Pte. Leonard F. Grist
A typical group of Chindit pals.
Below is a handwritten account of another of Wingate's guniea-pig Chindits, Pte. Leonard Grist. Leonard was an ordinary working man from the Wirral, a suburban area just outside of Liverpool.
He was an original member of the 13th Kings Battalion that sailed to India in December 1941. It is not known and cannot be deciphered as to which column Leonard belonged in 1943, but it is clear that the comradeship built up between the men of his platoon is much like that of the other tight-knit units I have read about.
Without further a do, here is the account of his time with the Chindits on Operation Longcloth, which he wrote down in the spring of 1980. I have left the narrative almost exactly as Leonard first presented it that year. As you will no doubt notice his choice of language is often colourful to say the least:
Holy Joe
The eerie silence of the steaming jungle was rudely broken by the chattering of groups of monkeys, and the mating calls of flocks of multi-coloured birds, perched high in the vine like branches of the tall bamboo and thick teak trees.
It was Burma 1943 and the sudden shattering of the quiet, brought the weary men of No. 3 Section, B Platoon, nervously to their feet, automatically running through the undergrowth to their predestined positions and forming a perimeter around the small jungle clearing, in which they had just a short while ago taken off their heavy packs for a well earned rest, after covering nearly 15 miles of tortuous marching through some of the worst terrain of any theatre of war.
They belonged to Orde Wingate's long-range penetration group operating deep behind the Japanese lines in northern Burma. Their function as a 'point section' was to gather information about the strength of the Jap garrisons, and blow up the bridges over which the Japs convoyed their supplies to the garrisons which were believed to be in the numerous Burmese villages on the banks of the Irrawaddy River.
The section of 10 men were drawn from many walks of life. Farm labourers, a printer, miners and other miscellaneous tradesmen nearly all in their early twenties, except the Sergeant who was a regular NCO. A stiff, tanned featured man who had spent a good portion of his service soldiering on the North-West Frontier of India with the 1st Battalion of the Kings Liverpool Regiment. Though he was an excellent NCO he did not take kindly to the unorthodox type of jungle training we all had gone through, or to the bloody conscripts who had been put under his command. "Bleedin' weekend soldiers", was his favourite description of us.
One of the weekend soldiers was a raw boned youth from Stafford, christened with the unusual name of Joe Holes, who had the unusual habit of walking along with his mouth wide open. This left him open to the jibes and sneers of the other more coarser members of the section, one in particular, a Jack Rawlings, who was always belittling Joe about his unfortunate habit.
On realising the excited chattering of the monkeys was due to the presence of two very large elephants, hauling through the brush logs of teak, under the guidance of their coppery-skinned Burmese masters, the Sergeant instructed us to remain as quiet as humanly possible, as some of us were cursing profanely at the dozens of leeches and other vermin which was sampling our good Lancashire blood.
In due course the elephants and their drivers disappeared down an avenue of trees and we all breathed easily again.
"Right lads, brew up, then douse those fires and we'll get out of here!" the Sergeant informed us. Hastily we produced from our packs the powdered milk, teabags, slabs of chocolate and shackupura biscuits for our meal. Lighting small fires we cooked what was affectionately called chocolate lob, mixing the chocolate and biscuits together with water, it made quite a good dish.
Joe Holes was mixing his meal with the end of his bayonet, when he suddenly got to his feet and raised a wriggling mass of legs and feelers out of his dixie, on inspecting it he found it was a king size grasshopper which had jumped into the bubbling mess. Again, with the business end of his bayonet he whisked the impaled chocolate coated grasshopper over his shoulder and it flew off the skewer and hit Jack Rawlings right in the middle of his burly chest. Jack had been squatting on his haunches right behind where Joe was making his dinner.
Rawlings opened his mouth and with a roar of rage started bellowing nearly all the Heinz variety number of obscenities at Joe, who clumsily offered an apology. All to no avail, Rawlings kept on his diatribe until the Sergeant, who realised that the loud voice of Jack would surely be heard by any of the soldiers from the land of the rising sun who happened to be nearby, told him to quieten down.
Rawlings did so, but only to the extent of mumbling into the matted growth of the beard which like the rest of us he now sported. After putting out the fires and strapping our packs back on, we formed up in single file and silently ghosted out of the camp area.
He was an original member of the 13th Kings Battalion that sailed to India in December 1941. It is not known and cannot be deciphered as to which column Leonard belonged in 1943, but it is clear that the comradeship built up between the men of his platoon is much like that of the other tight-knit units I have read about.
Without further a do, here is the account of his time with the Chindits on Operation Longcloth, which he wrote down in the spring of 1980. I have left the narrative almost exactly as Leonard first presented it that year. As you will no doubt notice his choice of language is often colourful to say the least:
Holy Joe
The eerie silence of the steaming jungle was rudely broken by the chattering of groups of monkeys, and the mating calls of flocks of multi-coloured birds, perched high in the vine like branches of the tall bamboo and thick teak trees.
It was Burma 1943 and the sudden shattering of the quiet, brought the weary men of No. 3 Section, B Platoon, nervously to their feet, automatically running through the undergrowth to their predestined positions and forming a perimeter around the small jungle clearing, in which they had just a short while ago taken off their heavy packs for a well earned rest, after covering nearly 15 miles of tortuous marching through some of the worst terrain of any theatre of war.
They belonged to Orde Wingate's long-range penetration group operating deep behind the Japanese lines in northern Burma. Their function as a 'point section' was to gather information about the strength of the Jap garrisons, and blow up the bridges over which the Japs convoyed their supplies to the garrisons which were believed to be in the numerous Burmese villages on the banks of the Irrawaddy River.
The section of 10 men were drawn from many walks of life. Farm labourers, a printer, miners and other miscellaneous tradesmen nearly all in their early twenties, except the Sergeant who was a regular NCO. A stiff, tanned featured man who had spent a good portion of his service soldiering on the North-West Frontier of India with the 1st Battalion of the Kings Liverpool Regiment. Though he was an excellent NCO he did not take kindly to the unorthodox type of jungle training we all had gone through, or to the bloody conscripts who had been put under his command. "Bleedin' weekend soldiers", was his favourite description of us.
One of the weekend soldiers was a raw boned youth from Stafford, christened with the unusual name of Joe Holes, who had the unusual habit of walking along with his mouth wide open. This left him open to the jibes and sneers of the other more coarser members of the section, one in particular, a Jack Rawlings, who was always belittling Joe about his unfortunate habit.
On realising the excited chattering of the monkeys was due to the presence of two very large elephants, hauling through the brush logs of teak, under the guidance of their coppery-skinned Burmese masters, the Sergeant instructed us to remain as quiet as humanly possible, as some of us were cursing profanely at the dozens of leeches and other vermin which was sampling our good Lancashire blood.
In due course the elephants and their drivers disappeared down an avenue of trees and we all breathed easily again.
"Right lads, brew up, then douse those fires and we'll get out of here!" the Sergeant informed us. Hastily we produced from our packs the powdered milk, teabags, slabs of chocolate and shackupura biscuits for our meal. Lighting small fires we cooked what was affectionately called chocolate lob, mixing the chocolate and biscuits together with water, it made quite a good dish.
Joe Holes was mixing his meal with the end of his bayonet, when he suddenly got to his feet and raised a wriggling mass of legs and feelers out of his dixie, on inspecting it he found it was a king size grasshopper which had jumped into the bubbling mess. Again, with the business end of his bayonet he whisked the impaled chocolate coated grasshopper over his shoulder and it flew off the skewer and hit Jack Rawlings right in the middle of his burly chest. Jack had been squatting on his haunches right behind where Joe was making his dinner.
Rawlings opened his mouth and with a roar of rage started bellowing nearly all the Heinz variety number of obscenities at Joe, who clumsily offered an apology. All to no avail, Rawlings kept on his diatribe until the Sergeant, who realised that the loud voice of Jack would surely be heard by any of the soldiers from the land of the rising sun who happened to be nearby, told him to quieten down.
Rawlings did so, but only to the extent of mumbling into the matted growth of the beard which like the rest of us he now sported. After putting out the fires and strapping our packs back on, we formed up in single file and silently ghosted out of the camp area.
A Section of Chindits move off after a river crossing.
Shortly, after walking a few miles through thick jungle underbrush, we heard the faint barking of dogs in the distance. We had arrived at our destination, just as the light was getting bad and shortly before dusk. Our Sergeant told us to lie down and get some sleep, then asked the Burmese guide who was with us to go and reconnoitre the village and try and determine if there were any Nips about.
He then informed the sentry he had posted at the edge of the jungle to wake us all at 05:00 hours, and that we would be going in at dawn.
"Gawd help us", one lad exclaimed, as we no more represented a squad of fighting fit soldiers, than we did a group of NAAFI girls. We had hardly any ammunition and even our rifle bolts wouldn't open through the lack of oil, we thankfully took our packs off once more and stretched out in the deep piles of dead leaves which afforded the perfect camouflage against any other watching eyes.
After a while the Burma Rifleman returned with the information that nothing could be seen in the village except for two mangy dogs tied to the uprights of one of the bamboo huts. Just before dawn the sentry went round in turn to each of us and gave us a gentle kick on the shins and we blearily-eyed arose to a crouching position in the foliage.
The Sergeant told us to form up and we commenced our approach on the village via a wide dirt track at the edge of the forest. We could see the imprints of the wheels from bullock carts which the natives used to haul their timber. As we neared the shadowy cluster of huts, Joe Holes and I were detailed a station at the end of the track close to the entrance of the village, while the rest positioned themselves around the other sides, in the hope of being able to confiscate any meat which the Burmese had the habit of hanging out to dry in hot sun.
He then informed the sentry he had posted at the edge of the jungle to wake us all at 05:00 hours, and that we would be going in at dawn.
"Gawd help us", one lad exclaimed, as we no more represented a squad of fighting fit soldiers, than we did a group of NAAFI girls. We had hardly any ammunition and even our rifle bolts wouldn't open through the lack of oil, we thankfully took our packs off once more and stretched out in the deep piles of dead leaves which afforded the perfect camouflage against any other watching eyes.
After a while the Burma Rifleman returned with the information that nothing could be seen in the village except for two mangy dogs tied to the uprights of one of the bamboo huts. Just before dawn the sentry went round in turn to each of us and gave us a gentle kick on the shins and we blearily-eyed arose to a crouching position in the foliage.
The Sergeant told us to form up and we commenced our approach on the village via a wide dirt track at the edge of the forest. We could see the imprints of the wheels from bullock carts which the natives used to haul their timber. As we neared the shadowy cluster of huts, Joe Holes and I were detailed a station at the end of the track close to the entrance of the village, while the rest positioned themselves around the other sides, in the hope of being able to confiscate any meat which the Burmese had the habit of hanging out to dry in hot sun.
A typical Burmese village with huts raised up on stilts in preparation for the monsoon season.
Joe and I were just able to distinguish the outlines of the huts, as the first streaks of the Burmese dawn heralded another day in the uncertain fate of No. 3 Section. When, coming down the path, we could see to our astonished gaze a huge figure of a man at least 6 feet tall and nearly as broad. Who was the joker who said all Japs were small. Around his thick waist hanging from a wide belt, were half a dozen grenades and in the crook of his arm was a short rifle.
After a few more jerky struts he spotted us, at the same time opening his jaws revealing and mouthful of horrible yellow fangs, two of which were plated with gold fillings.
He or it, I was never sure, literally screamed at us in broken English "pigs you die", in the high staccato vocal chords singular to the Japanese. Reaching for a grenade, he had just managed to pull out the pin, when with great presence of mind Joe shot him through the forehead. With our minds now on the grenade, we both dived into the bushes either side of the track, sure enough the grenade exploded with a deafening crack, as we peered out we could see our Nip writhing and frothing from his bigmouth, he was in his death throes. It was the first time I had ever witnessed a human being slowly leaving our world, he gave a convulsive shudder and rolled over face down into a heap, forever still. I could see a jagged hole the size of the boxers fist in the back of his head, what a mess a .303 bullet could make.
Turning back into the bushes I retched violently all over a large bamboo leaf and then it was if the whole jungle started spewing Japanese. Joe and I didn't wait to shake hands, we nearly broke the three minute mile back into the jungle. We could hear the Japs calling after us to surrender.
After laying down to hide under the cover of some dense foliage, Joe said he could not stand the biting of the innumerable insects and he got to his feet and started to run across a small glade in the forest. I decided that two heads were better than one and ran after him. Suddenly a single rifle shot rang out and Joe clutched at his face, blood started gushing out through his fingers. I caught up with him and though he was visibly shaken, he explained that he thought it was only a flesh wound.
With our lungs nearly bursting we reached the jungle proper, from which we had previously come and gratefully disappeared amongst the tall silent witnesses of the teak trees. Joe sat down against the trunk of a wide tree and I knelt beside him and scrambled about in my pack for a first aid kit. Washing his face with one of my shirt sleeves which I soaked in chlorinated water from my water bottle, I then proceeded to bandage him up until he looked just like a waxwork mummy. We were wondering what to do next when we heard the unmistakable voice of Jack Rawlings and spotted the rest of the section coming through the trees.
Joe gave what he thought was a bird whistle through his punctured face, and one of the section answered likewise. On reaching us the section clustered around Joe and in excited voices asked him what had happened. Joe muttered through his bandages curses enough to send the whole of the Japanese nation into Hades, then proceeded to explain what happened to the Sergeant.
Rawlings pushed his way through the ruck of the soldiers, and even though he could see that Joe was in obvious pain, he still had to insult him by saying his head must be made of concrete for him to stop the bullet and still be alive to tell the tale.
Even the hard-bitten Sergeant could stand no more of Rawling's pettiness and told him he was reporting him for unsoldierly conduct when, and if we ever got back to our base in India. Then one of the lads produced a mouth-watering slab of meat which he had managed to confiscate from one of the huts at the rear of the village, while the Japs been running in the opposite direction towards the sound of Joe and I. The meat had been stretched out on two poles outside the hut. What a great site that was. If there had been a choice between that hunk of meat and a big, busty Liverpool blonde, I know which one I would have chosen.
The Sergeant confirmed our own thoughts about being in hostile territory, and said the village was alive with Japs and that we had better clear out of the area. On the orders of the Burmese guide we chopped the meat into equal portions and as there was no time to cook it, we ate it raw as we hastily beat a retreat into the jungle. After a few miles of hacking and snaking our way through the interminable bamboo thickets, we came to a clearing, and at the bottom of the valley we could see the wide stretch that was the Irrawaddy River, it's muddy waters carrying upon it a couple of rice boats presumably making their way to Jap Garrison further north.
We cautiously stalked down the valley till we came to a boulder strewn river bank, we piled up our rifles, undressed and plunged starkers into the river. What one glorious bollock we had dropped! No sooner had we gleefully started swimming about, when a hail of machine gun bullets whistled over our heads, some whining across the water, while others hit the opposite bank causing red clumps of clay to rise in all directions.
The Sergeant cried out to get behind the boulders for cover, quickly we did just that, then, before anyone could stop him Joe Holes dashed across the clearing grabbed our bundle of rifles and in the midst of another hail bullets pelted back towards the boulders.
As if fate had decreed that this was how it should be, Jack Rawlings stood up from behind a large wet rock to take the rifles from Joe, previously the butt of his innumerable slurs, when he was shot through the chest. We all piled out grabbed our rifles and what packs we had left, and waded into the murky water behind the bank holding our rifles above our heads. Naked as the day we were born we made our way up the river for several minutes and then clambered out, then disappeared into the ever so welcoming jungle like so many water nymphs.
"Christ! What do we do now?" we asked the Sergeant who was looking at us with a perplexed expression on his face. As if in answer to our somewhat rude prayer we spotted a junk floating steadily upstream with a couple of Burmese fisherman idly casting their nets.
We waded once more into the river and Sergeant pointed his rifle at the boat. Luckily for us the Burmese belonged to the hill tribe of the Cochins who for the main part were pro-British. With broad smiles they started conversing with our Burmese guide and asked if we would like a lift.
After a few more jerky struts he spotted us, at the same time opening his jaws revealing and mouthful of horrible yellow fangs, two of which were plated with gold fillings.
He or it, I was never sure, literally screamed at us in broken English "pigs you die", in the high staccato vocal chords singular to the Japanese. Reaching for a grenade, he had just managed to pull out the pin, when with great presence of mind Joe shot him through the forehead. With our minds now on the grenade, we both dived into the bushes either side of the track, sure enough the grenade exploded with a deafening crack, as we peered out we could see our Nip writhing and frothing from his bigmouth, he was in his death throes. It was the first time I had ever witnessed a human being slowly leaving our world, he gave a convulsive shudder and rolled over face down into a heap, forever still. I could see a jagged hole the size of the boxers fist in the back of his head, what a mess a .303 bullet could make.
Turning back into the bushes I retched violently all over a large bamboo leaf and then it was if the whole jungle started spewing Japanese. Joe and I didn't wait to shake hands, we nearly broke the three minute mile back into the jungle. We could hear the Japs calling after us to surrender.
After laying down to hide under the cover of some dense foliage, Joe said he could not stand the biting of the innumerable insects and he got to his feet and started to run across a small glade in the forest. I decided that two heads were better than one and ran after him. Suddenly a single rifle shot rang out and Joe clutched at his face, blood started gushing out through his fingers. I caught up with him and though he was visibly shaken, he explained that he thought it was only a flesh wound.
With our lungs nearly bursting we reached the jungle proper, from which we had previously come and gratefully disappeared amongst the tall silent witnesses of the teak trees. Joe sat down against the trunk of a wide tree and I knelt beside him and scrambled about in my pack for a first aid kit. Washing his face with one of my shirt sleeves which I soaked in chlorinated water from my water bottle, I then proceeded to bandage him up until he looked just like a waxwork mummy. We were wondering what to do next when we heard the unmistakable voice of Jack Rawlings and spotted the rest of the section coming through the trees.
Joe gave what he thought was a bird whistle through his punctured face, and one of the section answered likewise. On reaching us the section clustered around Joe and in excited voices asked him what had happened. Joe muttered through his bandages curses enough to send the whole of the Japanese nation into Hades, then proceeded to explain what happened to the Sergeant.
Rawlings pushed his way through the ruck of the soldiers, and even though he could see that Joe was in obvious pain, he still had to insult him by saying his head must be made of concrete for him to stop the bullet and still be alive to tell the tale.
Even the hard-bitten Sergeant could stand no more of Rawling's pettiness and told him he was reporting him for unsoldierly conduct when, and if we ever got back to our base in India. Then one of the lads produced a mouth-watering slab of meat which he had managed to confiscate from one of the huts at the rear of the village, while the Japs been running in the opposite direction towards the sound of Joe and I. The meat had been stretched out on two poles outside the hut. What a great site that was. If there had been a choice between that hunk of meat and a big, busty Liverpool blonde, I know which one I would have chosen.
The Sergeant confirmed our own thoughts about being in hostile territory, and said the village was alive with Japs and that we had better clear out of the area. On the orders of the Burmese guide we chopped the meat into equal portions and as there was no time to cook it, we ate it raw as we hastily beat a retreat into the jungle. After a few miles of hacking and snaking our way through the interminable bamboo thickets, we came to a clearing, and at the bottom of the valley we could see the wide stretch that was the Irrawaddy River, it's muddy waters carrying upon it a couple of rice boats presumably making their way to Jap Garrison further north.
We cautiously stalked down the valley till we came to a boulder strewn river bank, we piled up our rifles, undressed and plunged starkers into the river. What one glorious bollock we had dropped! No sooner had we gleefully started swimming about, when a hail of machine gun bullets whistled over our heads, some whining across the water, while others hit the opposite bank causing red clumps of clay to rise in all directions.
The Sergeant cried out to get behind the boulders for cover, quickly we did just that, then, before anyone could stop him Joe Holes dashed across the clearing grabbed our bundle of rifles and in the midst of another hail bullets pelted back towards the boulders.
As if fate had decreed that this was how it should be, Jack Rawlings stood up from behind a large wet rock to take the rifles from Joe, previously the butt of his innumerable slurs, when he was shot through the chest. We all piled out grabbed our rifles and what packs we had left, and waded into the murky water behind the bank holding our rifles above our heads. Naked as the day we were born we made our way up the river for several minutes and then clambered out, then disappeared into the ever so welcoming jungle like so many water nymphs.
"Christ! What do we do now?" we asked the Sergeant who was looking at us with a perplexed expression on his face. As if in answer to our somewhat rude prayer we spotted a junk floating steadily upstream with a couple of Burmese fisherman idly casting their nets.
We waded once more into the river and Sergeant pointed his rifle at the boat. Luckily for us the Burmese belonged to the hill tribe of the Cochins who for the main part were pro-British. With broad smiles they started conversing with our Burmese guide and asked if we would like a lift.
Burmese fishermen on the Irrawaddy River.
With no more ado we swam out to the junk and clambered aboard. Our guide informed us that there was a village nearby with British soldiers present, but they were wearing women's clothes. It suddenly dawned on us that he was talking about a group of Seaforth Highlanders, who of course were Scots and wore their kilts even in the jungle.
Sure enough when we came to the village we could see the kilted uniforms of a patrol of Seaforth Highlanders who were gawping at us in amazement. They helped us into the village, where we were suddenly surrounded by dozens children and young girls who were giggling and blushing at our state of undress. Some of the villagers dashed into their huts and brought out some white robes, presumably garments of the Buddhist monks of which every village had a few. After explaining to the Jocks, who were a border patrol, of our harrowing time in recent days, we sat down to a wonderful meal of wild pig and rice, washed down with bowls of native rice-wine.
After a while we felt we were getting drunk and drowsy, so one by one we stretched out under the huts and fell soundly asleep, oblivious to all the village sounds going on around us. Next morning, in brilliant sunshine, the Highlanders escorted us up a mountain pass till we came to the British base camp. At last we were safe. As we moved along I noticed some of our section marching with their mouths wide open. As for Pte. Joe Holes, he was forever after nicknamed 'Holy Joe'.
Written by Leonard F. Grist ex-Chindits, Forgotten Army and so on and so on. Service number 3772745, 13th Battalion King's Regiment Liverpool.
PS. How I (Grist) managed to be able to write this story, was because the above illustrates what a dodger I was.
Pte. Grist's memoirs can be read in full by visiting the Imperial War Museum and ordering the document referenced 4881.
http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/1030004889
Copyright © Steve Fogden 2013.
Sure enough when we came to the village we could see the kilted uniforms of a patrol of Seaforth Highlanders who were gawping at us in amazement. They helped us into the village, where we were suddenly surrounded by dozens children and young girls who were giggling and blushing at our state of undress. Some of the villagers dashed into their huts and brought out some white robes, presumably garments of the Buddhist monks of which every village had a few. After explaining to the Jocks, who were a border patrol, of our harrowing time in recent days, we sat down to a wonderful meal of wild pig and rice, washed down with bowls of native rice-wine.
After a while we felt we were getting drunk and drowsy, so one by one we stretched out under the huts and fell soundly asleep, oblivious to all the village sounds going on around us. Next morning, in brilliant sunshine, the Highlanders escorted us up a mountain pass till we came to the British base camp. At last we were safe. As we moved along I noticed some of our section marching with their mouths wide open. As for Pte. Joe Holes, he was forever after nicknamed 'Holy Joe'.
Written by Leonard F. Grist ex-Chindits, Forgotten Army and so on and so on. Service number 3772745, 13th Battalion King's Regiment Liverpool.
PS. How I (Grist) managed to be able to write this story, was because the above illustrates what a dodger I was.
Pte. Grist's memoirs can be read in full by visiting the Imperial War Museum and ordering the document referenced 4881.
http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/1030004889
Copyright © Steve Fogden 2013.