There are two great descriptions of marching: Kipling's poem, “Boots” (a remarkable work of art since he can have endured the pain of foot-slogging in the sun only at second-hand) and P. C. Wren's passage in The Wages of Virtue. I marched far farther in training in England, and in India, than ever I did in Burma; twenty-two miles in a day is my record, and that was in North Africa after the war. It is painful, too, not so much on the feet as on the back and shoulders, where the equipment chafes—the official wisdom is that you should wear the small pack high up towards the neck, but I noticed that Nine Section let them hang slack. Your feet are either fine or useless; my soles, by the end of the campaign, were white, spongy, and entirely devoid of feeling, but that was the monsoon; not until fifteen years later did they return to normal. At first they just became raw, and by Pyawbwe they were hurting like sin, but not to incapacitate: it is a tribute to my small part of Fourteenth Army, at least, that I never knew a man fall out with his feet; some of them were in horrible condition, but they bathed them and patched them and anointed them with strange things from the M.O., and kept going.
I have read, whether it is true or not, that in the Falklands War there were twenty per cent casualties from feet. I find it hard to credit, but if it is true, it was no fault of the soldiers, but of the boots.
Our Burma marches were modest—certainly by the standard of the Retreat or the Imphal Campaign—but even they could be rough if you were fighting along the way, or getting wearier by the day from night actions or stand-to's. My lasting impression is of thirst, and the yearning to reach for the water-bottle bumping on my stern, warm-to-hot though the contents were and highly flavoured of chlorine and rust. You didn't touch your water-bottle until you had to, so I ploughed moodily on, parched and sore, hating Preston Sturges, the film director, because in a copy of a magazine (Yank, probably) there was an article about him, describing how in his Hollywood office there was a soft-drink tank, awash with clinking ice-cubes and frosted bottles; it was enough to start you baying at the sun. And it was at such a time that Grandarse, who must have been more educated than he looked, would start to recite:
You may talk o' gin an' beer
When you're quartered safe out here
with coarse modifications to the verse which Kipling never thought of, but which I'm sure he would have approved. I don't recall even the North Sahara being hotter or drier than the Dry Belt of Burma; it may be significant that Grandarse, having finished his recitation and stretched himself on the rocky earth with his hat over his lobster-coloured face, should exclaim:
“Wahm? Ah's aboot boogered! By hell, Ah could do wi' some fookin' joongle, Ah tell tha!” And the Duke, sighing and sweating, said thoughtfully that, on the whole, he thought Grandarse was right.
From what I saw farther south, and the jungle I encountered twenty years later in Borneo, I'm not sure I would agree. The Dry Belt might be hard and hot, but at least you could see where you were, and, with luck, the opposition.
I had my first long look at them in numbers when we made our initial probe a few miles down the Rangoon road, two companies of us with tanks of the Deccan Horse. Our own company sweep encountered little, but the other company hit a village where Jap was dug in; the attack went in, 70 Japs were killed, and two guns captured, but by dusk we were outnumbered and cut off from Meiktila, 200 men and a troop of tanks, and had to fade into the dark and make a box. This was the night a tank* brewed up on the road and we lay off in the dark, sweating in the night cold and keeping quiet while we watched the Japs swarming around the burning wreckage in a way which would have recalled Osbert Sitwell's remark about “those clever, patriotic apes of Japanese hurling themselves about”, if I'd known it at the time. They looked like energetic khaki goblins, and when I whispered this to the Duke, lying alongside, we discovered that we had both suffered infant nightmares from George MacDonald's goblin stories; his imps had had tender feet, without toes, and could be laid out by stamping on them; at this point Sergeant Hutton told us to fookin' shut up, and a moment later the altercation broke out in the dark behind us, between Forster and a Sikh over the possession of a chaggle—it lasted all of three seconds before being snarled to silence.
“Stupid sods!” muttered the Duke. “Can you beat it? Forster's thirsty, so 200 men risk getting killed!”
The only other memory I have of that night is of the anxious, sweating face of a tank officer thrust close to mine, asking if everything was okay. He was crawling round the perimeter—which consisted of men lying on their weapons, since there had been no time to dig in—and when I said we were fine he exclaimed: “Thank God for that! Well done, well done!” and scuttled off on all fours. It seemed an odd inquiry—obviously everything was okay, inasmuch as Jap hadn't found us; if he did, it wouldn't be. Another lesson noted: if you're jittery, keep it to yourself; my nerves were fine until he arrived; afterwards I was decidedly restless.
There wasn't a Jap to be seen at dawn, but since they were in large numbers between us and Meiktila it was necessary to get into cover without delay: when a small force is cut off, as we were, the best it can do is hole up, wait for a chance to slip out, and in the meantime annoy the enemy in any way it can. It was something new to me, this Fourteenth Army attitude of regarding a defensive position not as a place where you waited to be attacked, but as a base from which you sallied out to observe or clobber the foe. It was done on a big scale at Meiktila, and on a small one in the little village where we joined up with the rest of the battalion later that day, after a quick march through the dry paddy on which Grandarse trod on a krait, which is among the most venomous snakes on earth. It was a nasty shock to both of them; he cried “Ya booger!” and went up three feet, and the krait shot out from under and disappeared into a crack in the sunbaked earth.
The village was a neat little stronghold, surrounded by a high embankment with openings north and south where the road ran through. This bank, which was plainly pre-war, had evidently been built as a defence against the ubiquitous Burmese bandits, and once we had strung wire beyond the outer slope and dug our pits on the inner one, we were nice and snug. The section brewed up, and while the light lasted I started writing a short story about a sixteenth-century High-lander cruising through the wilds of Lochaber who suddenly becomes aware that he is being stalked by a beautiful young woman who is even more expert a woodsman than he is. Considering our position, Freud, had he been there, would probably have said something trenchant, but all I got was Sergeant Hutton snapping:
“Stop bloody scribblin', git off yer arse, an' git fell in wid your rifle an' kukri. Yer gan on tiger patrol. Put yer p.t. shoes on, leave yer ’at, an' report to Mr Gale.”
“Are you going?”
“Nah, joost ’im and you and two oothers. Ye evn't done a tiger patrol* afore, ev ye? Nah, neether ’as Gale.” He considered. “Aye…’e's joost a lad—but ’e's a good lad. Reet, git crackin'.”
Gale was perhaps a year or two older than I was, about twenty-two; he'd joined the battalion when I had, so he was not experienced. But he was, as Hutton said, a good lad, brisk, active, and with a gift of easy command, neither too stiff nor too affable, the kind of subaltern that the British Army has turned out by the thousand for centuries, and who, with the tough, worldly-wise Huttons, has been its sheet anchor.
Nixon and Parker were the other two; they and Gale were lightly shod and armed as I was. We assembled in a little basha in the gathering dusk; other patrols were forming up, and Long John was issuing orders to Stanley and a man from another platoon who were going out to an o.p. in front of our position. It was all very business-like and unhurried, quiet voices and shadowy figures, an occasional soft laugh among the mutter of orders, magazines being charged and safety catches going on, feet shuffling, the light of the storm lantern reflected on faces. Gale drew us aside and briefed us: there had been a lot of Jap movement in the country around, and a big force was believed to be moving up towards Meiktila. It would probably pass some way to the east of our
village, but flanking units or patrols were sure to bump us shortly; in the meantime the battalion would be scouting every village within a ten-mile radius, watching for any concentration and doing whatever mischief we could.
“Tonight we're recce-ing a couple of villages, see if Jap's in residence, pick up news.” He looked at me. “You're the cross-country expert—right, if we run into trouble, and I shout ‘Runner!’ you get out, fast. Understand? Don't wait for anything, get back to the battalion, tell ’em whatever we've found. Okay?” We all nodded. “Let's go.”
His voice was level, but I could hear the suppressed excitement in it, and wondered if he felt the same rising shiver at the back of the throat that I did. The villages might be stiff with Japs, likewise the countryside; suppose we got in among them, just four of us, and it came to a dirty meêlée in the dark? Well, I would just have to wait for the shout of “Runner!”, doing whatever seemed best in the meantime. For the life of me I couldn't decide whether being the best long-distance runner in the platoon was a good thing or not; it really wasn't worth considering.
We slipped out of the perimeter and stopped about a hundred yards out, kneeling in a rough diamond formation to look and listen. Behind was the dark loom of the village, with a light here and there; the paddy itself was half-dark, and I could easily make out the three dim forms; when we went on Gale led, with Parker and Nixon on either flank and a little behind him; I was the back point of the diamond. They went very quietly, pausing only when Gale stopped or sank to one knee; from the gloom around us there was hardly a sound; if Jap was out there he was being just as silent as we were.
Now, I know I must have been scared, but I don't remember it—not to compare with other occasions, where the memory of fear remains as strong as when I felt it. Looking back, I can say that night patrolling in enemy country, while not the ideal form of relaxation, was less hair-raising than I'd expected; put it another way, it was preferable to lurking in an o.p., for my money. Every normal person fears the dark, but if you have to face it there is great reassurance to moving quietly in good company, travelling light and knowing that you have been well trained in the basics—take your time, don't lose contact, when in doubt sink down and listen, and try to remember that darkness is a friend. The knowledge, which came later, that Jap was certainly no better in the dark than we were, was absent on that first tiger patrol; even so, the confidence with which Gale moved ahead, and the sureness and silence of the other two, gradually induced a feeling that had at least as much excitement as fear about it.
Reading that last paragraph again, I wonder if I've gone mad at long last. It is one thing to sit quietly typing in one's study, recalling in safety the perils of fifty years ago and knowing perfectly well that the neighbourhood is not full of malevolent Tojos waiting to kill me (if it were, and I, an overweight pensioner, were fool enough to go out looking for them, I'd blunder about in the dark, falling over everything, and probably die of apoplexy), and quite another to have to do the real thing. No, what I mean to convey is that there are worse things than night patrolling, as we shall see. It is a matter of taste: offered the choice, which at this stage I am comfortably certain I shan't be, between roaming the Burmese night on the off-chance of meeting Jap, and clearing an occupied bunker, I'd take the former, as offering a better chance of a happy return. But on the whole I'd much prefer a pint black-and-tan.
There were no Japs in the first village, but there had been a few hours earlier. We skirted the place before going in, Gale conferring with the headman through the good offices of a smooth young villager who announced himself as a B.A., Rangoon University. About fifty Japanese had passed through during the morning, heading north; they had assured the head-man that the British were about to be driven out of Meiktila and across the river; already many had been ambushed and killed in unsuccessful attempts to break out, and the village was to keep an eye open for stragglers. This, said the young man, beaming ingratiatingly, the headman had pretended to believe, but he knew it was untrue. It occurred to me that the Japanese had been treated to the same wide grin that morning.
We three kept in the shadows while Gale was talking; there could be no question of searching the place. If there had been Japs concealed they'd have been shooting us up by now, and the villagers seemed easy and friendly enough, the old women sitting smoking in the shadows before the bashas, the children staring and grinning openly.
We left from the north end of the village, circled it at a distance and made south-east, so far as I could judge. The second village was about a mile farther on, and was fast asleep. We came in quietly, among the silent bashas, freezing when somebody sneezed. A light appeared in one of the bashas, and presently a very old man shuffled out, demanding our business. He was fairly truculent, unlike most Burmese villagers, especially when there are warring armies in their neighbourhood. No, he'd seen no Japs for days, but they were coming soon, everyone in the village was very frightened and would we please go away. I guessed Gale was wondering what to do next, when the sound of firing was heard, off to the south. At this female hysterics broke out in the bashas, the old man shouted and ran for cover, and we left. The firing died away, but it was far outside our little theatre of operations, and we made for home.
“Somebody's ’avin' a duffy” was Parker's only comment. I supposed it was one of our patrols clashing with a party of Japs, but I never found out. We hit the road south of our little base, and came in through the wire without trouble, one member of the patrol at least effervescent with relief and not a little pleased with himself. Very well, nothing had happened, but at least I'd been out there and back again, like the Wolf of Kabul and Hawkeye, and hadn't come to grief or made an ass of myself. Gale thanked us and told us to get our heads down, while he went off to report. Men from other returned patrols were dispersing, and I talked to a couple of them, concealing my elation and acting nonchalant.
“W'ee wuz doin' the shuttin',* then?”
“Don't know. We heard it, about a mile off.”
“Aye? There's summat up, doon theer. Feller in H.Q. Company was sayin' Jap's mekkin' a big push—aye-aye, Nick, hoo'sta gan on?”
“Nut sae bad. Any news?”
“Ye w'at? Ah'll tell thee the fookin' news—we're oot ’ere, git oorsel's coot off! W'at a bloody balls-up, eh? Couldn't roon a bloody raffle! Isn't that reet, lad?”
I made a non-committal noise, like John Wayne at Fort Apache.
“Aye! Ah, weel, Ah's gan git mesel' some Egyptian p.t., afore Jap distoorbs me beauty sleep. Neet, lads…’ey, ’aud on a minnit, son! Ah knaw yoo…is thoo f'ae Carel?”
I admitted I was from Carlisle.
“Ah thowt sae! Girraway! You're Doctor Willie's daft son, up Currock!”
I couldn't deny it, and he grinned and shook hands.
“Your dad wuz oor doctor, afore we mooved oot t'Ivegill. Weel, noo, w'at about that? An' yer in Nine Section—alang wid that owd booger? Bad loock, son…’e belangs in the Charpoy Chindits, ’e does! Don't ye, Nick? Well-away…Doctor Willie's lad!”
I knew his family's name, but not him personally; we talked for a few minutes more, joked about having a pint back home some day, and parted. All of a sudden I was ready to sleep on my feet; there was a fifty per cent stand-to, and half the section were in their pits, but Parker was already in his blanket, and I flopped down beside him, excited and drowsy all at once. It had been a big night for a young soldier, but here I was, back. It crossed my mind that I hadn't said my prayers for longer than I cared to remember, and I was in that thankful state when it seemed like a good idea. Long ago, when I was little, my father had used to kneel beside my bed, holding my hand and saying them with me; I could still feel the prickle of his moustache on my forehead when he kissed me good-night, and then the landing light would go off, the door far off downstairs would close, and I would stare up at the odd pattern on the ceiling where the distant street light shone in above the curtains. It would be shining* just the same now…and I'd been on night patrol
in Burma, and an idea had come to me out there for the short story I'd started…suppose the Highlander came to a village at nightfall and there were a party of armed Camerons hunting the beautiful girl who'd been stalking him…
I came awake to the crash of explosions and the hard ground vibrating under me. All round men were starting up, there were yells of command in the darkness, the stutter of a Bren, the thump of grenades, flashes in the black, random shouts. I rolled into my pit, blanket and all, scrambling for rifle and pouches. Parker tumbled in beside me, and we ducked instinctively as tracer streaked across our front beyond the wire. There were exclamations and blasphemous inquiries from the pits on either side, and then the word was passing along: “Jap's inside the wire!”
“Ah, sod it!” said Parker, fumbling in the dark, and light flashed on his kukri as he laid it on the lip of the pit. “Wot the ’ell! Those are mortars—our three-inch mortars!”
They were thumping away at the southern end of the village, away from us. That was where most of the firing was; beyond our wire there seemed to be nothing doing, but men were hurrying past close behind us, someone was yelling: “Reiver platoon!”, and I thought I heard Long John's voice, and then Hutton's bawling: “Eight section, close on me! Coom on!” The firing was sporadic, a few shots, a burst of automatic, then a scream that froze the blood, and from the left end of our position a shocking worrying sound, as though a dog were tearing at something. “Jesus wept! Come on, Jocky!” Parker was out of the pit, and I was following when a burst of fire came from beyond the wire, right to our front. Parker dropped, and I stopped dead, staring at the darkness outside the wire—there were figures there, running, and they couldn't be any of ours. Parker was on one knee, firing towards them; I emptied my magazine, rapid fire, working the bolt for dear life until it clicked on an empty chamber. I heaved out of the pit, scrabbling for my bandolier; Parker had vanished, but another figure, rifle in hand, was on the top of the embankment before my pit, not a yard away, and even as my hand, rummaging in the dark for that damned bandolier, fell on the hilt of the dirk in my small pack, I froze in genuine horror.
Quartered Safe Out There: A Harrowing Tale of World War II Page 8