Lt. William Jocelyn Smyly
Bill Smyly in 2009.
When the mules finally arrived, it was a beautiful sight seeing them splashing through the river, headed by a small and eager young officer on a fine looking mare. This was Bill Smyly, my new animal transport officer. Just nineteen years old, (and the youngest man in the column) he had come out from home a year before to join a Gurkha Regiment, and having an Irish passion for horses, had been selected for training as an ATO.
It was hard to say which he liked best, his animals or his Gurkhas; he would tenderly spare the former, but never the latter. Although easily the youngest officer in the column, he had no fear of anybody and would chastise any officer, however senior, who failed to take care of his mules. He certainly was in my mind, the Monarch of the Muleteers.
(Bernard Fergusson in 1946).
Bill Smyly was one of the first Chindit veterans I ever had the pleasure to talk to, and was the only Longcloth veteran who served with No. 5 Column in 1943 that I have ever met in person. From our initial meeting at the Chindit Old Comrades Reunion in June 2009, up until our last chat at 77 Brigade's Chindwin Dinner in January 2018, he has always been so accommodating and thoughtful in answering the multitude of questions I was always so keen to ask.
Talking with Bill was always interesting, illuminating and humorous; our chats were charged with unexpected anecdotes in relation to Operation Longcloth, but also thought provoking messages about the true emotions of war and quite often reflective consideration for the men he had fought against, namely the Japanese.
I have decided to bring Bill Smyly's story to these website pages, in a slightly different manner than my normal format in presenting a Chindit veterans wartime experiences in Burma. There is a wealth of information to be found in books, in film footage online and of course remarks and anecdotes from the friends and family members who knew and loved Bill so well. I hope that after reading, watching and listening to the following account of his life, you will also get to know this wonderful and inspiring man.
Before I go any further, I would like to thank Diana Smyly (Bill's wife) and her family, especially Chris Smyly, who has worked diligently in filming and recording Bill's memories and thoughts on the war and the consequences it brought to those who fought and lived through those terrible times. I would like to thank authors, Tony Redding (War in the Wilderness) and Philip Chinnery (Wingate's Lost Brigade), for allowing me to use some of the information they collected together through their own interviews with Bill Smyly and to anyone else who has contributed to this narrative through their own association or connection with the man in question.
To begin with, I thought it would be fitting to listen to the man himself and to learn his thoughts about being a soldier during WW2. These short video clips come courtesy of Chris Smyly and were filmed over the last few years:
It was hard to say which he liked best, his animals or his Gurkhas; he would tenderly spare the former, but never the latter. Although easily the youngest officer in the column, he had no fear of anybody and would chastise any officer, however senior, who failed to take care of his mules. He certainly was in my mind, the Monarch of the Muleteers.
(Bernard Fergusson in 1946).
Bill Smyly was one of the first Chindit veterans I ever had the pleasure to talk to, and was the only Longcloth veteran who served with No. 5 Column in 1943 that I have ever met in person. From our initial meeting at the Chindit Old Comrades Reunion in June 2009, up until our last chat at 77 Brigade's Chindwin Dinner in January 2018, he has always been so accommodating and thoughtful in answering the multitude of questions I was always so keen to ask.
Talking with Bill was always interesting, illuminating and humorous; our chats were charged with unexpected anecdotes in relation to Operation Longcloth, but also thought provoking messages about the true emotions of war and quite often reflective consideration for the men he had fought against, namely the Japanese.
I have decided to bring Bill Smyly's story to these website pages, in a slightly different manner than my normal format in presenting a Chindit veterans wartime experiences in Burma. There is a wealth of information to be found in books, in film footage online and of course remarks and anecdotes from the friends and family members who knew and loved Bill so well. I hope that after reading, watching and listening to the following account of his life, you will also get to know this wonderful and inspiring man.
Before I go any further, I would like to thank Diana Smyly (Bill's wife) and her family, especially Chris Smyly, who has worked diligently in filming and recording Bill's memories and thoughts on the war and the consequences it brought to those who fought and lived through those terrible times. I would like to thank authors, Tony Redding (War in the Wilderness) and Philip Chinnery (Wingate's Lost Brigade), for allowing me to use some of the information they collected together through their own interviews with Bill Smyly and to anyone else who has contributed to this narrative through their own association or connection with the man in question.
To begin with, I thought it would be fitting to listen to the man himself and to learn his thoughts about being a soldier during WW2. These short video clips come courtesy of Chris Smyly and were filmed over the last few years:
As mentioned earlier by Bernard Fergusson, Bill Smyly became the Animal Transport Officer for No. 5 Column on Operation Longcloth and was in charge, not only of his beloved mules, but also the Gurkha Riflemen that drove these animals. It is not commonly known, but Bill was rather fortunate to survive his time on the first Wingate expedition and owed his eventual salvation to the Kachin and Shan tribes people who cared for him during his long and arduous exit from Burma in 1943.
Bill recalled:
On both Wingate operations, the Kachins, Shans and Karens were our eyes and ears and showed great courage and loyalty to our cause. This was shown by the Burma Riflemen who fought with us, but also by the villagers we met along the way. It is not possible to exaggerate their importance to these operations.
I was ATO in No. 5 Column led by Major Bernard Fergusson. For me, after our column broke up in the ambush in which Lt. Stibbe was wounded (Hintha), I crossed a fast running river called the Shweli with six of my men, having lost 28 others who were stuck on the other side when someone's hand slipped and the rubber dinghy we were using was swept away downstream with two men in it. We headed north without a map, but caught up with a group of about 60 led by Major Astell of the Burma Rifles. I think we spun out 8 days rations for 28 days. In the end I lost my central vision with beri beri and had swollen ankles that slowed me down going up hill. I refused to let my men hang back at my pace and drove them on, with myself climbing the hills side ways like a crab or backwards and running down the other side. This worked well for several days till one evening when I was running too fast, missed the path, and ran off into the forest.
Lost, and with night coming on, I sat down by a stream, boiled some water for tea, and then slept. In the morning I was covered with leeches. I undressed and shaved these off with my kukri. They fell off like grapes and swam away. The stream was the worst possible place I could have spent the night. In the morning, sight restored, I retraced my steps and found the track. To my surprise it was the greatest relief to be on my own and not have to keep up with the others, but I now went very slowly. Ahead was an enormous climb. Half way up there was one place where I looked out over the surrounding forest canopy, wave after wave of it, and felt that I had only to press the ground with my toes and I would rise into the air and soar over hill and dale all the way back to India. I felt a sense of elation and was probably experiencing some sort of high through exhaustion and hunger.
Later on up on the hill I found a hollow bamboo cane driven into a rivulet and clear water poured from this onto bright stones at the side of the path. Beside this was a mossy bank and I don't think any chair has ever been more comfortable or any water sweeter. I was sitting there half in heaven when an old mother and her pretty daughter climbed up the road. They found me totally exhausted and idiotically happy and they were there again in the village at the top of the hill with a brew of rice wine for me, before they brought me on to the house of the Headman of the village.
From then I was looked after in Kachin villages for nearly three months. When I reached a village and took off my boots and my ankles blew up like balloons and I would sit there till I could get my boots on again, maybe two days, sometimes three and then press on. Somewhere in the distant north there was a British outpost called Fort Hertz and this was where I was heading.
Bill recalled:
On both Wingate operations, the Kachins, Shans and Karens were our eyes and ears and showed great courage and loyalty to our cause. This was shown by the Burma Riflemen who fought with us, but also by the villagers we met along the way. It is not possible to exaggerate their importance to these operations.
I was ATO in No. 5 Column led by Major Bernard Fergusson. For me, after our column broke up in the ambush in which Lt. Stibbe was wounded (Hintha), I crossed a fast running river called the Shweli with six of my men, having lost 28 others who were stuck on the other side when someone's hand slipped and the rubber dinghy we were using was swept away downstream with two men in it. We headed north without a map, but caught up with a group of about 60 led by Major Astell of the Burma Rifles. I think we spun out 8 days rations for 28 days. In the end I lost my central vision with beri beri and had swollen ankles that slowed me down going up hill. I refused to let my men hang back at my pace and drove them on, with myself climbing the hills side ways like a crab or backwards and running down the other side. This worked well for several days till one evening when I was running too fast, missed the path, and ran off into the forest.
Lost, and with night coming on, I sat down by a stream, boiled some water for tea, and then slept. In the morning I was covered with leeches. I undressed and shaved these off with my kukri. They fell off like grapes and swam away. The stream was the worst possible place I could have spent the night. In the morning, sight restored, I retraced my steps and found the track. To my surprise it was the greatest relief to be on my own and not have to keep up with the others, but I now went very slowly. Ahead was an enormous climb. Half way up there was one place where I looked out over the surrounding forest canopy, wave after wave of it, and felt that I had only to press the ground with my toes and I would rise into the air and soar over hill and dale all the way back to India. I felt a sense of elation and was probably experiencing some sort of high through exhaustion and hunger.
Later on up on the hill I found a hollow bamboo cane driven into a rivulet and clear water poured from this onto bright stones at the side of the path. Beside this was a mossy bank and I don't think any chair has ever been more comfortable or any water sweeter. I was sitting there half in heaven when an old mother and her pretty daughter climbed up the road. They found me totally exhausted and idiotically happy and they were there again in the village at the top of the hill with a brew of rice wine for me, before they brought me on to the house of the Headman of the village.
From then I was looked after in Kachin villages for nearly three months. When I reached a village and took off my boots and my ankles blew up like balloons and I would sit there till I could get my boots on again, maybe two days, sometimes three and then press on. Somewhere in the distant north there was a British outpost called Fort Hertz and this was where I was heading.
Map of the area around Fort Hertz in Northern Burma, showing Bill Smyly's direction of travel.
Bill's story concludes:
The swelling in my feet must have been unpleasant for others. A girl wrapped my legs in a poultice of leaves which brought out a viscous liquid with a sickly odour. I didn't like this smell myself but my hosts never complained. They never even mentioned it. I had no way of paying them and they seemed to expect nothing in return. For three months they looked after me in one village after another, always the same welcome and what they ate they also gave to me. In all those weeks I never slept again out in the open and never did without an evening meal.
Back in Burma with the second Chindit expedition the following year, we saw the distress suffered by these loyal tribesmen when Wingate was killed. To them it was a personal loss. He was I suppose, the one they looked to with his Chindit badge, the Lord Protector of the Pagodas, as they had named him. But anyway, I owe them my life after my period of deep contentment and absolute trust in a gloriously beautiful country of mountains, valleys, forests of great trees, and clear rushing streams. I'm glad to say that my six Gurkha Riflemen reached the safety of Fort Hertz long before me and were flown out safely to India.
During my research into the men who served on Operation Longcloth, I came across another Gurkha officer's story, that of Lt. Jock Stewart-Jones. In recalling his own experiences after dispersal was called in 1943, he mentions meeting Bill during the march north towards Fort Hertz. It would seem that this chance meeting and the magnificent efforts of Burma Rifleman Ah Di, would prove vital to Bill's eventual salvation:
Lt. Stewart-Jones:
I took charge of the party and averaging around 12 miles per day we pushed on to the north. We made slow progress due to the nature of the country and jungle and the men grew weak with hunger, having eaten little else than rice, bamboo leaves and roots for several weeks. As well as this, most men were suffering in a greater or lesser degree with malaria, dysentery and sceptic sores. Our clothing was in rags and a few men were without any footwear. Our journey took us as high as 5000 feet and into very cold conditions, followed almost immediately by plunging down once more into the steaming hot jungle valley.
Having no maps of the area in which we were travelling and only one compass, I had to rely on the knowledge and skill of my Kachin Jemadar, Ah Di of the Burma Rifles. His fluency in the various dialects made him invaluable in obtaining information from villagers. In the hills opposite the east of Bhamo I lost one Kachin and two Karen riflemen, who decided to take their chances and head home. It was also at this time that we picked up Lieutenant Smyly of No. 5 Column, who was in a very weak state and barely able to walk. He was left in a friendly village, with Jemadar Ah Di instructing the villagers that they would be held responsible for his safety and well-being.
Everyone was now in a very weak state, and at this time the Gurkhas were on average sticking at it better than the British soldiers and even the Burma Rifles. Through the efforts of Ah Di, we hired a Kachin guide who had once been with the Burma Frontier Force. He led us north and entered all villages first to check for Japanese patrols and to acquire rice to supplement our meagre rations. The Kachins in this area were very poor indeed and fearful of the Japs, but on the whole extremely friendly towards us.
Lt. Stewart-Jones:
I took charge of the party and averaging around 12 miles per day we pushed on to the north. We made slow progress due to the nature of the country and jungle and the men grew weak with hunger, having eaten little else than rice, bamboo leaves and roots for several weeks. As well as this, most men were suffering in a greater or lesser degree with malaria, dysentery and sceptic sores. Our clothing was in rags and a few men were without any footwear. Our journey took us as high as 5000 feet and into very cold conditions, followed almost immediately by plunging down once more into the steaming hot jungle valley.
Having no maps of the area in which we were travelling and only one compass, I had to rely on the knowledge and skill of my Kachin Jemadar, Ah Di of the Burma Rifles. His fluency in the various dialects made him invaluable in obtaining information from villagers. In the hills opposite the east of Bhamo I lost one Kachin and two Karen riflemen, who decided to take their chances and head home. It was also at this time that we picked up Lieutenant Smyly of No. 5 Column, who was in a very weak state and barely able to walk. He was left in a friendly village, with Jemadar Ah Di instructing the villagers that they would be held responsible for his safety and well-being.
Everyone was now in a very weak state, and at this time the Gurkhas were on average sticking at it better than the British soldiers and even the Burma Rifles. Through the efforts of Ah Di, we hired a Kachin guide who had once been with the Burma Frontier Force. He led us north and entered all villages first to check for Japanese patrols and to acquire rice to supplement our meagre rations. The Kachins in this area were very poor indeed and fearful of the Japs, but on the whole extremely friendly towards us.
Bill Smyly was one of the few officers from Operation Longcloth to serve again on the second Wingate expedition in 1944, codenamed Operation Thursday. Once again as Animal Transport Officer, he re-joined Bernard Fergusson, this time commanding the 16th British Infantry Brigade, on their march into Burma from their starting point on the Ledo Road in February 1944. Bill was attached to the 2nd Battalion Queen's Regiment and served with them until they were flown out of Burma later, leaving behind their mules and Bill, who went on to fight with 111 Brigade under the command of Acting Brigadier Jack Masters. Bill was mentioned in despatches for his efforts during 111 Brigade's brutal engagement with the Japanese at the Chindit stronghold, codenamed Blackpool.
After the conclusion of Operation Thursday, Bill Smyly returned to the depot of the 2nd Gurkha Rifles at Dehra Dun and waited for his next posting. Two possibilities came up. One was joining V Force, of which he knew very little, and the other was a direct invitation from Brigadier Mike Calvert to join his newly formed Brigade Headquarters and take over the units Assault Company. Bill returned to the Saugor camp where the Chindits were once again in training, but nothing was to come of this venture and the Chindits were soon disbanded. Bill and his men were transferred to the 3/6th Gurkha Rifles and were sent to the Regimental Centre at Abbottabad to wait for their next assignment.
Seen below is a gallery of images in relation to this story, including a lisitng from the pages of the 2nd Queen's War dairy showing Bill's attachment to the battalion on Operation Thursday. Please click on any image to bring it forward on the page.
After the conclusion of Operation Thursday, Bill Smyly returned to the depot of the 2nd Gurkha Rifles at Dehra Dun and waited for his next posting. Two possibilities came up. One was joining V Force, of which he knew very little, and the other was a direct invitation from Brigadier Mike Calvert to join his newly formed Brigade Headquarters and take over the units Assault Company. Bill returned to the Saugor camp where the Chindits were once again in training, but nothing was to come of this venture and the Chindits were soon disbanded. Bill and his men were transferred to the 3/6th Gurkha Rifles and were sent to the Regimental Centre at Abbottabad to wait for their next assignment.
Seen below is a gallery of images in relation to this story, including a lisitng from the pages of the 2nd Queen's War dairy showing Bill's attachment to the battalion on Operation Thursday. Please click on any image to bring it forward on the page.
As mentioned previously, thankfully there are a number of video recordings of Bill Smyly, talking about his experiences in the Burmese jungle and his opinions on war itself. These were recorded by Chris Smyly either at Bill's home in Bedford, or at the various Chindit reunions and events:
vimeo.com/122133444
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zTzIhgaZDM
In 2012 there was a series of documentaries on television called Narrow Escapes of World War Two. One program was dedicated to the Chindits and especially the first Wingate expedition. Bill Smyly took part in this program, recounting his own experiences in 1943:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=JP4yqSF4Oso
In November 2013, I was privileged to visit the Gurkha Rifles Museum at Winchester and allowed to view the archive material for the 2nd King Edward VII's Own Gurkha Rifles in relation to their exploits in Burma during WW2. Amongst the papers and documents I stumbled across a 14 page narrative written by Bill shortly after his return from Burma in 1943. With the permission of the museum curator (Gavin Edgerley-Harris), I was able to photograph the document with the view to transcribing it and showing it to Bill at my earliest convenience.
Having only a faint memory of actually writing the memoir some seventy-two years previously, Bill on re-reading his work, was somewhat perturbed at the boy's own high-spirited nature of the account. Nevertheless, I felt that he was interested to see it after all these years.
vimeo.com/122133444
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zTzIhgaZDM
In 2012 there was a series of documentaries on television called Narrow Escapes of World War Two. One program was dedicated to the Chindits and especially the first Wingate expedition. Bill Smyly took part in this program, recounting his own experiences in 1943:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=JP4yqSF4Oso
In November 2013, I was privileged to visit the Gurkha Rifles Museum at Winchester and allowed to view the archive material for the 2nd King Edward VII's Own Gurkha Rifles in relation to their exploits in Burma during WW2. Amongst the papers and documents I stumbled across a 14 page narrative written by Bill shortly after his return from Burma in 1943. With the permission of the museum curator (Gavin Edgerley-Harris), I was able to photograph the document with the view to transcribing it and showing it to Bill at my earliest convenience.
Having only a faint memory of actually writing the memoir some seventy-two years previously, Bill on re-reading his work, was somewhat perturbed at the boy's own high-spirited nature of the account. Nevertheless, I felt that he was interested to see it after all these years.
First page of Bill's actual narrative.
There now follows a transcription of Bill Smyly's Longcloth narrative, with the original written upon fourteen pages of Gurkha Rifles headed paper:
Introduction
Every man in an adventure must have some measure of success and some of failure. I have tried to give an account of my own adventures honestly. The things I was proud of and the things I was not. Also, without any comment, the thoughts that were running though my mind.
We started off with high spirits and enthusiasm. These gave place to grim determination to fight in spite, and not because, of our force and its organisation. With our vitality, even this flagged. Some men turned to cowards, a very few to heroes, but in the mind of every man the thought, “We must get out, we must get back,” had given place to the enthusiasm which cried, “Kill, fight and win."
Memories and photographs of sweethearts and wives kept dead men staggering on their feet. There was a lot of suffering and hundreds failed to comeback. After it all, what did we actually accomplish? Perhaps we were a very useful experiment. Perhaps the science of war learned more from our mistakes than any successes. I have written in an auto-biographical form as the subject must have been very clearly dealt with in other accounts and I set out to give my own thoughts, as they are probably as typical as any.
Report on the Wingate Expedition January-June 1943.
Thoughts and Reactions, Lieut. W. Smyly, ATO, 5 Column.
Our faces were washed, our hands were clean and I was as ‘bald as a coot.' We stood in open platoon formation with the mules and horses drawn up in two long lines behind, and standing to attention, as quietly confident as any of ourselves, and we had reason to be confident.
General Wavell had come down to inspect us and see us off. He seemed pleased and we thought he had good reason to be. My Gurkha Muleteers, the ‘working bees’ of a large hive, the lifeblood of the Column's body, looked extremely smart. New recruits of 9 months service, they held themselves like trained soldiers and were proud and happy, for they were going into action. British steel was going into a ‘trial by fire’ and Jap iron, though good, perhaps would never stand the contest.
We set off to ambush and raid, to match deadly silence, cunning, manoeuvre and skilful strength, against all the noise, the tricks, and the sheer bombast that the Japs might put up against us. Our confidence, which was almost a religious one, was not unfounded, for was not that quiet, sober, likeable, though brilliant Field Marshall, who became the friend of everyman he met, confident? It seemed so. Ordinance was a door answering to our ‘open sesame’ in the name of Longcloth. Wishes come true. All India was behind us. Good luck and fair weather walked beside us. Field Marshall Wavell saluted us. History had begun and we were its pages.
What new boy at school, playing his first game of rugger, does not dream of wild glories to come? In his imagination he scores tries for his house and school and treads a path of happy glory. In this, my first action, my dreams were his and as the twisting roads wound their way through the rugged hills to the Chindwin, my hopes soared, my dreams grew wilder, our long sunny days became very happy and the night marches were not too hard.
As we marched in; so we were going to march out: a historic Brigade which penetrated the enemy lines and left a trail of desolation and muddle 300 miles wide, from Assam to China, from Homalin to Mandalay and from Shwebo to Sumprabum. Our last love letters were written at the end of the road in a forest of beautiful trees, lovely hills and skies and sent back to India, together with enormous quantities of equipment which had to be jettisoned, or replaced at the very last moment. And which, because we were hurrying, had been left behind in huge disorderly heaps.
The track from now was a small one and littered with skulls, the bones and the clothing of some who had hoped to escape not a year before. Against one tree was a heap of bones and women’s clothing, with a tiny skull beside. They could sink contentedly into the earth now for their job was done; a whole Brigade had marched past them and had been shown that each man’s job was to revenge the horrors that this track had a year ago.
The Chindwin was crossed without much difficulty, for we took two ropes across at night and ferried over the river, hand over hand, in Royal Engineer boats, like huge inner tubes with a canvas floor, or rafts supported by the tiny RAF boats, which float but are not much use for anything else. The mules and horses which were fit, swam across in droves, the fearful ones going across tied to our RE boats and the willing ones going over in droves of 15 to 20 at a time. I was the last across, because the animals were my property, but, after a long and gloriously happy day, working in naked in the baking sun, I dispatched my saddle and clothes with the Groom, tied up my reins to a surcingle and rode across on Sambo’s back.
He was a beautiful prancing gelding of 16 hands and a half, and was one of the finest, strongest beasts I have ever seen. He swam with his head held high and the water surged round his flanks, swirled round my legs and his long tail trailed out in his wake. We caught up and passed an RE boat and seemed to be going twice as fast. It was dark by then and we planned a night march, but they are quite impossible in the jungle and, having struggled on for about a quarter of a mile in 2 hours we halted and slept in single file or ‘column snake’ as we called it. This was a formation with many disadvantages, as we were to find out later, the only possible one however for getting over this type of country we were in.
Next day we formed up in a Brigade RV and had a ration dropping, not a very successful one however, for our tins were dropped into soft paddy fields and many were lost. From here the jungle was flat open teak forest, the ground covered by tiny plants with huge dry papery leaves, and here and there young bendy saplings under the shady roof of giant teak.
Our only difficulty was long thin lanes of ooze and rushes. They might have been streams once, but were now just squashy mud over which paths had to be found or made. Sometimes thick carpets of rushes were enough but often timber had to be cut to reinforce it. Often alternative paths had to be made, loaded mules would fall and have to be unloaded in the middle of a quagmire into which they were sinking, whilst others would have to be unloaded in order to get them across at all. It was the quiet ones that did best, those that tried to rush went down. The only thing that got over everything was the quiet, plodding, pack bullock, which when saddled with a mule saddle was invaluable.
Introduction
Every man in an adventure must have some measure of success and some of failure. I have tried to give an account of my own adventures honestly. The things I was proud of and the things I was not. Also, without any comment, the thoughts that were running though my mind.
We started off with high spirits and enthusiasm. These gave place to grim determination to fight in spite, and not because, of our force and its organisation. With our vitality, even this flagged. Some men turned to cowards, a very few to heroes, but in the mind of every man the thought, “We must get out, we must get back,” had given place to the enthusiasm which cried, “Kill, fight and win."
Memories and photographs of sweethearts and wives kept dead men staggering on their feet. There was a lot of suffering and hundreds failed to comeback. After it all, what did we actually accomplish? Perhaps we were a very useful experiment. Perhaps the science of war learned more from our mistakes than any successes. I have written in an auto-biographical form as the subject must have been very clearly dealt with in other accounts and I set out to give my own thoughts, as they are probably as typical as any.
Report on the Wingate Expedition January-June 1943.
Thoughts and Reactions, Lieut. W. Smyly, ATO, 5 Column.
Our faces were washed, our hands were clean and I was as ‘bald as a coot.' We stood in open platoon formation with the mules and horses drawn up in two long lines behind, and standing to attention, as quietly confident as any of ourselves, and we had reason to be confident.
General Wavell had come down to inspect us and see us off. He seemed pleased and we thought he had good reason to be. My Gurkha Muleteers, the ‘working bees’ of a large hive, the lifeblood of the Column's body, looked extremely smart. New recruits of 9 months service, they held themselves like trained soldiers and were proud and happy, for they were going into action. British steel was going into a ‘trial by fire’ and Jap iron, though good, perhaps would never stand the contest.
We set off to ambush and raid, to match deadly silence, cunning, manoeuvre and skilful strength, against all the noise, the tricks, and the sheer bombast that the Japs might put up against us. Our confidence, which was almost a religious one, was not unfounded, for was not that quiet, sober, likeable, though brilliant Field Marshall, who became the friend of everyman he met, confident? It seemed so. Ordinance was a door answering to our ‘open sesame’ in the name of Longcloth. Wishes come true. All India was behind us. Good luck and fair weather walked beside us. Field Marshall Wavell saluted us. History had begun and we were its pages.
What new boy at school, playing his first game of rugger, does not dream of wild glories to come? In his imagination he scores tries for his house and school and treads a path of happy glory. In this, my first action, my dreams were his and as the twisting roads wound their way through the rugged hills to the Chindwin, my hopes soared, my dreams grew wilder, our long sunny days became very happy and the night marches were not too hard.
As we marched in; so we were going to march out: a historic Brigade which penetrated the enemy lines and left a trail of desolation and muddle 300 miles wide, from Assam to China, from Homalin to Mandalay and from Shwebo to Sumprabum. Our last love letters were written at the end of the road in a forest of beautiful trees, lovely hills and skies and sent back to India, together with enormous quantities of equipment which had to be jettisoned, or replaced at the very last moment. And which, because we were hurrying, had been left behind in huge disorderly heaps.
The track from now was a small one and littered with skulls, the bones and the clothing of some who had hoped to escape not a year before. Against one tree was a heap of bones and women’s clothing, with a tiny skull beside. They could sink contentedly into the earth now for their job was done; a whole Brigade had marched past them and had been shown that each man’s job was to revenge the horrors that this track had a year ago.
The Chindwin was crossed without much difficulty, for we took two ropes across at night and ferried over the river, hand over hand, in Royal Engineer boats, like huge inner tubes with a canvas floor, or rafts supported by the tiny RAF boats, which float but are not much use for anything else. The mules and horses which were fit, swam across in droves, the fearful ones going across tied to our RE boats and the willing ones going over in droves of 15 to 20 at a time. I was the last across, because the animals were my property, but, after a long and gloriously happy day, working in naked in the baking sun, I dispatched my saddle and clothes with the Groom, tied up my reins to a surcingle and rode across on Sambo’s back.
He was a beautiful prancing gelding of 16 hands and a half, and was one of the finest, strongest beasts I have ever seen. He swam with his head held high and the water surged round his flanks, swirled round my legs and his long tail trailed out in his wake. We caught up and passed an RE boat and seemed to be going twice as fast. It was dark by then and we planned a night march, but they are quite impossible in the jungle and, having struggled on for about a quarter of a mile in 2 hours we halted and slept in single file or ‘column snake’ as we called it. This was a formation with many disadvantages, as we were to find out later, the only possible one however for getting over this type of country we were in.
Next day we formed up in a Brigade RV and had a ration dropping, not a very successful one however, for our tins were dropped into soft paddy fields and many were lost. From here the jungle was flat open teak forest, the ground covered by tiny plants with huge dry papery leaves, and here and there young bendy saplings under the shady roof of giant teak.
Our only difficulty was long thin lanes of ooze and rushes. They might have been streams once, but were now just squashy mud over which paths had to be found or made. Sometimes thick carpets of rushes were enough but often timber had to be cut to reinforce it. Often alternative paths had to be made, loaded mules would fall and have to be unloaded in the middle of a quagmire into which they were sinking, whilst others would have to be unloaded in order to get them across at all. It was the quiet ones that did best, those that tried to rush went down. The only thing that got over everything was the quiet, plodding, pack bullock, which when saddled with a mule saddle was invaluable.
No. 5 Column cross the Chindwin River.
Bill's narrative continues:
We did long marches here, but went very slowly, learning from experiences what to do and not to do. Learning our jungle discipline. Contenting ourselves with present boredom by thoughts of coming adventure. Our next air dropping was six days after the first, for a time I acted as mounted runner, but did not enjoy it, as Sambo was used to good meals of grain and the grain was done. I used to give him a biscuit sometimes, but could not spare enough, there was a chunk of rock salt I kept in my pocket for him to lick, but felt that this had only increased his longing for it. He still looked magnificent and quite fit, but a short canter would tire him now. He still had his hard round muscles, but his ears were not as intelligently cocked and the brightness had gone from his eyes. Well, we were all going in to do a great job, we would all suffer together, but the prize was worth winning and “Sambo, when you get out you’ll live like a King, I’ll take you to Dehra Doon if they let me buy you." But Sambo never knew these wonderful things, he only knew he was tired and hungry and there was nothing to eat.
Because of my passive role and the fact that I wanted to do something, I was sent off to guard a crossroads leading into our valley. With ten men I set off and had three days of happy quiet pleasure. There was a place, not far away, where even the largest fire could never be seen, so we had tea boiling almost all night and in the day moved the post forward about a mile to bathe, wash clothes and make huge bamboo water bottles for our waterless post.
Then, on we went again and learned the disadvantages of Column snake, for in a land with the smallest of pathways we would stretch out to a mile or more in length and a slow steady pace in front, would turn to a galloping run behind and men, with two mules to lead, at the back of a long Column, had a very hard life.
When we went in, the first show had already been planned. It was an easy one and designed to give us confidence. Three Columns were to have attacked two small garrisoned towns, the smaller one being attacked, then the reinforcements sent out by the other larger town were to be ambushed; then the larger town attacked. Reinforcements, it was hoped, would be rushed up by train and my Column would either blow them up on a bridge or dislodge half a mountain on top of them as they ran through a cutting. Japanese dispositions changed however and nothing came of the show.
As a matter of fact we did blow up the bridge and also dislodge a minor landslide into our railway cutting. At every show I was allowed to send a body guard of Gurkhas forward, we did meet the Japs rather unexpectedly. My ten men killed eleven Japs and lost one man. Maula Bahadur, whose bravery inspired everyone, as, with a wound in the chest and gargling blood, he marched two miles and when he was being tended by the Doctor (Bill Aird), protested that he was coming on with us in the Column. From that day my small band of recruits, took, or seemed to me to take, a greater pride in everything they did.
Among the British troops there were a number of men killed and some wounded that needed to be left behind in a village (Kyaik-in) and some who came on. I saw the Doctor taking shrapnel from a man’s leg; it was a piece of British grenade. Our food was very low now and we had to rely entirely on supplies of rice, chickens, paddy and perhaps a few vegetables. When we slaughtered a cow there were enough of us to do it justice.
On the banks of the Irrawaddi there is a little steamer station called Tigyang, which we marched into one morning. In the town we bought and indeed we were given, enormous quantities of sugar, salt, fruit, rice and sweets. English cigarettes were going for 8 annas each, but they gave us as many Burmese cheroots as we could carry. Over 50 boats were employed to take us across and on the shore I had a hard job to load them fast enough, for, as ATO (Animal Transport Officer), river crossing was almost the only time that I had anything reasonable to do.
Later, I rode up on Sambo, who had just had a good feed of paddy, salt and milk to report to my O.C. (Bernard Fergusson). He was in the town and talking to an old man, a postmaster from the time of British rule. He told of the miseries and trouble that he and his daughter had been through. He gave us his card, which has subsequently been sent off to His Majesties Private Secretary and ended his speech by standing to attention and saying most fervently “God Save the King, Long Live the King." He stood at the doors of his own house and one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen stood smiling in an upstairs window. She leaned out and waved to us.
Having reported to my Major and waved back at the girl, he handed me a bit of paper. It was, of all things, a Jap leaflet written in several languages and telling us that our officers would desert us as they had done before. It told us to leave these self-seeking faithless tyrants, report to the nearest village and go off to a Jap prison where there was food and drink for us. I did not wait till the end this time and pushed off out of the town with my mules and wireless units, which were the vulnerable part of our column. We must have been just in time, for the Japs arrived as the last four people tumbled into a boat and crossed under an umbrella of fire from Japanese LMG’s (light machine guns) on one bank and the long defence bursts of our two Vickers on the other.
Reaching the bivouac area, officers were given the order, ‘500 feet on 60 degrees and close on the bugle’, which meant that every man walked off the track on bearing 60 degrees for about 500 feet, then a bugle started blowing the note G and we closed in on it. A very effective way, though I find great difficulty in working out where the bugle is, as the noise dances about to the left and the right, sometimes in front and sometimes behind. From now we had left the land of villages and had to rely on our rations. The supplies we picked up ‘ad lib’ in Tigyang proved invaluable, for we had to live on them for a week. During that week we did not march very hard and normally got enough water though the country was dry. In these days our jungle craft improved by leaps and bounds. We learned what roots, leaves and berries could be eaten, how to cook snakes, monkeys and the obscure parts of a cow, such as its intestines or bowels. We even made up rhymes such as this:
When elephant shite is hard and horny
It’s not been farting over ‘pawni’
When elephant shite is soft and moist
Then you’ll find water to quench your ‘toist’.
A Column which is not doing very much is rather like a family. It has its laughter, its jokes, its comradeship, but it also has its minor annoyances and troubles. A weak minded man may eat all his rations up and, because he can’t be left to starve, the others must give him food even though they are short themselves already. Everyman had a little money and British Other Rank’s may go around trying to buy food from Gurkhas at the price of 5 rupees for one biscuit. On the whole however, we were still fairly content and the next ration drop of five days rations plus our mail cheered us up immensely. I myself got a Christmas card and a letter from my parents, which, by exceptional postal brilliance was nearly two years old, a love letter which thought that I was on leave and complained bitterly that I had not gone to see her, a bill and a bank statement.
We also got food for our animals. I had 35 lbs. of mixed grain for my horse and made a very large boiled feed in a ration tin containing the grain and a good deal of paddy. The poor beast was very thin now. His ribs were showing and I had two blankets under the saddle and the girth had come up four holes. His quarters were hollow and sunken, his face gaunt, his eyes lifeless and his head hung low. I never rode him from that day, but he went on wasting away.
When our five days rations were nearly finished we told Brigade HQ, who had already had two more droppings than we had, that we wanted food, but received the message “It is necessary that one should die for the people." We were the forward Column and had hung about on the banks of the Shweli for several days, which, apart from the food situation was not unpleasant. We went hunting, washed and mended our clothes and bathed. I had a copy of the Spectator which was in tremendous demand.
Every evening we would move a few miles away from the river for safety, but the main part of the day was on our hands and would have been very contented and peaceful if we had been less hungry. Then came permission for another air dropping. Leaving our bivouac we headed south and every half mile or so one section of the Column swung north east and then north, so that, should anyone try to follow us, he would have been very lucky to have gone the right way. We were now, I felt, trained and ready for action, give us a few good meals and we’d be OK.
We did long marches here, but went very slowly, learning from experiences what to do and not to do. Learning our jungle discipline. Contenting ourselves with present boredom by thoughts of coming adventure. Our next air dropping was six days after the first, for a time I acted as mounted runner, but did not enjoy it, as Sambo was used to good meals of grain and the grain was done. I used to give him a biscuit sometimes, but could not spare enough, there was a chunk of rock salt I kept in my pocket for him to lick, but felt that this had only increased his longing for it. He still looked magnificent and quite fit, but a short canter would tire him now. He still had his hard round muscles, but his ears were not as intelligently cocked and the brightness had gone from his eyes. Well, we were all going in to do a great job, we would all suffer together, but the prize was worth winning and “Sambo, when you get out you’ll live like a King, I’ll take you to Dehra Doon if they let me buy you." But Sambo never knew these wonderful things, he only knew he was tired and hungry and there was nothing to eat.
Because of my passive role and the fact that I wanted to do something, I was sent off to guard a crossroads leading into our valley. With ten men I set off and had three days of happy quiet pleasure. There was a place, not far away, where even the largest fire could never be seen, so we had tea boiling almost all night and in the day moved the post forward about a mile to bathe, wash clothes and make huge bamboo water bottles for our waterless post.
Then, on we went again and learned the disadvantages of Column snake, for in a land with the smallest of pathways we would stretch out to a mile or more in length and a slow steady pace in front, would turn to a galloping run behind and men, with two mules to lead, at the back of a long Column, had a very hard life.
When we went in, the first show had already been planned. It was an easy one and designed to give us confidence. Three Columns were to have attacked two small garrisoned towns, the smaller one being attacked, then the reinforcements sent out by the other larger town were to be ambushed; then the larger town attacked. Reinforcements, it was hoped, would be rushed up by train and my Column would either blow them up on a bridge or dislodge half a mountain on top of them as they ran through a cutting. Japanese dispositions changed however and nothing came of the show.
As a matter of fact we did blow up the bridge and also dislodge a minor landslide into our railway cutting. At every show I was allowed to send a body guard of Gurkhas forward, we did meet the Japs rather unexpectedly. My ten men killed eleven Japs and lost one man. Maula Bahadur, whose bravery inspired everyone, as, with a wound in the chest and gargling blood, he marched two miles and when he was being tended by the Doctor (Bill Aird), protested that he was coming on with us in the Column. From that day my small band of recruits, took, or seemed to me to take, a greater pride in everything they did.
Among the British troops there were a number of men killed and some wounded that needed to be left behind in a village (Kyaik-in) and some who came on. I saw the Doctor taking shrapnel from a man’s leg; it was a piece of British grenade. Our food was very low now and we had to rely entirely on supplies of rice, chickens, paddy and perhaps a few vegetables. When we slaughtered a cow there were enough of us to do it justice.
On the banks of the Irrawaddi there is a little steamer station called Tigyang, which we marched into one morning. In the town we bought and indeed we were given, enormous quantities of sugar, salt, fruit, rice and sweets. English cigarettes were going for 8 annas each, but they gave us as many Burmese cheroots as we could carry. Over 50 boats were employed to take us across and on the shore I had a hard job to load them fast enough, for, as ATO (Animal Transport Officer), river crossing was almost the only time that I had anything reasonable to do.
Later, I rode up on Sambo, who had just had a good feed of paddy, salt and milk to report to my O.C. (Bernard Fergusson). He was in the town and talking to an old man, a postmaster from the time of British rule. He told of the miseries and trouble that he and his daughter had been through. He gave us his card, which has subsequently been sent off to His Majesties Private Secretary and ended his speech by standing to attention and saying most fervently “God Save the King, Long Live the King." He stood at the doors of his own house and one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen stood smiling in an upstairs window. She leaned out and waved to us.
Having reported to my Major and waved back at the girl, he handed me a bit of paper. It was, of all things, a Jap leaflet written in several languages and telling us that our officers would desert us as they had done before. It told us to leave these self-seeking faithless tyrants, report to the nearest village and go off to a Jap prison where there was food and drink for us. I did not wait till the end this time and pushed off out of the town with my mules and wireless units, which were the vulnerable part of our column. We must have been just in time, for the Japs arrived as the last four people tumbled into a boat and crossed under an umbrella of fire from Japanese LMG’s (light machine guns) on one bank and the long defence bursts of our two Vickers on the other.
Reaching the bivouac area, officers were given the order, ‘500 feet on 60 degrees and close on the bugle’, which meant that every man walked off the track on bearing 60 degrees for about 500 feet, then a bugle started blowing the note G and we closed in on it. A very effective way, though I find great difficulty in working out where the bugle is, as the noise dances about to the left and the right, sometimes in front and sometimes behind. From now we had left the land of villages and had to rely on our rations. The supplies we picked up ‘ad lib’ in Tigyang proved invaluable, for we had to live on them for a week. During that week we did not march very hard and normally got enough water though the country was dry. In these days our jungle craft improved by leaps and bounds. We learned what roots, leaves and berries could be eaten, how to cook snakes, monkeys and the obscure parts of a cow, such as its intestines or bowels. We even made up rhymes such as this:
When elephant shite is hard and horny
It’s not been farting over ‘pawni’
When elephant shite is soft and moist
Then you’ll find water to quench your ‘toist’.
A Column which is not doing very much is rather like a family. It has its laughter, its jokes, its comradeship, but it also has its minor annoyances and troubles. A weak minded man may eat all his rations up and, because he can’t be left to starve, the others must give him food even though they are short themselves already. Everyman had a little money and British Other Rank’s may go around trying to buy food from Gurkhas at the price of 5 rupees for one biscuit. On the whole however, we were still fairly content and the next ration drop of five days rations plus our mail cheered us up immensely. I myself got a Christmas card and a letter from my parents, which, by exceptional postal brilliance was nearly two years old, a love letter which thought that I was on leave and complained bitterly that I had not gone to see her, a bill and a bank statement.
We also got food for our animals. I had 35 lbs. of mixed grain for my horse and made a very large boiled feed in a ration tin containing the grain and a good deal of paddy. The poor beast was very thin now. His ribs were showing and I had two blankets under the saddle and the girth had come up four holes. His quarters were hollow and sunken, his face gaunt, his eyes lifeless and his head hung low. I never rode him from that day, but he went on wasting away.
When our five days rations were nearly finished we told Brigade HQ, who had already had two more droppings than we had, that we wanted food, but received the message “It is necessary that one should die for the people." We were the forward Column and had hung about on the banks of the Shweli for several days, which, apart from the food situation was not unpleasant. We went hunting, washed and mended our clothes and bathed. I had a copy of the Spectator which was in tremendous demand.
Every evening we would move a few miles away from the river for safety, but the main part of the day was on our hands and would have been very contented and peaceful if we had been less hungry. Then came permission for another air dropping. Leaving our bivouac we headed south and every half mile or so one section of the Column swung north east and then north, so that, should anyone try to follow us, he would have been very lucky to have gone the right way. We were now, I felt, trained and ready for action, give us a few good meals and we’d be OK.
No. 5 Column mules prepare to cross the Irrawaddy at Tigyaing.
Bill continues his story:
All the expectancy and enthusiasm had gone, but there was a grim will to go on and we had the same faith in ourselves that we had had when General Wavell saw us off. The air dropping came, bringing equipment, rum and Bully, but very little of the actual rations which we needed more than anything. We had two days rations, but were happy even to have that, for we had been living on one fifth of the normal half scale rations for the past week and we were able to add nothing to it except a cow and a mule.
For the Gurkhas there were large tins of tinned mutton and some of them kept the meat through the heat of a long day and got badly poisoned. Three of them fell out together, said it was the Devil’s revenge for their eating cow and one Lance Naik refused to move until he found the Doctor’s pistol pointing at him. More men (all of them Gurkhas) fell out, it seemed like an epidemic, the Jemadar thought that it was a very infectious disease that breaks out in dirty villages in Nepal and wanted the men isolated; the Doctor said that he couldn’t cure people in the jungle if they wouldn’t even try.
Four men were sick at night, three more next morning and more during the course of the day. I put them on horses, on mules and one had to go on a stretcher. That night I told them the news of the other Columns and also what the British Other Ranks were saying about them, ‘What sort of men are these Gurkhas?’ In action there are no braver anywhere, look at Maula Bahadur when he was dying of wounds, yet when some little thing goes wrong, when they are sick, they are cowards.’
I tried to tell them about the Englishman’s implicit faith in his Doctor, of our infallible Medical Officer and what he could do to people who would help him and behave like soldiers. The Jemadar went over the whole thing after me, reading from my notes. The next day I saw our M.O. and said ‘You’re God.’ He replied, ‘Oh! Is that what it is? I thought your lads were trying a bit harder.’
Shortly after this we formed up at a Brigade R.V. and were told that we had done our job and had to go home, what we had done nobody knew. It is never much fun to be a failure and we had been a long way from success. In addition the Japanese was misbehaving and we were worried. Amazing orders (rumours) started floating about. One was that animals should have their mouths tied up with rope at night so that they couldn’t cry. It only succeeded in making them so they could not eat, they could still cry as loud as ever. A ‘no chopping’ order forbade men to feed their animals as the chopping of bamboo made too much noise, though this struck me as peculiar after the difficulty I had found in following a bugle and the fact that, as I knew to my cost, the jungle will even deaden the blast of a whistle remarkably suddenly.
Then the great blow came, we were going back to India. All equipment was to be dropped, mules killed and we were to get back as quick as we could. It sounded to me like an order of ‘Everyman for himself’, and indeed there are those who took it as such. Setting off as a Brigade Column, we marched very slowly for about six hours. At first I took out my badly galled mules and shot them with a rifle, a difficult and in some cases, most sickening thing to have to do. In a ten-minute halt I shot thirty mules, but fired thirty-seven rounds. Other mules I turned loose, as a mule with any gall may easily learn to live in the jungle, whereas one with a fly blown sore would be eaten away and die.
Then orders came ‘no more shooting.’ I asked my Jemadar if the Gurkhas could kill them with kukris, but he said it was impossible and could not be done, later I heard an Officer, more sure of himself than I, order a mule to be killed that way and it was done very well and quickly. I ordered the use of bayonets, sticking one 4 inches into an animal’s forehead and another from temple to temple. The first did not even notice it, the second looked stunned and drunk. A mule has such a friendly face, one gets to know him so well that this foul act of butchery is far more frightful than it sounds.
Later that day the whole Brigade was attacked in the bed of a tiny river and although no one was killed, I had the pleasure of knowing that my firing had been the cause of it. To avoid pursuit my Column led the enemy off one way, while the Brigade escaped by another. Our plan was to make a fake bivouac with lots of fires and one or two mules tied up to cry out and add realism. This we did; leaving the area covered by a thousand booby-traps and retreated down a dry nula or chong. Everything would have been fine had the maps been true, but they were not. Our chong was quite impassable and we were trapped in a cul-de-sac, walled in on all sides by dense jungle. After two hours rest we found a small track, it was the only way out and we took it, took our chances and were ambushed.
NB. I believe Bill is talking about the action around the village of Hintha on the 28/29th March 1943. In effect this engagement with the Japanese, which was a series of short battles at close quarters, was the beginning of the disintegration of No. 5 Column. At the second ambush in the dry river bed, one hundred men became separated from the main body of the column, leaving just 120 Chindits still under Major Fergusson's command.
All the expectancy and enthusiasm had gone, but there was a grim will to go on and we had the same faith in ourselves that we had had when General Wavell saw us off. The air dropping came, bringing equipment, rum and Bully, but very little of the actual rations which we needed more than anything. We had two days rations, but were happy even to have that, for we had been living on one fifth of the normal half scale rations for the past week and we were able to add nothing to it except a cow and a mule.
For the Gurkhas there were large tins of tinned mutton and some of them kept the meat through the heat of a long day and got badly poisoned. Three of them fell out together, said it was the Devil’s revenge for their eating cow and one Lance Naik refused to move until he found the Doctor’s pistol pointing at him. More men (all of them Gurkhas) fell out, it seemed like an epidemic, the Jemadar thought that it was a very infectious disease that breaks out in dirty villages in Nepal and wanted the men isolated; the Doctor said that he couldn’t cure people in the jungle if they wouldn’t even try.
Four men were sick at night, three more next morning and more during the course of the day. I put them on horses, on mules and one had to go on a stretcher. That night I told them the news of the other Columns and also what the British Other Ranks were saying about them, ‘What sort of men are these Gurkhas?’ In action there are no braver anywhere, look at Maula Bahadur when he was dying of wounds, yet when some little thing goes wrong, when they are sick, they are cowards.’
I tried to tell them about the Englishman’s implicit faith in his Doctor, of our infallible Medical Officer and what he could do to people who would help him and behave like soldiers. The Jemadar went over the whole thing after me, reading from my notes. The next day I saw our M.O. and said ‘You’re God.’ He replied, ‘Oh! Is that what it is? I thought your lads were trying a bit harder.’
Shortly after this we formed up at a Brigade R.V. and were told that we had done our job and had to go home, what we had done nobody knew. It is never much fun to be a failure and we had been a long way from success. In addition the Japanese was misbehaving and we were worried. Amazing orders (rumours) started floating about. One was that animals should have their mouths tied up with rope at night so that they couldn’t cry. It only succeeded in making them so they could not eat, they could still cry as loud as ever. A ‘no chopping’ order forbade men to feed their animals as the chopping of bamboo made too much noise, though this struck me as peculiar after the difficulty I had found in following a bugle and the fact that, as I knew to my cost, the jungle will even deaden the blast of a whistle remarkably suddenly.
Then the great blow came, we were going back to India. All equipment was to be dropped, mules killed and we were to get back as quick as we could. It sounded to me like an order of ‘Everyman for himself’, and indeed there are those who took it as such. Setting off as a Brigade Column, we marched very slowly for about six hours. At first I took out my badly galled mules and shot them with a rifle, a difficult and in some cases, most sickening thing to have to do. In a ten-minute halt I shot thirty mules, but fired thirty-seven rounds. Other mules I turned loose, as a mule with any gall may easily learn to live in the jungle, whereas one with a fly blown sore would be eaten away and die.
Then orders came ‘no more shooting.’ I asked my Jemadar if the Gurkhas could kill them with kukris, but he said it was impossible and could not be done, later I heard an Officer, more sure of himself than I, order a mule to be killed that way and it was done very well and quickly. I ordered the use of bayonets, sticking one 4 inches into an animal’s forehead and another from temple to temple. The first did not even notice it, the second looked stunned and drunk. A mule has such a friendly face, one gets to know him so well that this foul act of butchery is far more frightful than it sounds.
Later that day the whole Brigade was attacked in the bed of a tiny river and although no one was killed, I had the pleasure of knowing that my firing had been the cause of it. To avoid pursuit my Column led the enemy off one way, while the Brigade escaped by another. Our plan was to make a fake bivouac with lots of fires and one or two mules tied up to cry out and add realism. This we did; leaving the area covered by a thousand booby-traps and retreated down a dry nula or chong. Everything would have been fine had the maps been true, but they were not. Our chong was quite impassable and we were trapped in a cul-de-sac, walled in on all sides by dense jungle. After two hours rest we found a small track, it was the only way out and we took it, took our chances and were ambushed.
NB. I believe Bill is talking about the action around the village of Hintha on the 28/29th March 1943. In effect this engagement with the Japanese, which was a series of short battles at close quarters, was the beginning of the disintegration of No. 5 Column. At the second ambush in the dry river bed, one hundred men became separated from the main body of the column, leaving just 120 Chindits still under Major Fergusson's command.
A young Bill Smyly in Army uniform.
Returning to Bill's narrative:
Much must have been written about Japanese methods of war by people far better qualified to speak. I saw nothing, but heard a very great deal. The Jap is a great lover of noise, and adds to the noise of hundreds of un-aimed rounds and bursts, by using Chinese crackers, they sounded like very heavy mortar fire, but I comforted myself and as convincingly as I could, my men, that they were not mortars.
We sent in a couple of platoons with bayonets to attack people who then vanished, while others set up a demon-like screaming. They seemed to be trained to scream and no mass torturing by the Spanish Inquisition, nor the wildest demon souls in hell could have beaten their cries. Naturally diverting our attentions to the screamers, most of whom were either silenced or gave a good reason to continue; we did not notice the men with LMG’s (light machine guns) who walked up boldly under the shade of the trees. The time was 0200hrs. and there was a moon; they opened up on us from a very close range. They were charged at once, but melted away as easily as they had come up.
I had taken my mule back slightly and had grouped them all together; got my Order group round me and sent one British soldier off to report to the Major and act as runner. He did not get there and I doubt if he tried. I then went to sleep, not because I wanted to, but because I was sitting down and just slipped off. I was asleep for about an hour and woke up to hear the noise of elephants trumpeting and their bells ringing wildly as if they were stampeding. The firing was spasmodic but very intense in these spasms. Several wounded men were coming back and it was stated that several men had been shot. A Gurkha LMG was wanted, so I sent up a gun with its crew and an intelligent Naik to command the crew. Our second dispersal signal on the bugle was a long and very beautiful call; from the spasm of fire that it caused, I should not have enjoyed standing in, or indeed anywhere near the bugler’s boots. It was sounded just as the first pink of dawn was beginning to show. The dispersal means that we split up into small groups; vanish and re-appear again at some place at some pre-arranged time.
I told my Jemadar to lead all the Gurkhas down the track while I stood at the end of it and collected them as they filed past me in the jostling stream of people. It may have been due to my poor Kasqura (?), even poorer when I am excited, or it may have been just the excitement and panic of those who did not know what was happening and were guessing, but my Jemadar asked a British Other Rank what was going on; learned that we were all clearing off into the jungle because we could not go on and then cleared off himself.
Only twenty-seven men passed me, but I went off with them. Brigade HQ, without informing anyone, changed its RV with the result that most of the Column got lost and went back to India in small groups. I, however, by a brilliant stroke of bad map reading walked slap into the new RV just as Brigade were marching out. We marched all that night but covered very little ground as most of the night we moved little faster than a cinema queue, though when we were moving we were at the double. By morning we found that the carefully planned Brigade crossing of the Irrawaddi had been foiled and we were to break up into small groups and get back as best we could. It was here that people’s nerves got frayed; we were stuck in the ‘Shweli pocket’ with rivers on three sides and the Japs closing in from the south. I did not think of this however, for my platoon had marched for 50 hours without sleep, and had had just 10 hours sleep in the last 100.
I was in the ‘Shweli pocket’ for about a week after the foiled crossing of the Irrawaddi. We had one small ration drop, but though I dashed everywhere and saw 3 Column Command, their 2/IC’s, their ration officers and heaven knows how many others; it was only by telling my men that if they did not hurry up, we should get nothing at all of the rations and then forcibly taking our share and a little extra as well. If you look as though you own the place, people may think you really do and several officers came to me with their worries, which I set right at once. This was to the annoyance of ‘Authority’ who saw its system crumbling beneath its eyes. My men, strangers from another Column, who were there to be given fatigues and cheated out of their food were not the only things neglected for, forgetting all that we owed to our faithful, plucky little mules, we would not endanger ourselves for five minutes to shoot all the mules in one fusillade, but tied them up to trees so that they could not follow us and would incidentally die of thirst.
Much must have been written about Japanese methods of war by people far better qualified to speak. I saw nothing, but heard a very great deal. The Jap is a great lover of noise, and adds to the noise of hundreds of un-aimed rounds and bursts, by using Chinese crackers, they sounded like very heavy mortar fire, but I comforted myself and as convincingly as I could, my men, that they were not mortars.
We sent in a couple of platoons with bayonets to attack people who then vanished, while others set up a demon-like screaming. They seemed to be trained to scream and no mass torturing by the Spanish Inquisition, nor the wildest demon souls in hell could have beaten their cries. Naturally diverting our attentions to the screamers, most of whom were either silenced or gave a good reason to continue; we did not notice the men with LMG’s (light machine guns) who walked up boldly under the shade of the trees. The time was 0200hrs. and there was a moon; they opened up on us from a very close range. They were charged at once, but melted away as easily as they had come up.
I had taken my mule back slightly and had grouped them all together; got my Order group round me and sent one British soldier off to report to the Major and act as runner. He did not get there and I doubt if he tried. I then went to sleep, not because I wanted to, but because I was sitting down and just slipped off. I was asleep for about an hour and woke up to hear the noise of elephants trumpeting and their bells ringing wildly as if they were stampeding. The firing was spasmodic but very intense in these spasms. Several wounded men were coming back and it was stated that several men had been shot. A Gurkha LMG was wanted, so I sent up a gun with its crew and an intelligent Naik to command the crew. Our second dispersal signal on the bugle was a long and very beautiful call; from the spasm of fire that it caused, I should not have enjoyed standing in, or indeed anywhere near the bugler’s boots. It was sounded just as the first pink of dawn was beginning to show. The dispersal means that we split up into small groups; vanish and re-appear again at some place at some pre-arranged time.
I told my Jemadar to lead all the Gurkhas down the track while I stood at the end of it and collected them as they filed past me in the jostling stream of people. It may have been due to my poor Kasqura (?), even poorer when I am excited, or it may have been just the excitement and panic of those who did not know what was happening and were guessing, but my Jemadar asked a British Other Rank what was going on; learned that we were all clearing off into the jungle because we could not go on and then cleared off himself.
Only twenty-seven men passed me, but I went off with them. Brigade HQ, without informing anyone, changed its RV with the result that most of the Column got lost and went back to India in small groups. I, however, by a brilliant stroke of bad map reading walked slap into the new RV just as Brigade were marching out. We marched all that night but covered very little ground as most of the night we moved little faster than a cinema queue, though when we were moving we were at the double. By morning we found that the carefully planned Brigade crossing of the Irrawaddi had been foiled and we were to break up into small groups and get back as best we could. It was here that people’s nerves got frayed; we were stuck in the ‘Shweli pocket’ with rivers on three sides and the Japs closing in from the south. I did not think of this however, for my platoon had marched for 50 hours without sleep, and had had just 10 hours sleep in the last 100.
I was in the ‘Shweli pocket’ for about a week after the foiled crossing of the Irrawaddi. We had one small ration drop, but though I dashed everywhere and saw 3 Column Command, their 2/IC’s, their ration officers and heaven knows how many others; it was only by telling my men that if they did not hurry up, we should get nothing at all of the rations and then forcibly taking our share and a little extra as well. If you look as though you own the place, people may think you really do and several officers came to me with their worries, which I set right at once. This was to the annoyance of ‘Authority’ who saw its system crumbling beneath its eyes. My men, strangers from another Column, who were there to be given fatigues and cheated out of their food were not the only things neglected for, forgetting all that we owed to our faithful, plucky little mules, we would not endanger ourselves for five minutes to shoot all the mules in one fusillade, but tied them up to trees so that they could not follow us and would incidentally die of thirst.
Map of the Irrawaddy/Shweli bag and 5 Column's direction of travel after the ambush outside Hintha village.
Bill's story concludes:
In more cases than not the mules were left saddled and sometimes still loaded. Man, when he is afraid for his own skin, is one of the vilest things alive. Were it not for the, perhaps merciful fact that we were all too tired to think, and were mortally afraid, there was little excuse for our cruelty. After an unsuccessful attempt to reach the Shweli, we managed to get a rope across a very narrow and consequently very fast bit of that vicious little river. Fifty men had got across and the dawn was breaking, so the fifty decided to push on while the main Column went back into the jungle. I was left on the bank with my own men, an RE boat and a rope tied to a tree on the far bank and moored by a squad of ‘anchormen’ on our side. I detailed three sections of men: the first for the boat, the second to wait, the third to anchor.
We needed one last man to bring back the boat and he was detailed. The first party got over and I went with them, dashing after the party of British Other Ranks to find out where they were going as they were to have a ration drop and unless we were in on it, things would become very difficult. The only information I got was bearing 60 degrees and a vague circle on my map enclosing twenty-five square miles of jungle. Then they pushed off.
Getting down to the river bank again, I waited for the boat to bring over the second party, before tackling the difficult, but not impossible job of getting the third party over without any anchor group. I waited sometime, but the boat did not come, then suddenly I realised what had happened, one boatman could not possibly hold the boat against the current. He had tried to go back and had been swept down stream. I was on one side of the river and most of my men on the other. I yelled ‘get back to the column’ and off they went. The men I had brought over had gone off with the BOR’s and I was alone. There was nothing for it but to go into the jungle a few yards and wait for the daylight in which to track the group.
Without my section, I was no longer in a fighting unit. Our one objective was to get out. In spite of that fearful night when I had left my men, I got back to them alright. I soon found out they were very necessary to me, while I was just a burden to them. At least there was now a wonderful sense of relief at being out of the Shweli pocket. It was not good to think of the men I had left at the Shweli, for the easiest mistake in the world becomes inexcusable when men’s lives are risked by it. The Japanese were closing in on them everyday.
Out of my platoon, I now had only one section. Company Commander to Section Commander in one week was a pretty rapid demotion, but in spite of all the nasty thoughts and memories, the next week was a grand one. We got a fine air dropping and walked off with as much as we could fit into our packs.
How I gradually became sick, I am not sure, but it became harder and harder to keep up. Perhaps it was a touch of malaria that I got, I don’t know, but instead of walking at the front of my men, I walked at the back and went step for step with a man who took about my stride length and was very steady, perhaps the concentration of stepping in his foot prints helped me on. We are all mercifully made, and the more that goes wrong, the more there seems to be thankful for. I began fainting, and was miserable when I woke up one day to find myself alone. I took to repeating the 23rd Psalm, over and over again to myself; I became very happy and remained so, for I was in a land of friendly villages. Once I stopped marching it was very hard to start again, this because we are made so that if we set our mind to do something, our health and strength will hold right on until the end if there is courage and the will to keep going. Once I stopped, thing after thing went wrong, my legs, head, feet, eyes and perhaps for all I know my brain, but that is another story!
In more cases than not the mules were left saddled and sometimes still loaded. Man, when he is afraid for his own skin, is one of the vilest things alive. Were it not for the, perhaps merciful fact that we were all too tired to think, and were mortally afraid, there was little excuse for our cruelty. After an unsuccessful attempt to reach the Shweli, we managed to get a rope across a very narrow and consequently very fast bit of that vicious little river. Fifty men had got across and the dawn was breaking, so the fifty decided to push on while the main Column went back into the jungle. I was left on the bank with my own men, an RE boat and a rope tied to a tree on the far bank and moored by a squad of ‘anchormen’ on our side. I detailed three sections of men: the first for the boat, the second to wait, the third to anchor.
We needed one last man to bring back the boat and he was detailed. The first party got over and I went with them, dashing after the party of British Other Ranks to find out where they were going as they were to have a ration drop and unless we were in on it, things would become very difficult. The only information I got was bearing 60 degrees and a vague circle on my map enclosing twenty-five square miles of jungle. Then they pushed off.
Getting down to the river bank again, I waited for the boat to bring over the second party, before tackling the difficult, but not impossible job of getting the third party over without any anchor group. I waited sometime, but the boat did not come, then suddenly I realised what had happened, one boatman could not possibly hold the boat against the current. He had tried to go back and had been swept down stream. I was on one side of the river and most of my men on the other. I yelled ‘get back to the column’ and off they went. The men I had brought over had gone off with the BOR’s and I was alone. There was nothing for it but to go into the jungle a few yards and wait for the daylight in which to track the group.
Without my section, I was no longer in a fighting unit. Our one objective was to get out. In spite of that fearful night when I had left my men, I got back to them alright. I soon found out they were very necessary to me, while I was just a burden to them. At least there was now a wonderful sense of relief at being out of the Shweli pocket. It was not good to think of the men I had left at the Shweli, for the easiest mistake in the world becomes inexcusable when men’s lives are risked by it. The Japanese were closing in on them everyday.
Out of my platoon, I now had only one section. Company Commander to Section Commander in one week was a pretty rapid demotion, but in spite of all the nasty thoughts and memories, the next week was a grand one. We got a fine air dropping and walked off with as much as we could fit into our packs.
How I gradually became sick, I am not sure, but it became harder and harder to keep up. Perhaps it was a touch of malaria that I got, I don’t know, but instead of walking at the front of my men, I walked at the back and went step for step with a man who took about my stride length and was very steady, perhaps the concentration of stepping in his foot prints helped me on. We are all mercifully made, and the more that goes wrong, the more there seems to be thankful for. I began fainting, and was miserable when I woke up one day to find myself alone. I took to repeating the 23rd Psalm, over and over again to myself; I became very happy and remained so, for I was in a land of friendly villages. Once I stopped marching it was very hard to start again, this because we are made so that if we set our mind to do something, our health and strength will hold right on until the end if there is courage and the will to keep going. Once I stopped, thing after thing went wrong, my legs, head, feet, eyes and perhaps for all I know my brain, but that is another story!
This is where Bill ends his Longcloth memoir, but we already know from his previous recollections how he managed to escape the Japanese and the details of his long and arduous march north to Fort Hertz.
During our conversations over the years, it was clear that Bill had been a little disappointed in his own performance on the first Wingate expedition and felt he had let his Gurkhas down during that incident at the Shweli River in early April 1943. It was certainly apparent that he had been extremely upset in the eventual treatment and discarding of the mules that year, having looked upon them as many soldiers did, as the unsung heroes of the campaign.
Bill was happy to speak about his Chindit experiences, but would seldom mention the names of his fellow Chindit comrades. He did tell me that he remembered Bernard Fergusson as being a true gentleman and a kind and generous column commander. The people he did often recall were some of the other young Gurkha subalterns who had come to Operation Longcloth late on and had been blooded in the jungles of Burma in 1943. Men such as Dominic Neill, who went on to have such an illustrious career with the 2nd King Edward VII's Own Gurkha Rifles.
During our conversations over the years, it was clear that Bill had been a little disappointed in his own performance on the first Wingate expedition and felt he had let his Gurkhas down during that incident at the Shweli River in early April 1943. It was certainly apparent that he had been extremely upset in the eventual treatment and discarding of the mules that year, having looked upon them as many soldiers did, as the unsung heroes of the campaign.
Bill was happy to speak about his Chindit experiences, but would seldom mention the names of his fellow Chindit comrades. He did tell me that he remembered Bernard Fergusson as being a true gentleman and a kind and generous column commander. The people he did often recall were some of the other young Gurkha subalterns who had come to Operation Longcloth late on and had been blooded in the jungles of Burma in 1943. Men such as Dominic Neill, who went on to have such an illustrious career with the 2nd King Edward VII's Own Gurkha Rifles.
Prince Harry meets Bill in 2017.
As mentioned previously, Bill was an active member of various clubs and associations in relation to his war service. These included the Chindit Old Comrades Association, The Royal British Legion and the Sirmoor Rifles Association. From around 2015 onwards, with the founding of the Chindit Society and the partnership forged with the present-day Army's 77 Brigade, Bill and a number of other Chindit veterans have enjoyed a multitude of ceremonial and social events.
In November 2017, during the Field of Remembrance ceremony at Westminster Abbey, Bill, who was representing the Chindits at the ceremony had the honour of speaking with His Royal Highness, The Duke of Sussex. The Chindit event organiser that day was Major Paul Corden (77 Brigade), who remembered:
What a wonderfully special day we had last Thursday! On behalf of Charlie, Kevin and Dawn, thank you and well done for braving the cold weather to take part and provide all of us with such a special Chindit veteran focus at the Field of Remembrance ceremony. It was particularly special that Prince Harry spent so long chatting with you, Bill. Clearly, he was very taken by your Gurkha hat, but I sense that he just had to stop and speak with such a distinguished and smart-looking veteran. Whatever the reason, he certainly hit the jackpot in meeting you, and it made the whole event all the more special for all of us, your Chindit colleagues and your supporters, at the Chindit Plot.
On Saturday 27th January 2018, 77th Brigade commemorated the 75th Anniversary of the first Wingate expedition with a formal dinner at the Hermitage Barracks, near Newbury. Chindit and Burma Star veterans and their families, as well as key Chindit Society members and other external guests, were invited to make the event even more special. The Chindit veterans who attended along with their families/supporters were: Bill Smyly, Peter Heppell, Horace Howkins and Reg Salisbury. The Burma Star Association was represented by veteran John Giddings MBE, their current Chairman. At the dinner, Bill was able to meet Geordie Fergusson, the son of his former commander on both Chindit expeditions, the late Brigadier Bernard Fergusson.
Geordie recalled later:
Dear Steve,
Thank you for tipping me off about last Saturday’s event and for getting me involved. I thoroughly enjoyed it and found your own talk about the Chindits very interesting. However, the highlight for me (and a big one) was meeting my father's Animal Transport Officer, Bill Smyly for the first time. He is tremendous and I have said that we shall try to visit him at his home in Bedford. I was also fascinated and encouraged by the way 77 Brigade has bought into its Chindit heritage. They are good carriers of the candle!
All the best
Geordie
In November 2017, during the Field of Remembrance ceremony at Westminster Abbey, Bill, who was representing the Chindits at the ceremony had the honour of speaking with His Royal Highness, The Duke of Sussex. The Chindit event organiser that day was Major Paul Corden (77 Brigade), who remembered:
What a wonderfully special day we had last Thursday! On behalf of Charlie, Kevin and Dawn, thank you and well done for braving the cold weather to take part and provide all of us with such a special Chindit veteran focus at the Field of Remembrance ceremony. It was particularly special that Prince Harry spent so long chatting with you, Bill. Clearly, he was very taken by your Gurkha hat, but I sense that he just had to stop and speak with such a distinguished and smart-looking veteran. Whatever the reason, he certainly hit the jackpot in meeting you, and it made the whole event all the more special for all of us, your Chindit colleagues and your supporters, at the Chindit Plot.
On Saturday 27th January 2018, 77th Brigade commemorated the 75th Anniversary of the first Wingate expedition with a formal dinner at the Hermitage Barracks, near Newbury. Chindit and Burma Star veterans and their families, as well as key Chindit Society members and other external guests, were invited to make the event even more special. The Chindit veterans who attended along with their families/supporters were: Bill Smyly, Peter Heppell, Horace Howkins and Reg Salisbury. The Burma Star Association was represented by veteran John Giddings MBE, their current Chairman. At the dinner, Bill was able to meet Geordie Fergusson, the son of his former commander on both Chindit expeditions, the late Brigadier Bernard Fergusson.
Geordie recalled later:
Dear Steve,
Thank you for tipping me off about last Saturday’s event and for getting me involved. I thoroughly enjoyed it and found your own talk about the Chindits very interesting. However, the highlight for me (and a big one) was meeting my father's Animal Transport Officer, Bill Smyly for the first time. He is tremendous and I have said that we shall try to visit him at his home in Bedford. I was also fascinated and encouraged by the way 77 Brigade has bought into its Chindit heritage. They are good carriers of the candle!
All the best
Geordie
Bill Smyly with Alice (left) and Holly Wingate at the Chindwin Dinner in 2018.
It was with much sadness that we learned the news of Bill Smyly's passing on the 16th May 2018. Perhaps even more poignant with this being just three weeks before the official 75th Anniversary commemorations for Operation Longcloth were due to take place at the National Arboretum in Staffordshire on the 9th June. Bill was sadly missed that day, especially as he would have been the only Longcloth veteran present at the event.
Bill Smyly's Funeral 26th June 2018
On an extremely hot day in Bedford, family, friends and fellow parishioners of St. Andrews Church, Kimbolton Road, said their goodbyes to William Jocelyn Smyly. St. Andrews, a bright and welcoming church was full to capacity with many more than 200 mourners, but the atmosphere was far from melancholy.
A Gurkha Piper played various Scottish reels and marching music before the arrival of the hearse and ten Standard Bearers representing many military groups led the coffin into the church. We learned much of Bill’s early life and remarkable career from the excellent address to the congregation given by The Reverend James Reveley, the Vicar at St. Andrews.
It was abundantly clear how well respected and admired Bill was amongst his friends at St. Andrews, where he had been part of the working committee, taking up many odd-jobs around the premises. As part of the service, there was a recorded reading from the book of Isaiah by Bill, which he had given just six months previously in late December 2017.
After the main service was complete, the majority of the congregation was invited to move to the Church Hall for refreshments. In the meantime, close family remained inside the church for a further service of Committal. It was lovely to spend some time sharing thoughts and memories of Bill with all the attendees at the reception. We also learned here, that in time Bill’s ashes would be taken home to Ireland and laid to rest with those of his own dear mother.
NB. Shortly after the funeral I contacted James Reveley, the Vicar at St. Andrews Church, to thank him for his excellent and heartfelt eulogy for Bill, read on behalf of the family that day. In our email exchange, James graciously gave permission for me to reproduce the eulogy on these website pages:
ADDRESS FOR BILL SMYLY’S FUNERAL
In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen.
I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope. (Psalm 130.5)
In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen.
I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope. (Psalm 130.5)
It is an honour for me to stand here and speak of Bill, of his life and loves, and of his faith. When, on perhaps my last meeting with him, when he was virtually immobile in his bed, I impressed upon him how highly he was thought of by his friends and family, and how I too held him in high esteem. As I thought he might, he characteristically shrugged it off with a gently baffled expression. But it’s true.
Bill, whom it has been my pleasure to have known for the last five years, was a man of remarkable depth, stability, graciousness and wit. His kindness and generosity of speech was known, I’m sure, by all of us. And his sparkle was something many of us secretly would wish to emulate.
Born in Peking, China, on 5th July 1922, Bill parents were both Irish Missionary doctors. His very start in life was therefore rather extraordinary. Educated at Wrekin College, in Shropshire, Bill was recruited into the army straight from school in 1937 and was commissioned in 1939: one of the army’s youngest officers.
His wartime career cannot be done justice in the time available to us today. Bill was interviewed for publications and television many times over and he recounted these days with vivid clarity - and we are fortunate to have his first-hand records.
He served, bravely and brilliantly (and was mentioned in despatches) in the 77th infantry brigade - a task force assembled for Operation Longcloth in Burma in 1943. This formation was also known as the Chindits - Chindit being a version of the Burmese word for these stone lions which guard many Buddhist temples. Under the (rather unconventional) leadership of Brigadier Wingate, this specially-trained force of British, Gurkhas and Burmese were formed into long range penetration groups to trek deep into Japanese-occupied Burma. Their objective was to cut Japanese supply lines and disrupt communications but to do this they had to march through seemingly endless jungle terrain, through intense heat and torrential rain, and persevere despite repeated bouts of malaria and dysentery. With minimal air support available, serious injuries among the men often spelt death, for once in the jungle there was no easy way out. Casualties were expected to be high, and indeed they were.
Having achieved their objective, exhausted and starving, the Chindits were formed into dispersal units of around three dozen with instructions to choose their own route back to the allied lines. Bill, suffering from Beriberi (affecting his eyesight and mobility) got separated from his detachment, but carried on alone. His family had been told that he had died in the jungle, but in fact, for three months he had been trekking hundreds of miles from village to village, receiving food and shelter from local tribesmen. When news came that he was safe - the final Chidit to make it out alive - the British in India sent him a consignment of bully beef as a welcoming gift. Bill was possibly the last person who participated in both the Wingate campaigns.
After the war, and on his return to England, Bill went up to Cambridge where he read History and English at Clare College. He embarked on a career in journalism, first with the Derby Evening Telegraph, and then the Daily Mail, and then the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. He was asked to chronicle his journey to Hong Kong and so submitted an episodic journal by way of weekly articles describing how - in a Standard 8! - he made his way across France, Switzerland, Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan to India. What a trip!
From journalism, Bill was invited to become a housemaster at the Hong Kong Diocesan Boys' School. Still remembered to this day (the school has sent one of today’s floral tributes), formal pupils kept in touch with Bill throughout the years. One posted online that Bill was his English teacher and took this class of 13 year olds into the music room to play them the song, “Thanks for the memory.” Then he had them all use their imaginations to compose a story of explaining what the led to the singing of that song. It certainly was an interesting and memorable exercise.
It was one year at the Music Festival Prize Winners’ Concert - held jointly with the Hong Kong Diocesan Girls’ School that Bill and Diana first met. They were married in St Andrew’s Church Hong Kong and it was whilst still in this city that their daughter, Eleanor, was born. It was the late 1960s.
Bill had become a teacher at the Chinese University but the family returned to the UK at this time so that Bill could enrol for a Post Graduate MA degree in Linguistics and Language Teaching at the University of Leeds.
Overseas posts with the British Council then followed in Thailand and in Saudi Arabia. Diana and Bill enjoyed the social life of the embassy and school in Saudi. Bill even found a room in Saudi embassy and - with the help of the Ambassador’s wife who could play the piano - illegally set up their own little church there. The family came to Bedford when Eleanor commenced her studies at the High School. Bill became Education Officer at HM Prison Bedford for a while, and - when Eleanor went off to University - he took a British Council post in China. His career has been both varied and distinguished.
In retirement, Bill and Diana shared much in their joint appreciation of music, art and drama. He was keenly supportive of the new organ here at St Andrew’s and of the artistic life of this place. Their flat in London also better enabled them to enjoy so much of what the capital had to offer. With typical pragmatism, when Bill’s hearing worsened and he was unable to catch the dialogue at the theatre, he switched to attending the ballet! And was thrilled to attend live streamed performances at his local cinema.
Bill’s journalistic skills were put to use later in life when he became the editor of the journal of The Servants of Christ the King. The Servants of Christ the King meet in small groups to study, pray and listen for the will of God in their lives and for the world. This attentive ‘Waiting on God’ describes Bill’s spirituality succinctly. He was well-versed in Holy Scripture.
He said that having been obliged to learn many psalms by heart as a schoolboy - a psalm a week - they were to him a particular strength and comfort when out alone in the Burmese jungle. They sustained him. Whenever he read from the lectern here in church one could hear a pin drop for every word was carefully and prayerfully weighed and placed into position.
His wartime experiences (and that of others) led Bill persuasively to argue for peace and reconciliation with the Japanese. Quoted in Tony Redding’s book, War in the Wilderness he said, “If I met a Japanese veteran of Burma today, I think I would have feelings of comradeship. People get killed. Sometimes you kill, especially if is “him or me”. But now one would really like to meet up with people who shared very much the same problems and conditions. Perhaps that is what chivalry is about.”
Accordingly, Bill was an active member of the Burma Campaign Society seeking Anglo-Japan reconciliation. Akiko Macdonald, is the Chairperson of the Society. The daughter of a Japanese Imperial Army’s Lieutenant, Bill, she said, latterly considered her father as his brother. She said of him, “I owe him so much for understanding of my way of thinking.” His desire for peace and friendship is also appreciatively acknowledged by The Embassy of Japan in London. The Buddhist temple in London will also hold prayer to memorialise Bill’s life and work. Bill so desired reconciliation with Japan - and this desire for forgiveness was fundamental to his faith and theology. Even in wartime, he said, God’s love is there.
Diana and Bill celebrated their Golden Wedding Anniversary last year - Eleanor had booked them in to stay and an old royal hunting lodge in Devon which they loved.
He will be remembered here at St Andrew’s for his willingness to little jobs behind the scenes - mending hymn books; painting ceilings at the vicarage; producing a hip flask of whiskey to improve the post-service coffee experience; getting down on the floor to fix all those brass pins that hold the kneelers in the pews in front of you. Bill did all those. The congregation at his other church - St Bartholomew the Great in London - and all of us will miss his wit and wisdom, his appreciative encouragement, his kindly generosity and his warm smile.
The last time that Bill read here in church was on the morning of Christmas Day - six months ago to the day. As well as a lifelong love of the Psalms, Bill was greatly fond of the prophet Isaiah and it was Isaiah that he read from that morning - a passage foretelling of peace after war, of new beginnings and fresh hope - indeed, of reconciliation.
Reverend James Reveley (16th May 2019).
Seen below is a gallery of images in relation to Bill Smyly's funeral. Please click on any image to bring it forward on the page.
As mentioned by Vicar, James Reveley, Bill read from his favourite book of the Bible, the Book of Isaiah, on Christmas morning 2017. A recording of Bill's eloquent and impassioned reading was played at his funeral and I thought that listening to it again here, would be a fitting way to end his story on these website pages.
Update 20/01/2020.
In 1996, or thereabouts, Bill Smyly put pen to paper and wrote down his thoughts regarding the hill tribespeople of Burma and how they assisted in his eventual salvation in 1943. He then goes on to explain the great virtues of the Gurkha soldier in the jungle, with whom he would share so many experiences on both the Wingate expeditions. There is some repetition in the first section of this narrative from writings already recounted on this webpage, but to omit these here would leave Bill's sentiments unsaid and take away the point and context of his words.
One Officer's debt to Hill tribesmen in Burma and Gurkhas in the Jungle
Kachins, Karens and Shans formed the Burma Rifles and for both of Wingate's operations these men were our ears and eyes, and showed the greatest loyalty and courage. It is not possible to exaggerate their importance to these operations.
I was Animal Transport Officer in No 5 Column led by Major Bernard Fergusson in 1943. When one of the platoon commanders, Philip Stibbe was wounded, one of these men volunteered to stay with him and was caught by the Japanese when he entered a Burmese village to ask for food and help. This man died under torture rather than tell where Philip Stibbe was. It was a pointless sacrifice because Philip had to give himself up anyway, but the nobility and a loyalty of his action showed the spirit Karens and Burma Riflemen expected of each other.
For me, after our column broke up in the ambush in which Stibbe was hit, I crossed a fast running river called the Shweli with 6 men losing 28 who were stuck the other side when someone's hand slipped and a rubber dinghy was swept away with two men in it. We headed North without a map but caught up with a group of about 60 led by Major Astell of the Burma Rifles. I think we spun out 8 days rations for 28 days. In the end I lost central vision with beri beri and had swollen ankles that slowed me down going up hill. I refused to let my men hang back at my pace and drove them on, climbing the hills side ways or backwards and running down the other side. This worked well for several days till one evening I was running too fast, missed the path, and ran off into the forest. Lost, and with night coming on, I sat down by a stream, boiled some water, and then slept.
In the morning I was covered with leeches. I undressed and shaved these off with my kukhri. They fell off like grapes and swam away. The stream was the worst possible place I could have spent the night. In the morning, sight restored, I retraced my steps and found the track. To my surprise it was the greatest relief to be on my own and not have to keep up with the others, but I now went very slow. Ahead was an enormous climb. Half way up there was one place where I looked out over the surrounding forest canopy, wave after wave of it, and felt that I had only to press the ground with my toes and I would rise into the air and soar over hill and dale all the way back to India. This also was in my mind when I used the word 'picnic'. Maybe 'elation', or 'high' would be more like.
Later on up the hill the tribesmen had driven a hollow bamboo into a rivulet and clear water poured from this onto bright stones at the side of the path. Beside this was a mossy bank and I don't think any chair has ever been more comfortable or any water sweeter. I was sitting there half in heaven when an old mother and her pretty daughter climbed up the road. They found me totally exhausted and idiotically happy; and they were there again in the village at the top of the hill with a brew of rice wine for me, before they brought me on to the house of the headman of the village.
From then I was looked after in Kachin villages for nearly three months. When I reached a village and took off my boots my ankles blew up like balloons and I would sit there till I could get my boots on again, maybe two days, and then press on. Somewhere in the distant North there was a British outpost called Fort Hertz.
The swelling must have been unpleasant for others. A girl wrapped my legs in a poultice of leaves which brought out a viscous liquid with a sickly odour. I didn't like it myself but my hosts never complained. They never mentioned it. I had no way of paying and they seemed to expect no return. For three months they looked after me in one village after another -- always the same welcome, what they ate they gave to me. In all those months I never slept again in the open and never did without an evening meal.
Nor did I ever hear of a way to report my debt to them and have them rewarded. This was in contrast to Philip Stibbe who inherited his family shoe making firm in Leicester and, when this was taken over by a larger firm, returned to Burma to give the greater part of the price to the family of the rifleman who had died under torture. His gift was given in the form of a scholarship for members of the man's family. Philip himself then became a school master, becoming a headmaster in Norwich. His son is a Colonel in the Household Cavalry.
Back in Burma with the second Wingate expedition the following year we saw the distress of these loyal tribesmen when Wingate was killed. To them it was a personal loss. He was I suppose the one they looked up to with his Chindit badge -- Lord protector of the pagodas. Even Winston Churchill acknowledged our disgrace when we let down these loyal pro-British supporters and the Foreign Office settled with the main Burmese people who had been, at the very least, very treacherous and uncertain in their dealings with us.
But anyway, I owe them my life and a period of deep contentment and absolute trust in a gloriously beautiful country of mountains, valleys, forests of great trees, and clear rushing streams. I'm glad to say my six Gurkha Riflemen reached Fort Hertz before me and were flown out safely to India.
In 1996, or thereabouts, Bill Smyly put pen to paper and wrote down his thoughts regarding the hill tribespeople of Burma and how they assisted in his eventual salvation in 1943. He then goes on to explain the great virtues of the Gurkha soldier in the jungle, with whom he would share so many experiences on both the Wingate expeditions. There is some repetition in the first section of this narrative from writings already recounted on this webpage, but to omit these here would leave Bill's sentiments unsaid and take away the point and context of his words.
One Officer's debt to Hill tribesmen in Burma and Gurkhas in the Jungle
Kachins, Karens and Shans formed the Burma Rifles and for both of Wingate's operations these men were our ears and eyes, and showed the greatest loyalty and courage. It is not possible to exaggerate their importance to these operations.
I was Animal Transport Officer in No 5 Column led by Major Bernard Fergusson in 1943. When one of the platoon commanders, Philip Stibbe was wounded, one of these men volunteered to stay with him and was caught by the Japanese when he entered a Burmese village to ask for food and help. This man died under torture rather than tell where Philip Stibbe was. It was a pointless sacrifice because Philip had to give himself up anyway, but the nobility and a loyalty of his action showed the spirit Karens and Burma Riflemen expected of each other.
For me, after our column broke up in the ambush in which Stibbe was hit, I crossed a fast running river called the Shweli with 6 men losing 28 who were stuck the other side when someone's hand slipped and a rubber dinghy was swept away with two men in it. We headed North without a map but caught up with a group of about 60 led by Major Astell of the Burma Rifles. I think we spun out 8 days rations for 28 days. In the end I lost central vision with beri beri and had swollen ankles that slowed me down going up hill. I refused to let my men hang back at my pace and drove them on, climbing the hills side ways or backwards and running down the other side. This worked well for several days till one evening I was running too fast, missed the path, and ran off into the forest. Lost, and with night coming on, I sat down by a stream, boiled some water, and then slept.
In the morning I was covered with leeches. I undressed and shaved these off with my kukhri. They fell off like grapes and swam away. The stream was the worst possible place I could have spent the night. In the morning, sight restored, I retraced my steps and found the track. To my surprise it was the greatest relief to be on my own and not have to keep up with the others, but I now went very slow. Ahead was an enormous climb. Half way up there was one place where I looked out over the surrounding forest canopy, wave after wave of it, and felt that I had only to press the ground with my toes and I would rise into the air and soar over hill and dale all the way back to India. This also was in my mind when I used the word 'picnic'. Maybe 'elation', or 'high' would be more like.
Later on up the hill the tribesmen had driven a hollow bamboo into a rivulet and clear water poured from this onto bright stones at the side of the path. Beside this was a mossy bank and I don't think any chair has ever been more comfortable or any water sweeter. I was sitting there half in heaven when an old mother and her pretty daughter climbed up the road. They found me totally exhausted and idiotically happy; and they were there again in the village at the top of the hill with a brew of rice wine for me, before they brought me on to the house of the headman of the village.
From then I was looked after in Kachin villages for nearly three months. When I reached a village and took off my boots my ankles blew up like balloons and I would sit there till I could get my boots on again, maybe two days, and then press on. Somewhere in the distant North there was a British outpost called Fort Hertz.
The swelling must have been unpleasant for others. A girl wrapped my legs in a poultice of leaves which brought out a viscous liquid with a sickly odour. I didn't like it myself but my hosts never complained. They never mentioned it. I had no way of paying and they seemed to expect no return. For three months they looked after me in one village after another -- always the same welcome, what they ate they gave to me. In all those months I never slept again in the open and never did without an evening meal.
Nor did I ever hear of a way to report my debt to them and have them rewarded. This was in contrast to Philip Stibbe who inherited his family shoe making firm in Leicester and, when this was taken over by a larger firm, returned to Burma to give the greater part of the price to the family of the rifleman who had died under torture. His gift was given in the form of a scholarship for members of the man's family. Philip himself then became a school master, becoming a headmaster in Norwich. His son is a Colonel in the Household Cavalry.
Back in Burma with the second Wingate expedition the following year we saw the distress of these loyal tribesmen when Wingate was killed. To them it was a personal loss. He was I suppose the one they looked up to with his Chindit badge -- Lord protector of the pagodas. Even Winston Churchill acknowledged our disgrace when we let down these loyal pro-British supporters and the Foreign Office settled with the main Burmese people who had been, at the very least, very treacherous and uncertain in their dealings with us.
But anyway, I owe them my life and a period of deep contentment and absolute trust in a gloriously beautiful country of mountains, valleys, forests of great trees, and clear rushing streams. I'm glad to say my six Gurkha Riflemen reached Fort Hertz before me and were flown out safely to India.
Major George Henry Astell of the 2nd Burma Rifles speaks to Brigadier Wingate in February 1943.
Gurkhas in the Jungle
I think I can illustrate this by an account of a single day near the Indawgyi Lake shortly after the disastrous defeat of John Master's 111 Brigade at the stronghold called Blackpool in 1944. We had rested and had a supply drop near the lake where flying boats came in to pick up our wounded. Then the fighting troops moved North towards Mogaung and Myitkyina. Chindits with their mule transport marched in single file and the column spread out a long long way. I was the Animal Transport Officer for the 3/9 Gurkhas with general duties for the whole column. The Cameronians were ahead of us and had placed bamboo and jungle scrub across particularly boggy places. At one of these the men took turns running across the gangways and the mules with full loads galloped and bucked their way through the mud. One mule had been rushed too close to the mule in front, which had been delayed, and got stuck. And the more he struggled the deeper he sunk.
The hooves of mule and horse, unlike the delicate cloven hoof of an ox (and we had some of them too), is made like a plumbers suction pad — easy to push down, harder to pull up. When I reached this mule she was up to her belly and fully loaded. The Gurkhas pressed on but I stayed with the Cameronian mule. We cut the girth and pushed off the load and saddle; attached a rope to the D ring on her halter and some big strong men made a tug of war team to pull her out. We pulled from the front and urged her from behind, but the more she reared the deeper she went. In the end she stopped trying. She gave up. And I put a bullet into her head. Then we hurried on.
When we reached my mules, halted for the night about 5.30 pm, I suggested that the Cameronians stay with us because it would soon be dark. So, what would any normal person do after a long hard day ? Make a cup of tea. They off loaded and brewed up, and it was dark before they were done. But for the Gurkhas this last half hour of daylight was the hardest work of the day. We were in bamboo forest and no longer feared Japanese aircraft so I ordered "mule lines". The purpose of this was to provide the mules with fodder they could not tread on. It meant building a post and rail fence with the animals tethered one side and bamboo leaves on the other. They ate bamboo leaves.
Officers went to the CO's orders group and the men split up, some taking two or three mules to water and the rest spreading out into the forest to cut bamboo which they dragged back to camp like huge feathers -- spines 30ft long with a feathering of side branches and leaves. Hollow bamboo is of various diameters and the walls of various thickness. Strong bamboo with thick walls was chosen for the uprights of the mule line and the skeleton of a long roofed bed which ran parallel to it. Thin walled bamboo with a larger diameter was split open to form a springy floor. And for me there was an individual shelter but of the same construction. This one turned out to be a beautiful shelter which I still think about with the greatest pleasure today. The roof was proofed with a groundsheet and leaves. I hung parachute cord from the rafters, smouldering at one end, smelling like mosquito incense and with the same function. These glowed in the night and served to light cigarettes. My supper that night was a bamboo shoot as thick as my leg, cut from the ground nearby and cooked with a whole tin of American processed cheese.
The night began with Gurkha fires all around like fire flies, each man looking after himself, as I did also. Farther off the Burma Rifles sat in a group around a communal feast of several dishes. They even said grace and sang songs and hymns. These men were the aristocrats of the jungle. On the same rations these feasted while others slopped. Afterwards several of the junior officers came around to inspect my quarters, sip hot water in bamboo cups and talk about the day and prospects for tomorrow.
The rain came down in sheets during the night and pounded on the roof of my shelter. There was a light spray, cool, and I lay in a kind of luxury thanking God, and the Gurkhas and my own good fortune to serve with them.
But for the Cameronians, after their tea and a cigarette, they had still to take their mules to water in the dark; tether them, and find a smooth piece of ground on which to lace themselves into their groundsheets for the night. And then, about 3 am, the rain came down. This was an icy rain from 22,000 feet, and almost any piece of smooth ground turned into a stream and most of them were washed out. In the morning I found these men under the Gurkhas' bed or in it. So what had been Arcadia to me was a pretty refined kind of Hell for them.
A few days later, before the 3/9 Gurkha Rifles took a point called 2171 and Jim Blaker got a posthumous VC, the Colonel sent me back down this route on a horse called Charley with a message to the Brigade Commander, John Masters. It was a grey Afghan or Arab pony and we rode 60 miles in one day -- 30 there and 30 back, and swam two deep rivers each way. We walked and trotted all the way there and I held him down to a slow canter back till the last two miles across tussocky grass. Then I threw the reins on his neck and let him go. He chose his own ground and flew. But as we came into camp I saw the CO's Order Group forming up and called "Halt". And he stopped right in front of the Order Group, all four feet dug into the ground and a marvellous snort from nostrils like two trumpets. So I slipped off, took off his saddle, gave him a pat and he trotted off by himself to find the mule lines and his groom and his supper and was greeted all the way by friendly Gurkhas. What a wonderful day that was.
I think I can illustrate this by an account of a single day near the Indawgyi Lake shortly after the disastrous defeat of John Master's 111 Brigade at the stronghold called Blackpool in 1944. We had rested and had a supply drop near the lake where flying boats came in to pick up our wounded. Then the fighting troops moved North towards Mogaung and Myitkyina. Chindits with their mule transport marched in single file and the column spread out a long long way. I was the Animal Transport Officer for the 3/9 Gurkhas with general duties for the whole column. The Cameronians were ahead of us and had placed bamboo and jungle scrub across particularly boggy places. At one of these the men took turns running across the gangways and the mules with full loads galloped and bucked their way through the mud. One mule had been rushed too close to the mule in front, which had been delayed, and got stuck. And the more he struggled the deeper he sunk.
The hooves of mule and horse, unlike the delicate cloven hoof of an ox (and we had some of them too), is made like a plumbers suction pad — easy to push down, harder to pull up. When I reached this mule she was up to her belly and fully loaded. The Gurkhas pressed on but I stayed with the Cameronian mule. We cut the girth and pushed off the load and saddle; attached a rope to the D ring on her halter and some big strong men made a tug of war team to pull her out. We pulled from the front and urged her from behind, but the more she reared the deeper she went. In the end she stopped trying. She gave up. And I put a bullet into her head. Then we hurried on.
When we reached my mules, halted for the night about 5.30 pm, I suggested that the Cameronians stay with us because it would soon be dark. So, what would any normal person do after a long hard day ? Make a cup of tea. They off loaded and brewed up, and it was dark before they were done. But for the Gurkhas this last half hour of daylight was the hardest work of the day. We were in bamboo forest and no longer feared Japanese aircraft so I ordered "mule lines". The purpose of this was to provide the mules with fodder they could not tread on. It meant building a post and rail fence with the animals tethered one side and bamboo leaves on the other. They ate bamboo leaves.
Officers went to the CO's orders group and the men split up, some taking two or three mules to water and the rest spreading out into the forest to cut bamboo which they dragged back to camp like huge feathers -- spines 30ft long with a feathering of side branches and leaves. Hollow bamboo is of various diameters and the walls of various thickness. Strong bamboo with thick walls was chosen for the uprights of the mule line and the skeleton of a long roofed bed which ran parallel to it. Thin walled bamboo with a larger diameter was split open to form a springy floor. And for me there was an individual shelter but of the same construction. This one turned out to be a beautiful shelter which I still think about with the greatest pleasure today. The roof was proofed with a groundsheet and leaves. I hung parachute cord from the rafters, smouldering at one end, smelling like mosquito incense and with the same function. These glowed in the night and served to light cigarettes. My supper that night was a bamboo shoot as thick as my leg, cut from the ground nearby and cooked with a whole tin of American processed cheese.
The night began with Gurkha fires all around like fire flies, each man looking after himself, as I did also. Farther off the Burma Rifles sat in a group around a communal feast of several dishes. They even said grace and sang songs and hymns. These men were the aristocrats of the jungle. On the same rations these feasted while others slopped. Afterwards several of the junior officers came around to inspect my quarters, sip hot water in bamboo cups and talk about the day and prospects for tomorrow.
The rain came down in sheets during the night and pounded on the roof of my shelter. There was a light spray, cool, and I lay in a kind of luxury thanking God, and the Gurkhas and my own good fortune to serve with them.
But for the Cameronians, after their tea and a cigarette, they had still to take their mules to water in the dark; tether them, and find a smooth piece of ground on which to lace themselves into their groundsheets for the night. And then, about 3 am, the rain came down. This was an icy rain from 22,000 feet, and almost any piece of smooth ground turned into a stream and most of them were washed out. In the morning I found these men under the Gurkhas' bed or in it. So what had been Arcadia to me was a pretty refined kind of Hell for them.
A few days later, before the 3/9 Gurkha Rifles took a point called 2171 and Jim Blaker got a posthumous VC, the Colonel sent me back down this route on a horse called Charley with a message to the Brigade Commander, John Masters. It was a grey Afghan or Arab pony and we rode 60 miles in one day -- 30 there and 30 back, and swam two deep rivers each way. We walked and trotted all the way there and I held him down to a slow canter back till the last two miles across tussocky grass. Then I threw the reins on his neck and let him go. He chose his own ground and flew. But as we came into camp I saw the CO's Order Group forming up and called "Halt". And he stopped right in front of the Order Group, all four feet dug into the ground and a marvellous snort from nostrils like two trumpets. So I slipped off, took off his saddle, gave him a pat and he trotted off by himself to find the mule lines and his groom and his supper and was greeted all the way by friendly Gurkhas. What a wonderful day that was.
Gurkha muleteers crossing the Irrawaddy River in 1944.
Copyright © Steve Fogden, Caroline Jones and stated contributors, May 2019.