by Brian Mooney
Huge bonfires were lit. The whole village came up to be presented to me and then sat round me in a circle. Several beautiful boys appeared, bearing gigantic earthenware pitchers of wine, for Dal Bahadur well knew my tastes. In the background, the women-folk began preparing the rice. We were all so tensed up by the solemnity of the occasion that none of us needed much persuasion to eat and drink.
Throughout the whole of that misty night, Dal Bahadur and I sat cross-legged together, leaning shoulder to shoulder. Quite early on in the proceedings his mother had come up and covered us with a single blanket. It was like a sort of wedding symbol. Under cover of it our arms entwined.
Within the circle of the firelight the dancing-boys twisted, stamped and pirouetted; the drums and tablas sobbed; the viols moaned.
Gradually the spectators got more and more drunk and finally flopped on the ground, fast asleep. Towards dawn, the dancers and the instrument players departed for their homes. The fires died down. Dal Bahadur and I remained wide awake. While the crickets chirped and rustled in the great bundles of paddy-straw, we talked of the past.
And later we returned to the present – and he revealed to me that he had developed phthisis in his infected lung, and was not expected to live much longer.
Before the sun was up, while daylight was yet seeping through the cloud-base, I left.
He was very stoical. Yet we wept and wept.
We wept for our lost youth and for our dear departed – which was us when we were young. And we wept because he was ill, and was feeling feeble and faint-hearted, and must prematurely die. We wept because I was leaving India for ever and because our passion was spent. And we wept because, although we loved each other, we were no longer in love.
During the whole of the long trek back to Darjeeling I did not encounter a single soul. Phulbazaar, when I passed through it, was deserted and gloomy. The river beneath the string bridge roared menacingly. I felt as if I were fleeing the wrath to come. The gorge had become a torrent for dead souls. Even the geraniums had withdrawn behind closed shutters.
But the landscape was a blur to me, for I was much preoccupied with my own sad thoughts; and I knew for a certainty that, far behind me in Lamma Gaon Busti, Dal Bahadur was preoccupied with his.
I never saw or heard of him again.
Above: Major-General Orde Wingate talking with USAF Colonel Phil Cochran. Cochran was the commander of the air operations that ferried the Chindits into Burma, evacuated the wounded and kept the fighting men supplied. Wingate - whom Frank regarded as a myth-maker and magician - was killed shortly after the campaign began.
Left: The author, Frank Baines, who saw himself as an amateur among hardened professionals.
Loading mules for the airlift - they carried the heavy armaments and communications equipment and had their vocal chords cut to stop them whinnying.
Two Chindit gunners by a burnt-out glider. The Chindits were airlifted into enemy-occupied Burma by the USAF and RAF in Dakotas and on a fleet of gliders. Some gliders crashed on landing.
A typical jungle bivouac where the Chindits rested during the day's march and harboured for the night.
A column of Chindits advancing with a pack mule on a dusty track in Northern Burma. The Chindits marched up to 20 miles a day with loads of 50 pounds on their backs.
Left: Desmond Whyte DSO, known as the Doc. Masters recommended him for a VC, saying he had saved several hundred lives by being calm, efficient and cheerful on the battlefield.
Below: Major John Hedley, the Brigade's unflappable and determined Intelligence Officer, who after the war became a housemaster at Bromsgrove School.
Above: Frank (in shorts) with Burmese elephants in Mokso Sakan, from where he was despatched with his two defence platoons to hold the pass to Blackpool to the last man.
Right: Richard Rhodes James, the Brigade's Cipher Officer, witnessed and survived the hell of the entire campaign. After the war he became a housemaster at Haileybury.
Above: Major Jack Masters, the Brigade's brilliant field commander, who became the best-selling author John Masters. Frank said he was ablaze with intelligence and uncompromisingly inelegant.
Right: Brigader Joe Lentaigne, who was Brigade Commander until he was flown out to replace General Wingate. Frank described him as a gaunt, belligerent, battered vulture.
Left: A Gurkha rifleman in Burma. Many of them, like Frank's orderly Dal Bahadur, were little more than boys, but they were resourceful, hard-working and brave soldiers.
Below: A Chindit with one of the mules used for transporting heavy gear and ammunition. The mules also carried the less seriously wounded.
Chindits watering a mule, and taking a well-earned dip.
Communicating by field radio with HQ - a lifeline for organizing supply drops by parachute and for evacuating the wounded from makeshift airstrips. Signals were sent and received in cipher.