serious was the situation that divisional commanders were now calling for Indian battalions in place of British. I asked that reinforcements from home should be speeded up, and that the several thousand British anti-aircraft artillerymen, locked up in the defence of rear airfields now unlikely to be seriously attacked, should be drafted into the infantry. I found that Admiral Mountbatten had this already in hand. In due course, the anti-aircraft gunners came, proving themselves to be worthy infantrymen. Even so, the strength of British infantry continued to fall, and I was more and more compelled to substitute Indian for British battalions in my divisions.
In spite of this and other worries, our current operations and our preparations for the offensive were going well, when in August both were momentarily jeopardized. The suggestion was then made that, to make sure the forces required for the amphibious assault on Rangoon would be really available and not locked up in fighting in North Burma, the Fourteenth Army should withdraw to Imphal. Generals Giffard and Stilwell, who was Acting Supreme
Commander, opposed the idea most strongly, and it was dropped. I heard no more of troops being taken away from me, although we had to spare some aircraft for the training of parachute regiments in India. Fourteenth Army, throughout September, pushed on with its preparations to carry out General Giffard’s three-phased directive to me.
As the autumn of 1944 turned to winter, and one by one we established bridgeheads—at Sittaung, east of Tamu, at Mawlaik, fifty miles farmer south, and at Kalewa—the first phase was completed. I was particularly pleased I had done it, as I had planned, without an airborne operation. At this time I paid a good many visits to the forward troops, but more to the divisions in the rear to see their training for open warfare and river crossings. There was no doubt about their keenness and their desire to close with the enemy again—the hall-mark of high morale. I grew increasingly confident.
The Japanese higher command had played into our hands. We had inflicted on them in the Imphal battle the major defeat that I had always felt would be necessary before we could with assurance break into Central Burma and meet their main army on its own ground. The extent of that defeat became clearer from the sights that greeted our pursuing troops on the heels of the Japanese. Abandoned guns and tanks, bogged down vehicles, scattered equipment, and, everywhere, corpses lying singly beside the track, sitting grotesquely in cars, propped against trees, huddled together in miserable huts, floating in every stream—the whole horror of retreat in the monsoon, the ultimate beastliness of war. It is true that we had crushed only a portion of Kawabe’s Burma army, but it would be disorganized, diseased, and almost starving remnants of some of his best divisions that would scramble across the Chindwin. He would need time to re-form and re-equip these shattered formations.
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