War Correspondents with the Chindits and the story of Moti Lal Katju
'A Traveller's War', by Alaric Jacob.
I thought it would be interesting to read a journalistic account of the first Chindit Expedition written by the then Daily Express and Reuters war correspondent, Alaric Jacob. Taken from his book 'A Traveller's War', the short chapter describes the five journalists that accompanied the fledgling Chindits up until the river crossing at the Chindwin in February 1943.
Alaric Jacob had a busy war and was present at some of the most important and critical actions of WW2, these included, the aftermath at Dunkirk, the siege of Tobruk, El Alamein and Soviet Red Army's advance from Moscow. Here is how he remembered his time with the 77th Indian Infantry Brigade in early 1943.
WINGATE'S CIRCUS
Orde Charles Wingate is invading Burma. He and several thousand other guys. This looks like a commando raid and, in a way, it is the biggest commando raid of the war, yet no commandos were ever asked to do what Wingate demands of these boys. They are going in to fight and live in the heart of Japanese occupied Burma for three months, maybe six, and I am going with them.
Few had heard of Wingate outside the military staff colleges, but one will certainly hear plenty of him from now on. Some say he is mad. But he was astute enough to sell this extra-ordinary expedition to Field-Marshal Wavell who has given him all the equipment he has asked for and a free hand, and some very rum equipment it is too—strictly non-mechanised and pre-blitzkrieg you understand, just mules, oxen for carrying fodder then to be eaten themselves, horses, elephants which tote eight hundred pounds apiece, a few bicycles and bullock carts and of course mortars, bren and sten guns, tommy guns, automatic rifles with telescopic sights, loudspeakers and duplicating machines to make propaganda amongst the Burmans and plenty of portable radios, on one of which Wingate intends to sit down in the heart of the jungle and make a regular report each evening, direct to Wavell in New Delhi.
Wingate organised the Patriot's revolt which preceded the British invasion of Abyssinia. Then his career slumped. He was a Major without a job. He felt we were fighting the war all wrong —particularly the war against Japan, and he didn't hesitate to tell Wavell so. His friends say right then he felt suicidal. But Wavell, having met him and probably sensed the mystique which emanates from this man summoned him from obscurity, made him a Brigadier and told him to put his ideas into practice.
So at thirty-eight this thoughtful, yellow-haired man with the abstracted eye, the hawklike profile and the air of a minor poet finds himself marching into Burma at the head of a ghost army which has been trained six months to the tip of perfection for the gruelling task ahead of it. Leaning on his shepherd's stock with his bush shirt already torn and his East African topee of archaic design greening with the damp, he swings lightly through the jungle and gives me the same argument he must have given Wavell initially.
"We must not overrate the Jap," he said. "His plans are such as might be made by the Rumanian, or any other third-rate, general staff. The Jap is no superman. His strength is that if you sit him in a hole, give him a hundred rounds and ask him to die for his Emperor, he will do so. The thing for us to do is to leave him sitting in that hole and go elsewhere, behind him. Leave him dying for his Emperor, without food or water. If we combine political warfare with fighting we shall beat the Jap, for after all we have the political message the world wants to hear—the message of freedom."
Alaric Jacob had a busy war and was present at some of the most important and critical actions of WW2, these included, the aftermath at Dunkirk, the siege of Tobruk, El Alamein and Soviet Red Army's advance from Moscow. Here is how he remembered his time with the 77th Indian Infantry Brigade in early 1943.
WINGATE'S CIRCUS
Orde Charles Wingate is invading Burma. He and several thousand other guys. This looks like a commando raid and, in a way, it is the biggest commando raid of the war, yet no commandos were ever asked to do what Wingate demands of these boys. They are going in to fight and live in the heart of Japanese occupied Burma for three months, maybe six, and I am going with them.
Few had heard of Wingate outside the military staff colleges, but one will certainly hear plenty of him from now on. Some say he is mad. But he was astute enough to sell this extra-ordinary expedition to Field-Marshal Wavell who has given him all the equipment he has asked for and a free hand, and some very rum equipment it is too—strictly non-mechanised and pre-blitzkrieg you understand, just mules, oxen for carrying fodder then to be eaten themselves, horses, elephants which tote eight hundred pounds apiece, a few bicycles and bullock carts and of course mortars, bren and sten guns, tommy guns, automatic rifles with telescopic sights, loudspeakers and duplicating machines to make propaganda amongst the Burmans and plenty of portable radios, on one of which Wingate intends to sit down in the heart of the jungle and make a regular report each evening, direct to Wavell in New Delhi.
Wingate organised the Patriot's revolt which preceded the British invasion of Abyssinia. Then his career slumped. He was a Major without a job. He felt we were fighting the war all wrong —particularly the war against Japan, and he didn't hesitate to tell Wavell so. His friends say right then he felt suicidal. But Wavell, having met him and probably sensed the mystique which emanates from this man summoned him from obscurity, made him a Brigadier and told him to put his ideas into practice.
So at thirty-eight this thoughtful, yellow-haired man with the abstracted eye, the hawklike profile and the air of a minor poet finds himself marching into Burma at the head of a ghost army which has been trained six months to the tip of perfection for the gruelling task ahead of it. Leaning on his shepherd's stock with his bush shirt already torn and his East African topee of archaic design greening with the damp, he swings lightly through the jungle and gives me the same argument he must have given Wavell initially.
"We must not overrate the Jap," he said. "His plans are such as might be made by the Rumanian, or any other third-rate, general staff. The Jap is no superman. His strength is that if you sit him in a hole, give him a hundred rounds and ask him to die for his Emperor, he will do so. The thing for us to do is to leave him sitting in that hole and go elsewhere, behind him. Leave him dying for his Emperor, without food or water. If we combine political warfare with fighting we shall beat the Jap, for after all we have the political message the world wants to hear—the message of freedom."
Field Marshall Wavell visits the Chindits at Imphal just before the off. Behind him, Brigadier Wingate (left) and the US Army's, General Sommerville.
"A good General must also be a politician, but the clever politician is rarely a General. I shall do much political work in Burma, but my political aims are very simple. I make no promises the United Nations cannot keep. I have some experience in raising irregular bodies in an occupied country and I am convinced the days when you could go in with some gold and rifles and ask tribesmen to fight for you are past.
Tribesmen don't respect white men who invite others to fight for them, but they will fight with you in their own interest. So I shall say to the Burmese, 'We are here to fight a common enemy; we don't need you to fight our battles for us, but if you want to assist and prove yourselves worthy to fight with us, we will train you and assist you. You will certainly be better off after the war if you fight now, rather than let us win the war for you; you do not want your fields to become the battleground between two great powers, experiencing all the horrors of war without experiencing its compensations or rewards."
Banging his stick on the ground, Wingate said very emphatically, "I am certainly not going in to make Burma safe for Colonel Blimp. Manifestos I carry call on the Burmese to do nothing to aid the fierce scowling Jap. For the rest they'll see our military power and the air power I shall whistle up whenever I need it, and our arms, better than any written propaganda, will speak for themselves."
Shortly before, I (Jacob) had never heard of Wingate or his Chindits, as at his suggestion, we began to call them. Chindits are the fabulous lions which guard the Burmese pagodas.
In Manipur State all had been quiet, scarcely even patrolling. Then came a sudden summons from General Scoones, who said, "You can march into Burma with the Chindits tomorrow. You must carry a week's rations on your back and be completely self-contained; you must ask the Chindits for nothing, for they cannot carry passengers. You have my permission to march with them as far as the Chindwin River and get back from there as best you can, but you must promise me not to go further, for you are not a fighting man and could not pull your weight. Besides, they may be in there half a year and I dare say you have other things to do."
Seen below is a photograph of the five war correspondents who accompanied the first Chindit Expedition in February 1943. There is some discrepancy as to the identity of the fourth man in this photograph, it is possible that it might be Wilfred Burchett, the famous Australian born journalist who was certainly in the vicinity and had been talking with Wingate before the operation set out. However, Burchett is not mentioned within Alaric Jacob's account and so I have opted to suggest that this is in fact Captain Jack Potter formerly of the Daily Express newspaper.
There is another photograph of these men elsewhere on this website, which further discusses the issue of their identity and their ongoing involvement in the press coverage of WW2. Please click on the link and scroll down to find the information: Gallery ID Parade
Tribesmen don't respect white men who invite others to fight for them, but they will fight with you in their own interest. So I shall say to the Burmese, 'We are here to fight a common enemy; we don't need you to fight our battles for us, but if you want to assist and prove yourselves worthy to fight with us, we will train you and assist you. You will certainly be better off after the war if you fight now, rather than let us win the war for you; you do not want your fields to become the battleground between two great powers, experiencing all the horrors of war without experiencing its compensations or rewards."
Banging his stick on the ground, Wingate said very emphatically, "I am certainly not going in to make Burma safe for Colonel Blimp. Manifestos I carry call on the Burmese to do nothing to aid the fierce scowling Jap. For the rest they'll see our military power and the air power I shall whistle up whenever I need it, and our arms, better than any written propaganda, will speak for themselves."
Shortly before, I (Jacob) had never heard of Wingate or his Chindits, as at his suggestion, we began to call them. Chindits are the fabulous lions which guard the Burmese pagodas.
In Manipur State all had been quiet, scarcely even patrolling. Then came a sudden summons from General Scoones, who said, "You can march into Burma with the Chindits tomorrow. You must carry a week's rations on your back and be completely self-contained; you must ask the Chindits for nothing, for they cannot carry passengers. You have my permission to march with them as far as the Chindwin River and get back from there as best you can, but you must promise me not to go further, for you are not a fighting man and could not pull your weight. Besides, they may be in there half a year and I dare say you have other things to do."
Seen below is a photograph of the five war correspondents who accompanied the first Chindit Expedition in February 1943. There is some discrepancy as to the identity of the fourth man in this photograph, it is possible that it might be Wilfred Burchett, the famous Australian born journalist who was certainly in the vicinity and had been talking with Wingate before the operation set out. However, Burchett is not mentioned within Alaric Jacob's account and so I have opted to suggest that this is in fact Captain Jack Potter formerly of the Daily Express newspaper.
There is another photograph of these men elsewhere on this website, which further discusses the issue of their identity and their ongoing involvement in the press coverage of WW2. Please click on the link and scroll down to find the information: Gallery ID Parade
Left-Right. Stuart Emeny (News Chronicle), Martin Moore (Daily Telegraph), Tony Beauchamp (Photographer), Captain Jack Potter and Alaric Jacob.
Jacob's memoir continues:
I looked at my inadequate shoes—'gent's Oxfords' a show salesman would call them, and bethought myself how I would show up alongside these highly trained men, I who had been motoring around the Western Desert during the past eighteen months where we rarely set foot to ground, and I havered slightly. But the lure of the story was too strong. So before dawn the next day I found myself setting off to find Wingate. Stuart Emeny of the News-Chronicle and Martin Moore of the Daily Telegraph went with me.
That night we found him (Wingate) sitting with his officers around a log fire in the jungle eating pears out of a can and lucidly defending the comic strip as a contribution to contemporary art. His talk ranged far and wide as his men listened. He was very much the soldier/philosopher, the General Gordon type, but without Gordon's religiosity. On the eve of staking his life and reputation on this wild venture, he scarcely mentioned military matters, but seemed very concerned about the future of British literature.
Poetry, he said, had become separated from the people. His favourite poem was Grey's Elegy, you could understand that. He quoted from the Greeks to illustrate his points, anglicising with unostentatious politeness for those who could not follow. He rebuked a man who discarded an empty can, saying, "This jungle is a beautiful place, don't let's tarnish it."
He even botanised, jumping up and gathering rare flowers whose odour only exhaled at night. Then he turned to me, "Better get an early bed for we invade tomorrow. My cook, Fu Manchu, will give you some tea. Eat some bully and get some rest." Abruptly the campfire broke up, the chief strolling off and bedding himself down under a tree already dripping with night dew.
NB. Fu Manchu was the nickname given to Wingate's Madrassi cook who had been with the Brigadier for over six months and had followed him wherever training and orders had decreed.
I looked at my inadequate shoes—'gent's Oxfords' a show salesman would call them, and bethought myself how I would show up alongside these highly trained men, I who had been motoring around the Western Desert during the past eighteen months where we rarely set foot to ground, and I havered slightly. But the lure of the story was too strong. So before dawn the next day I found myself setting off to find Wingate. Stuart Emeny of the News-Chronicle and Martin Moore of the Daily Telegraph went with me.
That night we found him (Wingate) sitting with his officers around a log fire in the jungle eating pears out of a can and lucidly defending the comic strip as a contribution to contemporary art. His talk ranged far and wide as his men listened. He was very much the soldier/philosopher, the General Gordon type, but without Gordon's religiosity. On the eve of staking his life and reputation on this wild venture, he scarcely mentioned military matters, but seemed very concerned about the future of British literature.
Poetry, he said, had become separated from the people. His favourite poem was Grey's Elegy, you could understand that. He quoted from the Greeks to illustrate his points, anglicising with unostentatious politeness for those who could not follow. He rebuked a man who discarded an empty can, saying, "This jungle is a beautiful place, don't let's tarnish it."
He even botanised, jumping up and gathering rare flowers whose odour only exhaled at night. Then he turned to me, "Better get an early bed for we invade tomorrow. My cook, Fu Manchu, will give you some tea. Eat some bully and get some rest." Abruptly the campfire broke up, the chief strolling off and bedding himself down under a tree already dripping with night dew.
NB. Fu Manchu was the nickname given to Wingate's Madrassi cook who had been with the Brigadier for over six months and had followed him wherever training and orders had decreed.
Brigadier Wingate discusses the plan to cross the Chindwin River with his fellow Chindit Officers.
It is forlorn and intimidating, this first jungle night. You acclimatise yourself to the moaning of the trees stirred by the night breeze, the barking of baboons and the occasional stirring of bigger animals, but it is hard to shake off the fear of snakes and impossible to disregard the penetrating dampness and cold ground. The droning of mosquitoes goes on like the noise of distant machinery. Small risk of malaria this time of the year, they tell me, but if you are unlucky it may be the cerebral variety, which is frequently fatal. Few sleep without a net despite the discomfort of wet netting around your face.
The early morning bugle sounds. I am allotted to march with cheerful Major Scott, until recently an electrical engineer with the Liverpool Corporation. His second in command worked in Lancashire at the great soap works of Lever Brothers, and the third in a Liverpool department store. I strap on my pack, with blanket and groundsheet rolled on the top. A Burmese Prince who is going in to rally his people for Wingate cuts me a bamboo stick which he says I shall need for climbing. I have got nearly fifty pounds on my back. The Chindits have light parachute rations, but we must stagger along under bully and biscuits.
NB. The Burmese Prince mentioned was Sao Man Hpa of the Shan States, he had agreed to join the Brigade and perform propaganda duties in villages along the way.
Alaric Jacob continues:
I carry a sterilising outfit to render the filthiest water drinkable, and an aluminium cooking pot. The Chindits sleep in one very light Kashmir blanket between two and carry only one change of shirt, socks and underpants, and no shaving gear. All are growing beards. Everything is sacrificed for lightness and mobility. Wingate's headquarters is any log he happens to sit on, the portable radio alongside and one mule pannier with essential papers.
We set off, a long serpentine column. Each pack animal has a man guiding him. The route lies from Tamu just inside Burma, some forty miles to the north-east up the Yu River valley to Thaman, thence over a mountain trail two thousand feet high to the Chindwin River.
It soon gets warm and we sweat till we glisten like characters in some phoney jungle film. But I must say by daylight this jungle is very lovely, like a beautiful national park, not gloomy or frightening at all.
Wingate lopes up alongside. Naturally he is not sweating in the least. I get off twice with him on the wrong foot. Firstly by making a vague reference to Lawrence of Arabia, of whom Wingate has a poor opinion, and with whom he dislikes being compared, and secondly by being of the opinion that the Chindits seemed rather like Soviet guerrillas.
"Not on your life," says Wingate. "Guerrillas are patriots who fight for the independence of their country, usually after it has been overrun and usually unsuccessfully, because they lack equipment and supplies. No, my force is best termed a long-range penetration group. One of our functions is to organise Burmese guerrillas to fight alongside us, but primarily I am going to employ two weapons which have never been fully exploited before and certainly not in unison—air power and radio.
Air action by itself is comparable to firing your Artillery without ever going forward to follow it up on the ground. Air power, like Artillery, should be used conjointly with observation posts on the ground. I use radio to keep contact between myself and my columns, to keep touch with my base and to summon protection, striking power and supplies from the air.
My force consists of a number of columns and my own Headquarters Column, each entirely self-contained with a commando group, to perform demolitions, reconnaissance and bridge-building; a section of regular British Infantrymen, a section of Gurkhas, a section of the Burma Rifles Regiment all knowing the terrain well and expert in propaganda amongst natives, and R.A.F. men as radio technicians and liaison with our supporting aircraft. This expedition will live off the country and for the rest be supplied entirely by air," he added.
"The animals are very important. Should my pack-train become diseased and die we would be scuppered. But I have no muleteers as such. Every man is a fighting man and it takes even higher courage to lead an animal into action than it does to lie down and fire. The Distinguished Conduct Medal might well signify 'died chasing mules.'
The early morning bugle sounds. I am allotted to march with cheerful Major Scott, until recently an electrical engineer with the Liverpool Corporation. His second in command worked in Lancashire at the great soap works of Lever Brothers, and the third in a Liverpool department store. I strap on my pack, with blanket and groundsheet rolled on the top. A Burmese Prince who is going in to rally his people for Wingate cuts me a bamboo stick which he says I shall need for climbing. I have got nearly fifty pounds on my back. The Chindits have light parachute rations, but we must stagger along under bully and biscuits.
NB. The Burmese Prince mentioned was Sao Man Hpa of the Shan States, he had agreed to join the Brigade and perform propaganda duties in villages along the way.
Alaric Jacob continues:
I carry a sterilising outfit to render the filthiest water drinkable, and an aluminium cooking pot. The Chindits sleep in one very light Kashmir blanket between two and carry only one change of shirt, socks and underpants, and no shaving gear. All are growing beards. Everything is sacrificed for lightness and mobility. Wingate's headquarters is any log he happens to sit on, the portable radio alongside and one mule pannier with essential papers.
We set off, a long serpentine column. Each pack animal has a man guiding him. The route lies from Tamu just inside Burma, some forty miles to the north-east up the Yu River valley to Thaman, thence over a mountain trail two thousand feet high to the Chindwin River.
It soon gets warm and we sweat till we glisten like characters in some phoney jungle film. But I must say by daylight this jungle is very lovely, like a beautiful national park, not gloomy or frightening at all.
Wingate lopes up alongside. Naturally he is not sweating in the least. I get off twice with him on the wrong foot. Firstly by making a vague reference to Lawrence of Arabia, of whom Wingate has a poor opinion, and with whom he dislikes being compared, and secondly by being of the opinion that the Chindits seemed rather like Soviet guerrillas.
"Not on your life," says Wingate. "Guerrillas are patriots who fight for the independence of their country, usually after it has been overrun and usually unsuccessfully, because they lack equipment and supplies. No, my force is best termed a long-range penetration group. One of our functions is to organise Burmese guerrillas to fight alongside us, but primarily I am going to employ two weapons which have never been fully exploited before and certainly not in unison—air power and radio.
Air action by itself is comparable to firing your Artillery without ever going forward to follow it up on the ground. Air power, like Artillery, should be used conjointly with observation posts on the ground. I use radio to keep contact between myself and my columns, to keep touch with my base and to summon protection, striking power and supplies from the air.
My force consists of a number of columns and my own Headquarters Column, each entirely self-contained with a commando group, to perform demolitions, reconnaissance and bridge-building; a section of regular British Infantrymen, a section of Gurkhas, a section of the Burma Rifles Regiment all knowing the terrain well and expert in propaganda amongst natives, and R.A.F. men as radio technicians and liaison with our supporting aircraft. This expedition will live off the country and for the rest be supplied entirely by air," he added.
"The animals are very important. Should my pack-train become diseased and die we would be scuppered. But I have no muleteers as such. Every man is a fighting man and it takes even higher courage to lead an animal into action than it does to lie down and fire. The Distinguished Conduct Medal might well signify 'died chasing mules.'
Map of the journey down to the Chindwin River and the crossing points of Tonhe and Hwematte.
At a track junction Wingate paused and drawing his kukri or curved Gurkha knife, cut the bark off a tree, making a sign thereon to indicate the direction and, at the same time, he ordered five of the men to fell a tree across an alternative path to prevent men losing their way. I asked him how he chose his men. "Most of my Chindits are not in their first youth," he replied, "but married men between twenty-eight and thirty-five who previously had done coastal defence work and never dreamt they would be shock troops doing one of the toughest jobs of this war. But I selected them deliberately. If ordinary family men from Liverpool, Manchester, and so on, can do this specialised jungle war behind the Jap lines, then any fit man in the British Army can do likewise, and we show ourselves to the world as fighting men second to none—which I believe we are.
It is highly important for the making of the peace after the war that the British race should prove themselves again to be supreme fighters. Should we fail, most of us will never be heard of again; should we succeed, we will have demonstrated a new style of warfare to the world, bettered the Jap at his own game and brought nearer the day when the Jap will be thrown bag and baggage out of Burma."
It is ironic to reflect that just when the world must be thinking our war against the Japs in Burma is proceeding pretty haltingly, this prodigious activity should be going on behind the Jap lines. Yes, we are well inside Japland now. British troops are staging a diversion farther south which is probably why we encountered no opposition so far.
Marching beside red-moustached Captain Jack Potter, once of the Daily Express, we play our 'Cliche game' when he describes the vegetation as 'lush,' swamps as 'mosquito infested,' crocodiles as "sinister saurians basking beady-eyed on mud-banks," and I reply, "See those trees dripping with exotic orchids."
To his men he calls out, "Keep a stiff upper lip, Carruthers," and when we pass a village with the old crones squatting in the sun he cries, "Come now, Carstairs, no mammy palaver." During the midday heat we rest, then push on as the evening approaches. Now the track narrows till it is rarely more than eighteen inches wide. The mules with their broad panniers keep crashing against the trees; loads are displaced and it requires infinite patience to tighten girths and prevent things from falling off and getting lost.
The oxen are even harder to handle, and they climb badly. And great Scott, how we are climbing now. Up mountain sides which have a gradient of one in two. The path winds over flat slippery rocks, through streams rushing down from the mountains. We are under cover the whole way as dense jungle covers the hills and nobody could spot us from the air. It is getting dark now.
The moon is up but it does not penetrate the curtain of leaves. You can just see the shape of the man ahead of you, and you struggle to keep up with him. Once you lose sight of that shape you might easily diverge from the track, drawing the whole column after you. We are all getting very weary.
Every now and then we pass the motionless figure of a sentry guarding the line of march. We stumble along cursing with a richer vocabulary than any of us knew we possessed. My feet, which normally cope with twelve stone, are now trying to support close on sixteen. No wonder you feel you'll never be able to straighten your shoulders again, even when the load is removed. A mule misses its footing and crashes over a precipice, screaming in a horribly human way as it goes over. There is a gun on its back which must be retrieved, so the column halts while muleteers lower themselves over the tree-spattered 'kud,' as they call the mountain sides, with ropes and crowbars.
This gives us a little breathing spell and we sink down on the bank, grateful to take the weight off our backs and feet. It seems one of the elephants had gone over the kud too, but he scrambles back under his own power. I believe those creatures could carry a load across a tight rope.
Whistling like a bird call sounds down the line. Is it one of those Japanese signals we have heard so much about? No, it is our own Major ordering us to resume the march. We plod on in the darkness, mindful of nothing save the effort of just putting one foot in front of another and keeping one's balance and not falling down.
Now we stumble down into a valley where a few campfires are. We are told to halt and fall out. We obey, literally. Take a step out of line, spread a blanket, lie down, nibble biscuits, drink water and fall asleep. Soon we wake up again when the sweat on our bodies turns icy cold. The night seems interminable. Animals lost en route and brought in by recovery parties step over us all night long. Each passing mule methodically knocks down my mosquito netting spread upon twigs.
At dawn the march begins again. Three days and three nights we spend marching to the Chindwin. The track is one upon which thousands of refugees left Burma last year. Skeletons are still lying in the undergrowth and some hillman, with grisly humour, has put old clothes on one of them. We find human bones along the path where poor wretches, worn out with disease and fatigue, had lain down to die.
And now we get the first sight of the Chindwin, a broad stream down there fifteen hundred feet below, its channel hung with mist. Reconnaissance parties have already swum across and report the opposite bank momentarily clear of Japanese, but there is always a chance that an enemy launch may come up the river so anti-tank guns are mounted along the bank to guard the crossing.
Darkness gathers and a thunderstorm rolls down from the mountains as we approach. Talking is forbidden as we near the river. Silently, guides marshal us through the village of Ton He, whose inhabitants sit without lights in shuttered houses high on stilts. An exquisite smell of flowering shrubs revives us as we pass through the streets and across rice paddy fields. Lightning illuminates the path. The heavenly artillery of thunder crashing overhead is the only opposition we encounter. Here is the river crossing. Major Scott strips off his clothes and runs naked in, leading his charger. The Commando boys load their rubber boats. The Major calls out as he disappears into the dark stream, "Have a drink for me at the Cornmarket, if you are home before me." (The Cornmarket is a Liverpool pub.)
I wade some way over and park on a sandbank to watch the crossing. The thunder ceases and the moon reappears. A long line of men and animals stretches behind us from the margin of the jungle to the water's edge. In a sky now clear the sinister sound of aircraft is heard. We all stand stockstill, trying to escape observation and try to get the animals to do likewise. The plane circles around as though observing. I see it pass across the moon's aura. How can the airman up there fail to see this prodigious movement of men and beasts? But an R.A.F. Officer sets our minds at rest. "O.K. boys, it's one of ours getting a bearing to drop supplies." And sure enough, the pilot switches on his lights. A flare goes up from the opposite bank and the machine makes its run, releasing its load of food and ammunition. The first aerial reinforcement has succeeded.
It is highly important for the making of the peace after the war that the British race should prove themselves again to be supreme fighters. Should we fail, most of us will never be heard of again; should we succeed, we will have demonstrated a new style of warfare to the world, bettered the Jap at his own game and brought nearer the day when the Jap will be thrown bag and baggage out of Burma."
It is ironic to reflect that just when the world must be thinking our war against the Japs in Burma is proceeding pretty haltingly, this prodigious activity should be going on behind the Jap lines. Yes, we are well inside Japland now. British troops are staging a diversion farther south which is probably why we encountered no opposition so far.
Marching beside red-moustached Captain Jack Potter, once of the Daily Express, we play our 'Cliche game' when he describes the vegetation as 'lush,' swamps as 'mosquito infested,' crocodiles as "sinister saurians basking beady-eyed on mud-banks," and I reply, "See those trees dripping with exotic orchids."
To his men he calls out, "Keep a stiff upper lip, Carruthers," and when we pass a village with the old crones squatting in the sun he cries, "Come now, Carstairs, no mammy palaver." During the midday heat we rest, then push on as the evening approaches. Now the track narrows till it is rarely more than eighteen inches wide. The mules with their broad panniers keep crashing against the trees; loads are displaced and it requires infinite patience to tighten girths and prevent things from falling off and getting lost.
The oxen are even harder to handle, and they climb badly. And great Scott, how we are climbing now. Up mountain sides which have a gradient of one in two. The path winds over flat slippery rocks, through streams rushing down from the mountains. We are under cover the whole way as dense jungle covers the hills and nobody could spot us from the air. It is getting dark now.
The moon is up but it does not penetrate the curtain of leaves. You can just see the shape of the man ahead of you, and you struggle to keep up with him. Once you lose sight of that shape you might easily diverge from the track, drawing the whole column after you. We are all getting very weary.
Every now and then we pass the motionless figure of a sentry guarding the line of march. We stumble along cursing with a richer vocabulary than any of us knew we possessed. My feet, which normally cope with twelve stone, are now trying to support close on sixteen. No wonder you feel you'll never be able to straighten your shoulders again, even when the load is removed. A mule misses its footing and crashes over a precipice, screaming in a horribly human way as it goes over. There is a gun on its back which must be retrieved, so the column halts while muleteers lower themselves over the tree-spattered 'kud,' as they call the mountain sides, with ropes and crowbars.
This gives us a little breathing spell and we sink down on the bank, grateful to take the weight off our backs and feet. It seems one of the elephants had gone over the kud too, but he scrambles back under his own power. I believe those creatures could carry a load across a tight rope.
Whistling like a bird call sounds down the line. Is it one of those Japanese signals we have heard so much about? No, it is our own Major ordering us to resume the march. We plod on in the darkness, mindful of nothing save the effort of just putting one foot in front of another and keeping one's balance and not falling down.
Now we stumble down into a valley where a few campfires are. We are told to halt and fall out. We obey, literally. Take a step out of line, spread a blanket, lie down, nibble biscuits, drink water and fall asleep. Soon we wake up again when the sweat on our bodies turns icy cold. The night seems interminable. Animals lost en route and brought in by recovery parties step over us all night long. Each passing mule methodically knocks down my mosquito netting spread upon twigs.
At dawn the march begins again. Three days and three nights we spend marching to the Chindwin. The track is one upon which thousands of refugees left Burma last year. Skeletons are still lying in the undergrowth and some hillman, with grisly humour, has put old clothes on one of them. We find human bones along the path where poor wretches, worn out with disease and fatigue, had lain down to die.
And now we get the first sight of the Chindwin, a broad stream down there fifteen hundred feet below, its channel hung with mist. Reconnaissance parties have already swum across and report the opposite bank momentarily clear of Japanese, but there is always a chance that an enemy launch may come up the river so anti-tank guns are mounted along the bank to guard the crossing.
Darkness gathers and a thunderstorm rolls down from the mountains as we approach. Talking is forbidden as we near the river. Silently, guides marshal us through the village of Ton He, whose inhabitants sit without lights in shuttered houses high on stilts. An exquisite smell of flowering shrubs revives us as we pass through the streets and across rice paddy fields. Lightning illuminates the path. The heavenly artillery of thunder crashing overhead is the only opposition we encounter. Here is the river crossing. Major Scott strips off his clothes and runs naked in, leading his charger. The Commando boys load their rubber boats. The Major calls out as he disappears into the dark stream, "Have a drink for me at the Cornmarket, if you are home before me." (The Cornmarket is a Liverpool pub.)
I wade some way over and park on a sandbank to watch the crossing. The thunder ceases and the moon reappears. A long line of men and animals stretches behind us from the margin of the jungle to the water's edge. In a sky now clear the sinister sound of aircraft is heard. We all stand stockstill, trying to escape observation and try to get the animals to do likewise. The plane circles around as though observing. I see it pass across the moon's aura. How can the airman up there fail to see this prodigious movement of men and beasts? But an R.A.F. Officer sets our minds at rest. "O.K. boys, it's one of ours getting a bearing to drop supplies." And sure enough, the pilot switches on his lights. A flare goes up from the opposite bank and the machine makes its run, releasing its load of food and ammunition. The first aerial reinforcement has succeeded.
Chindits from Column 8 ready for the crossing.
|
Column 5 begin their crossing at Hwematte.
|
Half an hour later a second British plane comes over on an identical mission. All the while the swimming and ferrying of animals across goes on. The mules nearly drive one crazy; you take them to the water but you can't make them swim. Fifteen will be got halfway over, three will go on and, all the others swim back.
Hour after hour with infinite patience, the stubborn, frightened animals are put to this obstacle again and again until at last all are across. Several columns are safely over now. I spread my blanket on the sandbank and sleep.
Before the first parrot has squawked in the dawn the crossing begins again. Wingate rides along the bank getting reports before riding his charger into the stream and swimming him across.
I begin thinking of the long way back, a hundred and twenty miles still before us. Once the Japs discover what is going on in their backyard it seems likely they will cross the river and, assuming the Chindits possess lines of communication which, of course, they don't, will try to cut the same and we, walking back to India, will be right on that line.
This consideration spurs us on. The last Chindits are getting into boats and paddling across. A few Burmans in dug-out canoes come up like gondoliers plying for hire and calling "anymore for other side?"
The campfires of our men can be seen burning far away in the jungle to the east. Surely it cannot be long before the Japanese bring them to their first engagement. Frightened Burmese who heard the padding of troops and animals through their village all night long emerge with the day and stand agape on the river bank.
In a beautiful little temple with a gold pagoda the priest tolls the morning bell. For whom tolls the bell? For many of these valiant men from smoky English towns, Burmese forests and Nepalese mountains whose voices are fading away across that river now, fading out into a wild adventure whence many cannot hope to return.
One of the last across is my friend Captain Motilal Katju, the favourite nephew of the poetess Mrs. Sarojini Naidu, who is imprisoned with Gandhi in the Aga Khan's Palace at Poona. This Indian intellectual is as nationalist as his fellow Kashmiri Brahmin, Jawaharlal Nehru, but precisely because he wants India for the Indians he has volunteered from a life of wealth and comfort to fight Japan and, with a tommy-gun in one hand and a notebook in the other, he is going in as the expedition's official historian. Already he has marched three hundred miles and his feet are in ribbons.
We stand together in the stream shaking hands. Gandhi has begun his fast and I am going to Poona so Moti says, "Then you'll see my Auntie, give her my love, won't you," and this gallant Indian whose Military Cross, won in Libya, was the first award to a news writer in this war for bravery under fire, waved and swam out of my sight. I never saw him again. Three months later, the day before he was due to cross the Indian frontier into safety, he was killed in a Japanese ambush.
NB. The story of Captain Motilal Katju and his time in Burma can be found at the foot of this page.
Hour after hour with infinite patience, the stubborn, frightened animals are put to this obstacle again and again until at last all are across. Several columns are safely over now. I spread my blanket on the sandbank and sleep.
Before the first parrot has squawked in the dawn the crossing begins again. Wingate rides along the bank getting reports before riding his charger into the stream and swimming him across.
I begin thinking of the long way back, a hundred and twenty miles still before us. Once the Japs discover what is going on in their backyard it seems likely they will cross the river and, assuming the Chindits possess lines of communication which, of course, they don't, will try to cut the same and we, walking back to India, will be right on that line.
This consideration spurs us on. The last Chindits are getting into boats and paddling across. A few Burmans in dug-out canoes come up like gondoliers plying for hire and calling "anymore for other side?"
The campfires of our men can be seen burning far away in the jungle to the east. Surely it cannot be long before the Japanese bring them to their first engagement. Frightened Burmese who heard the padding of troops and animals through their village all night long emerge with the day and stand agape on the river bank.
In a beautiful little temple with a gold pagoda the priest tolls the morning bell. For whom tolls the bell? For many of these valiant men from smoky English towns, Burmese forests and Nepalese mountains whose voices are fading away across that river now, fading out into a wild adventure whence many cannot hope to return.
One of the last across is my friend Captain Motilal Katju, the favourite nephew of the poetess Mrs. Sarojini Naidu, who is imprisoned with Gandhi in the Aga Khan's Palace at Poona. This Indian intellectual is as nationalist as his fellow Kashmiri Brahmin, Jawaharlal Nehru, but precisely because he wants India for the Indians he has volunteered from a life of wealth and comfort to fight Japan and, with a tommy-gun in one hand and a notebook in the other, he is going in as the expedition's official historian. Already he has marched three hundred miles and his feet are in ribbons.
We stand together in the stream shaking hands. Gandhi has begun his fast and I am going to Poona so Moti says, "Then you'll see my Auntie, give her my love, won't you," and this gallant Indian whose Military Cross, won in Libya, was the first award to a news writer in this war for bravery under fire, waved and swam out of my sight. I never saw him again. Three months later, the day before he was due to cross the Indian frontier into safety, he was killed in a Japanese ambush.
NB. The story of Captain Motilal Katju and his time in Burma can be found at the foot of this page.
Acting Captain Motilal Katju, seen here in April 1943.
Alaric Jacob's account continues:
We felt pretty isolated after the last Chindit had crossed the Chindwin and we stood on the banks of the river alone. Five of us were going to march back into India together, Emeny and Moore, Captain Jack Potter, Captain Tony Beauchamp, the official photographer, and myself. Something had been said about giving us an escort, but no guides showed up. We had to rely on our own sense of direction to get ourselves home. I am a bit fanatical about my bump of locality, about being able to find my way in strange country without a compass. Emeny was rather proud of his bump too, and we had a few disputes at track junctions in consequence.
The ardour of the Chindits had kept us going all the way out but now that we were alone, our spirits fell. We spent an hour or two wandering in the temple by the riverside, taking pictures of the Buddhas and of the charming priest's house on stilts. There was dead silence in the village. Seeing us there, the priests had gone away. To tip off a Japanese patrol perhaps? We made jokes about this to cover the considerable uneasiness we all felt.
We climbed up the hill and rested in the undergrowth during the heat of the day. At one moment, wandering around in search of bananas to pick, Emeny and I thought we stumbled on a wild boar. Something large and black was breathing heavily in front of us, but being unarmed, we lost no time in checking up on our fears, but made off towards the shelter of Potter's and Beauchamp's revolvers—the only weapons the party possessed.
In the evening we started the march back. We climbed for several hours then, when the moon rose, parked down on top of the mountain on a site where the Chindits had camped on their way out. A lot of their equipment was lying about there. Lightly loaded though they had been, the men had found their blankets too much for them. Hundreds of blankets were lying about under the trees, and a considerable number of binoculars, several hundred pounds worth of equipment in fact. Truly, war is a wasteful business. An enterprising second-hand dealer could have cleaned up a little fortune in this one glade, but I don't know how he would have got it away. Although we had eaten ourselves right out of bully and were living now on parachute rations Major Scott gave us, we did not pick up a single souvenir.
Seen below are two photographs from the war correspondents time on the march back into India. Please click on the images to enlarge.
We felt pretty isolated after the last Chindit had crossed the Chindwin and we stood on the banks of the river alone. Five of us were going to march back into India together, Emeny and Moore, Captain Jack Potter, Captain Tony Beauchamp, the official photographer, and myself. Something had been said about giving us an escort, but no guides showed up. We had to rely on our own sense of direction to get ourselves home. I am a bit fanatical about my bump of locality, about being able to find my way in strange country without a compass. Emeny was rather proud of his bump too, and we had a few disputes at track junctions in consequence.
The ardour of the Chindits had kept us going all the way out but now that we were alone, our spirits fell. We spent an hour or two wandering in the temple by the riverside, taking pictures of the Buddhas and of the charming priest's house on stilts. There was dead silence in the village. Seeing us there, the priests had gone away. To tip off a Japanese patrol perhaps? We made jokes about this to cover the considerable uneasiness we all felt.
We climbed up the hill and rested in the undergrowth during the heat of the day. At one moment, wandering around in search of bananas to pick, Emeny and I thought we stumbled on a wild boar. Something large and black was breathing heavily in front of us, but being unarmed, we lost no time in checking up on our fears, but made off towards the shelter of Potter's and Beauchamp's revolvers—the only weapons the party possessed.
In the evening we started the march back. We climbed for several hours then, when the moon rose, parked down on top of the mountain on a site where the Chindits had camped on their way out. A lot of their equipment was lying about there. Lightly loaded though they had been, the men had found their blankets too much for them. Hundreds of blankets were lying about under the trees, and a considerable number of binoculars, several hundred pounds worth of equipment in fact. Truly, war is a wasteful business. An enterprising second-hand dealer could have cleaned up a little fortune in this one glade, but I don't know how he would have got it away. Although we had eaten ourselves right out of bully and were living now on parachute rations Major Scott gave us, we did not pick up a single souvenir.
Seen below are two photographs from the war correspondents time on the march back into India. Please click on the images to enlarge.
Jacob, Beauchamp and Potter in the village Pagoda.
|
The priests house mentioned in the memoir.
|
Alaric's memoir concludes:
The next day was very hot. The mosquitoes proved to be man-eaters, even though they were not malarial. We slogged along hour after hour, resting ten minutes out of each hour. The parachute nuts and raisins didn't seem to agree with me. I began to get 'that sinking feeling' in the stomach and my ten minute rests started to stretch out into quarter of an hour, then twenty minutes. Martin Moore, a herbivorous creature and a nut-eater in normal life, fared the best of all. He seemed tireless. We asked him to stop and crop a hedgerow every now and then, to give us a chance to catch up. I was in poor shape and Stuart Emeny was not much better.
Nevertheless we kept plodding on, one foot in front of the other, without thinking too much about our wretched state. Actually, we were making better time going back than on the way out: for one thing, there were no mule-trains or elephants to encumber the track. And we were all a little Jap-Conscious: that gave wings to our feet, too. At long last we sighted the Yu River. In the last few miles we managed to lose ourselves in the undergrowth and it was evening before we scrambled down to the river bank and, throwing off our filthy clothes, jumped in. The water ran fast and icy cold. We felt as though we were swimming in champagne. We were not yet out of Burma, but we were close to the frontier—and safe.
As weeks passed, Wingate's nightly reports to Wavell piled up a picture of the havoc caused to the Japanese far and wide in Burma north of Mandalay. The few thousand Chindits had a whole Japanese Division after them. They cut the main north-south railway in seventy places. They severed the communications behind the Japanese force which had been advancing into the Far North towards Fort Hertz, threatening American installations in Northern Assam, and they disrupted the supply-line of the Japanese operating against the Chinese up the Burma Road. They blasted bridges, raided airfields and fired supply dumps.
Once Wingate radioed urgently for air support to force the crossing of a river, but when the planes reached the pinpoint they reported nobody there, and we feared the worst.
Once a column headquarters was cut up and two codes captured, so that for days communication lapsed until all the columns could be warned to operate a new code. The Chindits' casualties were heavy and the wounded had to be left behind since evacuation was impossible. Wingate's sardonic quip was, "Well, boys, we will be as well tended by a Burmese maiden in a village as in the average military hospital, no doubt."
But when the rains came in May, bringing killing malaria, a far greater number than we had ever dared to hope came back alive. Just 80 per cent. In Wingate's words, they had "bested the Jap at his own game."
NB. Of the 3056 Chindit personnel that set out from Imphal in February 1943, 2182 managed to re-cross the Chindwin or wind their way back over the Chinese Borders.
Here is some more information about the men mentioned in this article:
The next day was very hot. The mosquitoes proved to be man-eaters, even though they were not malarial. We slogged along hour after hour, resting ten minutes out of each hour. The parachute nuts and raisins didn't seem to agree with me. I began to get 'that sinking feeling' in the stomach and my ten minute rests started to stretch out into quarter of an hour, then twenty minutes. Martin Moore, a herbivorous creature and a nut-eater in normal life, fared the best of all. He seemed tireless. We asked him to stop and crop a hedgerow every now and then, to give us a chance to catch up. I was in poor shape and Stuart Emeny was not much better.
Nevertheless we kept plodding on, one foot in front of the other, without thinking too much about our wretched state. Actually, we were making better time going back than on the way out: for one thing, there were no mule-trains or elephants to encumber the track. And we were all a little Jap-Conscious: that gave wings to our feet, too. At long last we sighted the Yu River. In the last few miles we managed to lose ourselves in the undergrowth and it was evening before we scrambled down to the river bank and, throwing off our filthy clothes, jumped in. The water ran fast and icy cold. We felt as though we were swimming in champagne. We were not yet out of Burma, but we were close to the frontier—and safe.
As weeks passed, Wingate's nightly reports to Wavell piled up a picture of the havoc caused to the Japanese far and wide in Burma north of Mandalay. The few thousand Chindits had a whole Japanese Division after them. They cut the main north-south railway in seventy places. They severed the communications behind the Japanese force which had been advancing into the Far North towards Fort Hertz, threatening American installations in Northern Assam, and they disrupted the supply-line of the Japanese operating against the Chinese up the Burma Road. They blasted bridges, raided airfields and fired supply dumps.
Once Wingate radioed urgently for air support to force the crossing of a river, but when the planes reached the pinpoint they reported nobody there, and we feared the worst.
Once a column headquarters was cut up and two codes captured, so that for days communication lapsed until all the columns could be warned to operate a new code. The Chindits' casualties were heavy and the wounded had to be left behind since evacuation was impossible. Wingate's sardonic quip was, "Well, boys, we will be as well tended by a Burmese maiden in a village as in the average military hospital, no doubt."
But when the rains came in May, bringing killing malaria, a far greater number than we had ever dared to hope came back alive. Just 80 per cent. In Wingate's words, they had "bested the Jap at his own game."
NB. Of the 3056 Chindit personnel that set out from Imphal in February 1943, 2182 managed to re-cross the Chindwin or wind their way back over the Chinese Borders.
Here is some more information about the men mentioned in this article:
Alaric Jacob
Alaric Jacob was born on 8th June 1909 in the city of Edinburgh. His somewhat unusual name derives from the Germanic and the two Visigoth Kings of the 4th and 5th centuries, one of which 'sacked' Rome in 410 AD.
He was educated at St. Cyprian's School in Eastbourne and The King's School in Canterbury. He was a very keen writer even during his school years and was taken on by Reuters as their Diplomatic Correspondent in the United States. As shown from the article above, he was the War Correspondent for the Daily Express during WW2. Alaric went on to work for the BBC in 1948.
Book catalogue includes:
'Seventeen' a novel of a student.
'A Traveller's War.'
'A Window in Moscow.'
'Scenes from a Bourgeois Life.'
'Two Ways in the World.'
'A Russian Journey.'
'Eminent Nonentities.'
Another newspaper journalist present with the Chindits was Wilfred Burchett, in his book from 1944, 'Wingate's Adventure', he mentions an article Alaric had written back in early 1943:
Burchett: With the Wingate force every man was a fighter. With no problem of transport and supplies and no static headquarters, each man was free to handle the weapons and he did so.
But neither the operational successes nor the tying down of Jap forces during the dry season was the main achievement of the Wingate Expedition. I have before me a cutting from the Daily Express dated 21st May, 1943, wherein is quoted a statement Wingate made in February to the Daily Express reporter, Alaric Jacob, just before the columns crossed into Burma. It sums up Wingate's chief hopes for the expedition.
"If this operation succeeds it will save thousands of lives. Should we fail, most of us will never be heard of again.
"If we succeed we shall have demonstrated a new style of warfare to the world, bested the Jap at his own game, and brought nearer the day when the Japanese will be thrown bag and baggage out of Burma. Most of my Chindits are not in their first youth, but married men between 28 and 35 years, who have previously done coastal defence and internal security work and never dreamt they would serve as shock troops, doing one of the toughest jobs any soldiers have undertaken in this war.
"If ordinary family men from Liverpool and Manchester can be trained for this specialised jungle war behind the enemy's lines, then any fit man in the British Army can be trained to do the same, and we show ourselves to the world as fighting men second to none, which I believe we are."
Burchett: It was a demonstration of an entirely new weapon and the demonstration was overwhelmingly successful.
Alaric Jacob died on the 26th January 1995 in London.
More information can be read about this extraordinary journalist on there excellent website 'Notable Jacobs'. Please follow the links below:
http://www.myjacobfamily.com/favershamjacobs/alaricjacob.htm
http://www.myjacobfamily.com/photoalbums/photosalaric.htm
He was educated at St. Cyprian's School in Eastbourne and The King's School in Canterbury. He was a very keen writer even during his school years and was taken on by Reuters as their Diplomatic Correspondent in the United States. As shown from the article above, he was the War Correspondent for the Daily Express during WW2. Alaric went on to work for the BBC in 1948.
Book catalogue includes:
'Seventeen' a novel of a student.
'A Traveller's War.'
'A Window in Moscow.'
'Scenes from a Bourgeois Life.'
'Two Ways in the World.'
'A Russian Journey.'
'Eminent Nonentities.'
Another newspaper journalist present with the Chindits was Wilfred Burchett, in his book from 1944, 'Wingate's Adventure', he mentions an article Alaric had written back in early 1943:
Burchett: With the Wingate force every man was a fighter. With no problem of transport and supplies and no static headquarters, each man was free to handle the weapons and he did so.
But neither the operational successes nor the tying down of Jap forces during the dry season was the main achievement of the Wingate Expedition. I have before me a cutting from the Daily Express dated 21st May, 1943, wherein is quoted a statement Wingate made in February to the Daily Express reporter, Alaric Jacob, just before the columns crossed into Burma. It sums up Wingate's chief hopes for the expedition.
"If this operation succeeds it will save thousands of lives. Should we fail, most of us will never be heard of again.
"If we succeed we shall have demonstrated a new style of warfare to the world, bested the Jap at his own game, and brought nearer the day when the Japanese will be thrown bag and baggage out of Burma. Most of my Chindits are not in their first youth, but married men between 28 and 35 years, who have previously done coastal defence and internal security work and never dreamt they would serve as shock troops, doing one of the toughest jobs any soldiers have undertaken in this war.
"If ordinary family men from Liverpool and Manchester can be trained for this specialised jungle war behind the enemy's lines, then any fit man in the British Army can be trained to do the same, and we show ourselves to the world as fighting men second to none, which I believe we are."
Burchett: It was a demonstration of an entirely new weapon and the demonstration was overwhelmingly successful.
Alaric Jacob died on the 26th January 1995 in London.
More information can be read about this extraordinary journalist on there excellent website 'Notable Jacobs'. Please follow the links below:
http://www.myjacobfamily.com/favershamjacobs/alaricjacob.htm
http://www.myjacobfamily.com/photoalbums/photosalaric.htm
Wilfred Burchett in War corespondent's uniform in 1945.
Although it is likely that Burchett does not feature in the photographs of the five journalists shown in Jacob's memoir, he was most definitely on the scene in February 1943. He spoke with Brigadier Wingate and some of his fellow officers, both before and after Operation Longcloth. Also present alongside Burchett at this time was newspaper war artist, Raymond Payne.
These discussions formed the basis of two of his books from that time, 'Wingate's Adventure' and 'Wingate's Phantom Army.' I have read several titles written by Wilfred Burchett and have always found them interesting, informative and worthy.
Wilfred Burchett was born on the 16th September 1911 in Melbourne, Australia. He had a tough upbringing during the hard times of the Great Depression of the 1930's helping out with the family business and turning his hand to whatever work became available.
Book catalogue, amongst notable others, includes:
'Wingate's Phantom Army.'
'Wingate's Adventure.'
'Trek Back from Burma.'
'Passport.'
Later in his journalistic life Wilfred Burchett's interest and passion in getting 'the story' from the opposite sides perspective, took him into such places as Hiroshima, Viet Nam and Korea. His life became plagued, although I am not sure that he saw it quite this way, by his association with these nations and their fledgling communist ideals. He became 'persona non grata' in his home country of Australia and struggled to obtain the travel documents needed to perform his role as an investigatory journalist.
Burchett will probably always be known for being the first western journalist to enter Hiroshima after the atomic bomb. His report on this incredible experience can be read by following the link below:
http://assets.cambridge.org/97805217/18264/excerpt/9780521718264_excerpt.pdf
Wilfred Burchett died on the 28th September 1983 in Sofia, Bulgaria. To understand more about the man, his work and his unusual life, please follow the links below:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rebel-Journalism-Writings-Wilfred-Burchett/dp/0521718260/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1382571164&sr=1-1&keywords=passport+burchett
http://www.nytimes.com/1983/09/28/obituaries/wilfred-burchett-dies-in-bulgaria.html
johnpilger.com/videos/the-outsiders-wilfred-burchett
These discussions formed the basis of two of his books from that time, 'Wingate's Adventure' and 'Wingate's Phantom Army.' I have read several titles written by Wilfred Burchett and have always found them interesting, informative and worthy.
Wilfred Burchett was born on the 16th September 1911 in Melbourne, Australia. He had a tough upbringing during the hard times of the Great Depression of the 1930's helping out with the family business and turning his hand to whatever work became available.
Book catalogue, amongst notable others, includes:
'Wingate's Phantom Army.'
'Wingate's Adventure.'
'Trek Back from Burma.'
'Passport.'
Later in his journalistic life Wilfred Burchett's interest and passion in getting 'the story' from the opposite sides perspective, took him into such places as Hiroshima, Viet Nam and Korea. His life became plagued, although I am not sure that he saw it quite this way, by his association with these nations and their fledgling communist ideals. He became 'persona non grata' in his home country of Australia and struggled to obtain the travel documents needed to perform his role as an investigatory journalist.
Burchett will probably always be known for being the first western journalist to enter Hiroshima after the atomic bomb. His report on this incredible experience can be read by following the link below:
http://assets.cambridge.org/97805217/18264/excerpt/9780521718264_excerpt.pdf
Wilfred Burchett died on the 28th September 1983 in Sofia, Bulgaria. To understand more about the man, his work and his unusual life, please follow the links below:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rebel-Journalism-Writings-Wilfred-Burchett/dp/0521718260/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1382571164&sr=1-1&keywords=passport+burchett
http://www.nytimes.com/1983/09/28/obituaries/wilfred-burchett-dies-in-bulgaria.html
johnpilger.com/videos/the-outsiders-wilfred-burchett
Anthony Beauchamp Entwhistle.
Anthony Beauchamp was born in England towards the end of World War I, in 1917 or 1918. His father was Ernest George Entwistle, who established an Art School at St Pancras, London. Anthony’s mother, Florence Vivienne Mellish married Entwistle in 1913, and they had one other son, Clive, who became an architect, and also designed a rocket used during World War II.
"Tony was always very brilliant as a little boy," Vivienne told Australian Womans Weekly in 1971. "He left grammar school when he was just under 15 with excellent marks in every subject."
Beauchamp became a famous society figure and began his career in photography in the early 1930's. His big break came when he photographed film actress Vivien Leigh just as she was beginning to make a name for herself.
During World War II, Antony became Official War Artist to the 14th Army in Burma. He once told his mother, "I didn’t take glamour pictures in Burma, mother dear, I took the bloody sights."
As we now know Anthony joined the Chindits in February 1943 and marched with them to the Chindwin River. After returning to India later that month he continued to photograph many more regimental units of the British and Indian Armies and followed these soldiers into other areas of combat.
In 1949 Anthony married Sarah Churchill, the actress daughter of Britain's wartime Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. Here is a newspaper editorial from that period:
British society photographer has won the hand of his actress-model —Sarah Churchill.
Miss Churchill and Anthony Beauchamp today told reporters that they are to be married.
The couple disclosed that they have been secretly engaged for a week, and said that the parents of each have been notified. Beauchamp, who arrived in the United States only three weeks ago, said he had consulted with Churchill before he came here and received his permission to propose.
The marriage will unite the children of a couple of well-know artists—Churchill and Ernest Entwhistle. The statesman father of Miss Churchill is noted for his diligence at pursuing his own art work, whilst Beauchamp's father, who previously ran his own Art School, now lists himself as retired.
Beauchamp, 32, told us his mother was also an artist and has exhibited her oil miniatures at the Royal Academy. She turned to portrait photography two years after he did, and now is his chief competitor.
Miss Churchill made her American stage debut last June as the lead in 'Philadelphia Story.' She recently completed a 16 week summer stock tour of the Eastern States. She now is vacationing after closing in Atlanta two weeks ago. While she was in Atlanta she was joined by Beauchamp.
Beauchamp yesterday presented Miss Chuchill with her engagement ring, an 18th-century ring of French design which sports a large heart-shaped diamond an the centre surrounded by nine smaller diamonds.
The 39-year-old British beauty and Beauchamp said their families have known each other for a long time. Both knew each other before the war, but became close friends only 18 months ago when Miss Churchill sat for a portrait at Beauchamp's studio.
Beauchamp is probably best known for his photographic portraits of famous film actresses, such as Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. For more information about his life and career, please follow the link below:
http://tarahanks.com/2011/10/10/marilyns-photographers-anthony-beauchamp/#more-2827
Anthony Beauchamp died on the 18th September 1957 in London.
"Tony was always very brilliant as a little boy," Vivienne told Australian Womans Weekly in 1971. "He left grammar school when he was just under 15 with excellent marks in every subject."
Beauchamp became a famous society figure and began his career in photography in the early 1930's. His big break came when he photographed film actress Vivien Leigh just as she was beginning to make a name for herself.
During World War II, Antony became Official War Artist to the 14th Army in Burma. He once told his mother, "I didn’t take glamour pictures in Burma, mother dear, I took the bloody sights."
As we now know Anthony joined the Chindits in February 1943 and marched with them to the Chindwin River. After returning to India later that month he continued to photograph many more regimental units of the British and Indian Armies and followed these soldiers into other areas of combat.
In 1949 Anthony married Sarah Churchill, the actress daughter of Britain's wartime Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. Here is a newspaper editorial from that period:
British society photographer has won the hand of his actress-model —Sarah Churchill.
Miss Churchill and Anthony Beauchamp today told reporters that they are to be married.
The couple disclosed that they have been secretly engaged for a week, and said that the parents of each have been notified. Beauchamp, who arrived in the United States only three weeks ago, said he had consulted with Churchill before he came here and received his permission to propose.
The marriage will unite the children of a couple of well-know artists—Churchill and Ernest Entwhistle. The statesman father of Miss Churchill is noted for his diligence at pursuing his own art work, whilst Beauchamp's father, who previously ran his own Art School, now lists himself as retired.
Beauchamp, 32, told us his mother was also an artist and has exhibited her oil miniatures at the Royal Academy. She turned to portrait photography two years after he did, and now is his chief competitor.
Miss Churchill made her American stage debut last June as the lead in 'Philadelphia Story.' She recently completed a 16 week summer stock tour of the Eastern States. She now is vacationing after closing in Atlanta two weeks ago. While she was in Atlanta she was joined by Beauchamp.
Beauchamp yesterday presented Miss Chuchill with her engagement ring, an 18th-century ring of French design which sports a large heart-shaped diamond an the centre surrounded by nine smaller diamonds.
The 39-year-old British beauty and Beauchamp said their families have known each other for a long time. Both knew each other before the war, but became close friends only 18 months ago when Miss Churchill sat for a portrait at Beauchamp's studio.
Beauchamp is probably best known for his photographic portraits of famous film actresses, such as Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. For more information about his life and career, please follow the link below:
http://tarahanks.com/2011/10/10/marilyns-photographers-anthony-beauchamp/#more-2827
Anthony Beauchamp died on the 18th September 1957 in London.
Stuart Emeny, seen in India 1943.
Stuart Emeny was born in 1914. He became a war correspondent for the London News Chronicle and travelled all over the world reporting conflicts such as the Ethiopian War and the Italian invasion of Abyssinia in 1935/36. It was perhaps during this time that he first established his long term association with Orde Wingate.
Emeny was part of the group of journalists that trekked with the Chindits to the western banks of the Chindwin River in February 1943. He maintained his connection with the Brigade the following year, covering the build up of troops for the second Chindit expedition. Sadly, this continued association was to cost him his life, when on the 24th March 1944, the American Mitchell Bomber that was transporting General Wingate and Emeny, amongst others, crashed in the hills around Bishenpur, India.
Earlier on 24th, General Wingate had flown into Broadway (the Chindit constructed airfield used to land the invasion force during Operation Thursday) in the fateful B-25 Mitchell Bomber from 1st American Air Commando. From there he visited the White City and Aberdeen Strongholds. After returning once more to Broadway he flew on to Imphal to meet Air Marshall Baldwin and from there he set off back to Lalaghat air base.
Wingate's plane crashed on the return journey in the hills around Bishenpur. All on board were killed including the crew, Wingate's Adjutant, George Borrow and a number of newspaper war correspondents, one being Stuart Emeny. The exact cause of the accident was never established. There were reports of isolated storms in the area and also that the one of the B-25's engines had not been developing full power that day.
Controversially, all the remains from the crash site were eventually interred in a mass grave at the Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, USA. No single body could be identified, and the American ruling that all its service personnel should be repatriated to home soil if practicable, meant that all the bodies were taken to Arlington for burial. For more information about this decision and the consequences, please follow the link below:
Memorials and Cemeteries. Please scroll down go to the second section on this page.
The two images shown below are: a photograph of the memorial stone for those lost in the Mitchell Bomber crash, as seen at the Arlington Cemetery and a copy of the telegram sent by the HQ of the 3rd Indian Division to the various Chindit Brigades on the 27th May 1944, informing them of Wingate's disappearance. Please click on the image to enlarge.
Emeny was part of the group of journalists that trekked with the Chindits to the western banks of the Chindwin River in February 1943. He maintained his connection with the Brigade the following year, covering the build up of troops for the second Chindit expedition. Sadly, this continued association was to cost him his life, when on the 24th March 1944, the American Mitchell Bomber that was transporting General Wingate and Emeny, amongst others, crashed in the hills around Bishenpur, India.
Earlier on 24th, General Wingate had flown into Broadway (the Chindit constructed airfield used to land the invasion force during Operation Thursday) in the fateful B-25 Mitchell Bomber from 1st American Air Commando. From there he visited the White City and Aberdeen Strongholds. After returning once more to Broadway he flew on to Imphal to meet Air Marshall Baldwin and from there he set off back to Lalaghat air base.
Wingate's plane crashed on the return journey in the hills around Bishenpur. All on board were killed including the crew, Wingate's Adjutant, George Borrow and a number of newspaper war correspondents, one being Stuart Emeny. The exact cause of the accident was never established. There were reports of isolated storms in the area and also that the one of the B-25's engines had not been developing full power that day.
Controversially, all the remains from the crash site were eventually interred in a mass grave at the Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, USA. No single body could be identified, and the American ruling that all its service personnel should be repatriated to home soil if practicable, meant that all the bodies were taken to Arlington for burial. For more information about this decision and the consequences, please follow the link below:
Memorials and Cemeteries. Please scroll down go to the second section on this page.
The two images shown below are: a photograph of the memorial stone for those lost in the Mitchell Bomber crash, as seen at the Arlington Cemetery and a copy of the telegram sent by the HQ of the 3rd Indian Division to the various Chindit Brigades on the 27th May 1944, informing them of Wingate's disappearance. Please click on the image to enlarge.
Memorial Stone, Arlington National Cemetery.
|
Army Airgraph about Wingate's disappearance.
|
Here is how the Sydney Herald staff correspondent, H.A. Standish, remembered Emeny in his article dated 5th April 1944:
LONDON, April 5.
The war correspondent of the News Chronicle, Stuart Emeny, who was killed with Major-General Wingate in an air crash in Burma, had an almost legendary capacity for continued hard work.
His sound war and political reporting during Italy's conquest of Abyssinia and in Palestine had won him a fine reputation.
"Stuart is a menace, he never rests." I was told, and I found that it was true when I worked with him in Burma. When there seemed to be no news about he went out and always got a story.
Several times each week his wife reported by airgraph exactly how his paper had treated his despatches, along with news of his son and daughter, and of his garden in Berkhampsted, Hertfordshire, where he lived.
He did not look tough physically, but both his body and his nerves were subordinated to his energetic sense of duty. In December 1942, a car in which we were driving at Kohima, where the Japanese are now fighting, crashed over a mountainside and somersaulted three times until it hung precariously against a sapling 60 feet below the road and poised over a sheer drop into a ravine. Stuart calmly checked that no one had been killed, then began to search in the darkness for his typewriter.
He knew General Wingate well and tramped with him for several days into Burma on the first Chindit expedition. He will be greatly missed by all his press colleagues.
Update 31st March 2018.
A commemoration and wreath laying ceremony was performed at the plane crash site of General Orde Charles Wingate on 10th February 2018. The site is located near the village of Thiulon in the Tamenglong District of Manipur State, India. The crash site is around 1.5km from the south western perimeter of the village. The coordinates measured by GPS were N 24*59’17”and E 93*23’27”. The elevation read 740 meters above sea level.
The ceremony was conducted and arranged by WW2 battlefield researcher, Yumnam Rajeshwor Singh with assistance from his many associates and the Headman from the village Thiulon. The journey to the crash site began on the 9th February and involved travelling through some extremely testing terrain. Rajeshwor had always been keen and interested to make the pilgrimage to Thiulon and now his chance had come. After passing through Tamenglong, the road deteriorates badly and vehicles cannot go beyond a speed of 20km per hour. From the town the road immediately bends like a snake on a steep downward gradient towards the Barak River. A new hanging bridge on the Barak River had recently been built, with the old broken bridge lying next to it in the river.
Raj and his party reached Thiulon later on the 9th February and were greeted by the village elders at the church. After enjoying a meal prepared by the villagers, the explorers bedded down for the night in the Church Office. The next morning, Raj was taken around the village and shown what seemed to be various pieces of plane debris from the Mitchell Bomber. These included part of a radial engine and some landing gear apparatus.
The villagers then told the story of the 24th March 1944, as passed down from one generation to the next. They explained that were having their evening prayer when they saw a ball of fire coming down from the sky. A plane had caught fire and was falling down onto the western slopes of the mountain, some 2km from the village. Just after the crash, loud explosions were heard by the villagers and pebbles and debris from the explosion rattled down on the village houses. They also remembered that several soldiers made the trip to the crash site over the coming weeks to investigate what had happened and to remove items from the scene.
Thanks to Raj’s efforts and visit to the crash site, the villagers of Thiulon have agreed and wish to commemorate the anniversary of General Charles Orde Wingate’s death, alongside the other eight casualties on the 24th March each year. A full report of this pilgrimage, together with some excellent photographs can be seen on the Chindit Society pages, here: The Chindit Society
Update 31st March 2019
After his first visit to Thiulon last year, Raj returned to the village once more on the 24th March 2019. During this second visit he joined with the local villagers in commemorating the 75th Anniversary of Orde Wingate's death, including the unveiling of a permanent memorial stone at the crash location. Please click on any image to bring it forward on the page.
LONDON, April 5.
The war correspondent of the News Chronicle, Stuart Emeny, who was killed with Major-General Wingate in an air crash in Burma, had an almost legendary capacity for continued hard work.
His sound war and political reporting during Italy's conquest of Abyssinia and in Palestine had won him a fine reputation.
"Stuart is a menace, he never rests." I was told, and I found that it was true when I worked with him in Burma. When there seemed to be no news about he went out and always got a story.
Several times each week his wife reported by airgraph exactly how his paper had treated his despatches, along with news of his son and daughter, and of his garden in Berkhampsted, Hertfordshire, where he lived.
He did not look tough physically, but both his body and his nerves were subordinated to his energetic sense of duty. In December 1942, a car in which we were driving at Kohima, where the Japanese are now fighting, crashed over a mountainside and somersaulted three times until it hung precariously against a sapling 60 feet below the road and poised over a sheer drop into a ravine. Stuart calmly checked that no one had been killed, then began to search in the darkness for his typewriter.
He knew General Wingate well and tramped with him for several days into Burma on the first Chindit expedition. He will be greatly missed by all his press colleagues.
Update 31st March 2018.
A commemoration and wreath laying ceremony was performed at the plane crash site of General Orde Charles Wingate on 10th February 2018. The site is located near the village of Thiulon in the Tamenglong District of Manipur State, India. The crash site is around 1.5km from the south western perimeter of the village. The coordinates measured by GPS were N 24*59’17”and E 93*23’27”. The elevation read 740 meters above sea level.
The ceremony was conducted and arranged by WW2 battlefield researcher, Yumnam Rajeshwor Singh with assistance from his many associates and the Headman from the village Thiulon. The journey to the crash site began on the 9th February and involved travelling through some extremely testing terrain. Rajeshwor had always been keen and interested to make the pilgrimage to Thiulon and now his chance had come. After passing through Tamenglong, the road deteriorates badly and vehicles cannot go beyond a speed of 20km per hour. From the town the road immediately bends like a snake on a steep downward gradient towards the Barak River. A new hanging bridge on the Barak River had recently been built, with the old broken bridge lying next to it in the river.
Raj and his party reached Thiulon later on the 9th February and were greeted by the village elders at the church. After enjoying a meal prepared by the villagers, the explorers bedded down for the night in the Church Office. The next morning, Raj was taken around the village and shown what seemed to be various pieces of plane debris from the Mitchell Bomber. These included part of a radial engine and some landing gear apparatus.
The villagers then told the story of the 24th March 1944, as passed down from one generation to the next. They explained that were having their evening prayer when they saw a ball of fire coming down from the sky. A plane had caught fire and was falling down onto the western slopes of the mountain, some 2km from the village. Just after the crash, loud explosions were heard by the villagers and pebbles and debris from the explosion rattled down on the village houses. They also remembered that several soldiers made the trip to the crash site over the coming weeks to investigate what had happened and to remove items from the scene.
Thanks to Raj’s efforts and visit to the crash site, the villagers of Thiulon have agreed and wish to commemorate the anniversary of General Charles Orde Wingate’s death, alongside the other eight casualties on the 24th March each year. A full report of this pilgrimage, together with some excellent photographs can be seen on the Chindit Society pages, here: The Chindit Society
Update 31st March 2019
After his first visit to Thiulon last year, Raj returned to the village once more on the 24th March 2019. During this second visit he joined with the local villagers in commemorating the 75th Anniversary of Orde Wingate's death, including the unveiling of a permanent memorial stone at the crash location. Please click on any image to bring it forward on the page.
Frustratingly, I have been unable to find any information in regard to Martin Moore and Captain Jack Potter, the two other pressmen that walked with the Chindits up to the banks of the Chindwin River.
Captain Moti Lal Katju MC.
Motilal Katju, Official Observer, Operation Longcloth.
Motilal Katju was an Indian Army Press Officer and war correspondent. He was an officer with the 10th Battalion, 1st Punjab Regiment and was well respected for his reporting skills, sometimes from areas truly in the thick of the action. However, Motilal did not limit himself to simply observing and reporting back and often took part in forward advances and combat engagements.
It can be no surprise then, that this Indian Army Officer volunteered for the first Chindit Operation as 'Official Observer' and joined Wingate's own Brigade Head Quarters in February 1943. He travelled alongside the Brigadier and his Gurkha bodyguard for the majority of the expedition, meticulously recording the events of each and every day, his diary would have been a priceless artefact for Chindit researchers like myself.
From the book, 'Wingate's Raiders' by Charles J. Rolo, comes this interesting passage:
The next day at noon the main body of Wingate's northern force reached the top of a hill overlooking the Chindwin and then Burma beyond. Captain Motilal Katju, Official Observer for the expedition, scribbled an entry into his diary:
"Behind me there is a never-ending vista of hills, small and tall ones, heavy with their weight of virgin forests which have scarcely seen a few hundred human beings in their centuries of existence. Further back still are mountains which have left us a sore remembrance of blistered feet and aching backs.
Four miles away I can just see the Chindwin glistening in the sunlight like a silver streak in a green bowl. Beyond, the forest-covered slopes of a hill come down almost to the river's edge. Behind that hill is the green jungle hell through which we must find a way, destroying the enemy.
Considering the amount of marching under very difficult conditions already accomplished, the spirit of ordinary troops would not have been very high; they would have been completely browned off. But in this force there is no sign of apathy or tiredness. The men are looking cheerfully to the beginning of the real campaign when we cross the Chindwin.
The Burmese troops hope soon to be back in familiar surroundings and amongst their own people; they are only too anxious to go on. The Gurkhas, sturdy hill fighters who seem incapable of fatigue, are looking forward to the day when they will meet the Japs. Their compatriots earned a name for themselves during the retreat from Burma, and these troops, though they have never seen action, hope to do better.
The British troops are probably the most cheerful of all. They look upon the whole show as a great adventure. Probably the greatest incentive to good morale is the absolute faith which every man has in the Commander. Practically none of us knows where we are going, for how long, or what is our specific job. Various people have talked of a journey of two months to fifteen months. Others speak of the force as a Suicide Column. But one and all say, "The Brigadier will pull us through."
As far as I have been able to ascertain, this is the only surviving extract from the diary.
Motilal Katju was an Indian Army Press Officer and war correspondent. He was an officer with the 10th Battalion, 1st Punjab Regiment and was well respected for his reporting skills, sometimes from areas truly in the thick of the action. However, Motilal did not limit himself to simply observing and reporting back and often took part in forward advances and combat engagements.
It can be no surprise then, that this Indian Army Officer volunteered for the first Chindit Operation as 'Official Observer' and joined Wingate's own Brigade Head Quarters in February 1943. He travelled alongside the Brigadier and his Gurkha bodyguard for the majority of the expedition, meticulously recording the events of each and every day, his diary would have been a priceless artefact for Chindit researchers like myself.
From the book, 'Wingate's Raiders' by Charles J. Rolo, comes this interesting passage:
The next day at noon the main body of Wingate's northern force reached the top of a hill overlooking the Chindwin and then Burma beyond. Captain Motilal Katju, Official Observer for the expedition, scribbled an entry into his diary:
"Behind me there is a never-ending vista of hills, small and tall ones, heavy with their weight of virgin forests which have scarcely seen a few hundred human beings in their centuries of existence. Further back still are mountains which have left us a sore remembrance of blistered feet and aching backs.
Four miles away I can just see the Chindwin glistening in the sunlight like a silver streak in a green bowl. Beyond, the forest-covered slopes of a hill come down almost to the river's edge. Behind that hill is the green jungle hell through which we must find a way, destroying the enemy.
Considering the amount of marching under very difficult conditions already accomplished, the spirit of ordinary troops would not have been very high; they would have been completely browned off. But in this force there is no sign of apathy or tiredness. The men are looking cheerfully to the beginning of the real campaign when we cross the Chindwin.
The Burmese troops hope soon to be back in familiar surroundings and amongst their own people; they are only too anxious to go on. The Gurkhas, sturdy hill fighters who seem incapable of fatigue, are looking forward to the day when they will meet the Japs. Their compatriots earned a name for themselves during the retreat from Burma, and these troops, though they have never seen action, hope to do better.
The British troops are probably the most cheerful of all. They look upon the whole show as a great adventure. Probably the greatest incentive to good morale is the absolute faith which every man has in the Commander. Practically none of us knows where we are going, for how long, or what is our specific job. Various people have talked of a journey of two months to fifteen months. Others speak of the force as a Suicide Column. But one and all say, "The Brigadier will pull us through."
As far as I have been able to ascertain, this is the only surviving extract from the diary.
A photograph of Wingate's HQ Officers, probably taken in early April 1943. Motilal Katju is seen to Wingate's right.
Wingate and several of his columns had attempted to cross the Irrawaddy River on their return journey from Burma in late March, this crossing had been opposed by a Japanese company and Wingate decided to take his HQ back into the jungle just a few miles from the river bank. They remained here for approximately one week and rested and recuperated in readiness for another attempt at the river and the 200 mile march back to India.
For more details about this journey, please click on the link below:
Wingate's Journey Home
The group had all but made it back to the eastern banks of the Chindwin, when disaster struck for Captain Motilal Katju. There is some variation in how he met his death on the 29th of April 1943, but the constant theme present, is his brave act of volunteering to go and seek help from a nearby Burmese village, situated just a few short miles from the relative safety of the Chindwin River.
Here is how those last moments are depicted in various books about the first Chindit Operation:
Another quote from Rolo's Wingate's Raiders:
Brigadier Wingate and four other men had broken away from the main body of the Brigade Head Quarters and made their way down to the banks of the Chindwin River. Here the five men attempted to swim across, all did finally make the crossing, but only just. After making contact with some British troops on the western side of the river and enjoying a hot meal, Wingate went back to the Chindwin to call in the rest of the group.
"Wingate trekked to the river and settled down at the rendezvous point to wait for a signal from Major Anderson's party. He waited all night. No signal came.
After the Brigadier's group of five had pushed off at dawn to swim the Chindwin, Anderson's scouts brought word that they had seen Japanese patrols near by, hunting for their tracks. Anderson's party marched and countermarched all day to give the enemy the slip, and at night went down to the river to contact the British on the west bank. They did not know whether or not Wingate's group had got across alive. To make matters worse, they were obliged to choose a crossing-point a mile south of the rendezvous as the Japanese were patrolling the bank higher up.
At this stage they had no torches and fell back on a primitive method of signalling. They lined a large native cooking-pot with white paper and held a lighted match inside it; by moving a bush hat over and then away from the flame they managed to spell out shakily a message in crude dots and dashes. This message Wingate, waiting on the west bank a mile to the north, failed to detect. Anderson's men, worn out and downhearted, pulled back into the jungle.
The next morning Captain Motilal Katju volunteered to venture into a native village to look for boats. In peace-time Katju had edited a newspaper in India. He had won a fine Military Cross for gallantry in Libya, and was accompanying the expedition as Official Observer. For several days he had had a premonition that he would not get out alive, and had asked Major Jefferies to carry his diary, which contained a day-by-day account of the campaign. To cheer him up Jefferies had lightly replied, "Nonsense. We all get to feeling that way," and had refused to take the diary. Katju never returned from that last patrol."
For more details about this journey, please click on the link below:
Wingate's Journey Home
The group had all but made it back to the eastern banks of the Chindwin, when disaster struck for Captain Motilal Katju. There is some variation in how he met his death on the 29th of April 1943, but the constant theme present, is his brave act of volunteering to go and seek help from a nearby Burmese village, situated just a few short miles from the relative safety of the Chindwin River.
Here is how those last moments are depicted in various books about the first Chindit Operation:
Another quote from Rolo's Wingate's Raiders:
Brigadier Wingate and four other men had broken away from the main body of the Brigade Head Quarters and made their way down to the banks of the Chindwin River. Here the five men attempted to swim across, all did finally make the crossing, but only just. After making contact with some British troops on the western side of the river and enjoying a hot meal, Wingate went back to the Chindwin to call in the rest of the group.
"Wingate trekked to the river and settled down at the rendezvous point to wait for a signal from Major Anderson's party. He waited all night. No signal came.
After the Brigadier's group of five had pushed off at dawn to swim the Chindwin, Anderson's scouts brought word that they had seen Japanese patrols near by, hunting for their tracks. Anderson's party marched and countermarched all day to give the enemy the slip, and at night went down to the river to contact the British on the west bank. They did not know whether or not Wingate's group had got across alive. To make matters worse, they were obliged to choose a crossing-point a mile south of the rendezvous as the Japanese were patrolling the bank higher up.
At this stage they had no torches and fell back on a primitive method of signalling. They lined a large native cooking-pot with white paper and held a lighted match inside it; by moving a bush hat over and then away from the flame they managed to spell out shakily a message in crude dots and dashes. This message Wingate, waiting on the west bank a mile to the north, failed to detect. Anderson's men, worn out and downhearted, pulled back into the jungle.
The next morning Captain Motilal Katju volunteered to venture into a native village to look for boats. In peace-time Katju had edited a newspaper in India. He had won a fine Military Cross for gallantry in Libya, and was accompanying the expedition as Official Observer. For several days he had had a premonition that he would not get out alive, and had asked Major Jefferies to carry his diary, which contained a day-by-day account of the campaign. To cheer him up Jefferies had lightly replied, "Nonsense. We all get to feeling that way," and had refused to take the diary. Katju never returned from that last patrol."
Motilal's MC citation for his award at the 'Knightsbridge' defensive box at Tobruk.
Another extract describing the last moments of Motilal Katju can be seen in the book, 'Fire in the Night', by John Bierman and Colin Smith:
"After this depressing night, which fuelled fears that none of Wingate's party had survived to alert the British lines to their presence, Captain Motilal Katju had volunteered to try to find some boats and had gone off with one of the Burma Riflemen. They came to a village where the Burrif (Burma Rifleman) made some inquiries and was warned that there were Japanese in the vicinity. Katju insisted on going in. Shortly afterward the Burrif, who was hiding outside, heard a burst of gunfire. He waited but the brave Katju, a journalist in civilian life who had joined Wingate's Brigade at the last moment without any special training, did not return."
And from 'Wingate's Phantom Army', by Wilfred Burchett:
"Major Anderson's men had stayed in their forest bivouac, where they rested till late afternoon. Then they edged forward through the path Wingate's party had made, arriving at the river bank an hour before dusk.
As soon as it was dark, Anderson cautiously displayed the signal with a lighted match cupped in his hand. There was no reply. Until after midnight, at regular intervals, he repeated the signal, but never a sign from the other bank. They were in a desperate position. The Japs must have a good idea of their whereabouts. It was impossible to travel far through this sea of reeds, and as far as they knew there were no villages within miles where they could obtain boats. Anderson concluded Wingate and his party must have been drowned or shot up by Japs waiting on the other shore.
Four men, all weak swimmers, offered to try and get across and find out what was happening. In pitch darkness, they slipped off their jackets and boots and waded out into the gurgling river. Half an hour later, one returned. The man alongside him had been swept away by the current and drowned. He didn't know what happened to the other two, but felt he couldn't make it, so turned back after travelling about 50 yards.
The rest of them stayed near the bank till dawn. Anderson repeated the signal at hourly intervals and as day began to break, marched the despairing men back through the reeds and made a fresh bivouac. Captain Katju, the Indian Army Observer who had come straight from the Middle East, and without any benefits of training or preparation had kept up with the strongest marchers and done his share of hard work during the expedition, offered to take a Burmese Havildar (Sergeant) and see if they could get boats from a nearby village. It was a desperate chance. There was every likelihood that Japs were there.
Anderson warned him to be very careful and called him back just as he was setting out, again telling him there were probably Japs in the village. When they got near the first houses, Katju ordered the Burmese Havildar to wait near the track in case a local spy tried to send a message to the Japs, while he went on into the village. A few minutes later there was a volley of shots.
The Havildar waited for ten minutes, but Katju did not return, so he dashed back to tell Anderson. There was nothing to do but wait till evening and again make for the river. Perhaps the two swimmers had got across and collected some boats. If not the party was as good as finished."
Major Anderson did eventually make contact with Wingate and boats were sent over for the rest of the party on the eastern banks. On reflection it was heartbreaking that the Chindit force was to loose its 'official observer' so close to British held lines, but of course the brave Captain Katju was not the only man to fall so close to that final hurdle in 1943. With him went that precious diary, a resource so rich and unique in content. I often wonder whether a Japanese officer removed it and sent it on for scrutinisation by his intelligence or local administrative centre? Either way it was a great loss to what would become Chindit scripted folklore.
In September 2011, I was fortunate enough to receive a short contact message from the nephew of Motilal Katju via the Burma Star Association website forum:
Dear Sir,
Motilal Katju was my mother's elder brother. He won the Empire Prize for essay writing and was a war correspondent. I was told by my mother that he partook in the capture of a German post with swastika flag at Tobruk. He volunteered for the ill-fated Wingare Expedition and was killed on the Chindwin River looking for food.
My late mother lost two brothers in Burma; the other was her younger brother, a fighter pilot who died tragically after VJ Day when his plane turned turtle on the runway due to a pothole. His name was Ashok Katju.
My father and his elder brother were Piffers of 4/12 Frontier Force Regiment. My father went on to become an Ambassador to the Government of India, his brother Mohd Attiqur Rahman MC, became a Lt-General and Army Commander in Pakistan.
My grandfather was a Major in the RIAMC during WW1 and was awarded the Star of Mons and three times mentioned in despatches in Belgium. He later went on to the 3rd Afghan war in 1919.
To complete this tragic and yet heroic story, please see below the CWGC certificate for Motilal Katju and his inscription upon the Rangoon Memorial, where he is remembered amongst the 27,000 other personnel from the Burma campaign that have no known grave. Please click on either image to enlarge.
"After this depressing night, which fuelled fears that none of Wingate's party had survived to alert the British lines to their presence, Captain Motilal Katju had volunteered to try to find some boats and had gone off with one of the Burma Riflemen. They came to a village where the Burrif (Burma Rifleman) made some inquiries and was warned that there were Japanese in the vicinity. Katju insisted on going in. Shortly afterward the Burrif, who was hiding outside, heard a burst of gunfire. He waited but the brave Katju, a journalist in civilian life who had joined Wingate's Brigade at the last moment without any special training, did not return."
And from 'Wingate's Phantom Army', by Wilfred Burchett:
"Major Anderson's men had stayed in their forest bivouac, where they rested till late afternoon. Then they edged forward through the path Wingate's party had made, arriving at the river bank an hour before dusk.
As soon as it was dark, Anderson cautiously displayed the signal with a lighted match cupped in his hand. There was no reply. Until after midnight, at regular intervals, he repeated the signal, but never a sign from the other bank. They were in a desperate position. The Japs must have a good idea of their whereabouts. It was impossible to travel far through this sea of reeds, and as far as they knew there were no villages within miles where they could obtain boats. Anderson concluded Wingate and his party must have been drowned or shot up by Japs waiting on the other shore.
Four men, all weak swimmers, offered to try and get across and find out what was happening. In pitch darkness, they slipped off their jackets and boots and waded out into the gurgling river. Half an hour later, one returned. The man alongside him had been swept away by the current and drowned. He didn't know what happened to the other two, but felt he couldn't make it, so turned back after travelling about 50 yards.
The rest of them stayed near the bank till dawn. Anderson repeated the signal at hourly intervals and as day began to break, marched the despairing men back through the reeds and made a fresh bivouac. Captain Katju, the Indian Army Observer who had come straight from the Middle East, and without any benefits of training or preparation had kept up with the strongest marchers and done his share of hard work during the expedition, offered to take a Burmese Havildar (Sergeant) and see if they could get boats from a nearby village. It was a desperate chance. There was every likelihood that Japs were there.
Anderson warned him to be very careful and called him back just as he was setting out, again telling him there were probably Japs in the village. When they got near the first houses, Katju ordered the Burmese Havildar to wait near the track in case a local spy tried to send a message to the Japs, while he went on into the village. A few minutes later there was a volley of shots.
The Havildar waited for ten minutes, but Katju did not return, so he dashed back to tell Anderson. There was nothing to do but wait till evening and again make for the river. Perhaps the two swimmers had got across and collected some boats. If not the party was as good as finished."
Major Anderson did eventually make contact with Wingate and boats were sent over for the rest of the party on the eastern banks. On reflection it was heartbreaking that the Chindit force was to loose its 'official observer' so close to British held lines, but of course the brave Captain Katju was not the only man to fall so close to that final hurdle in 1943. With him went that precious diary, a resource so rich and unique in content. I often wonder whether a Japanese officer removed it and sent it on for scrutinisation by his intelligence or local administrative centre? Either way it was a great loss to what would become Chindit scripted folklore.
In September 2011, I was fortunate enough to receive a short contact message from the nephew of Motilal Katju via the Burma Star Association website forum:
Dear Sir,
Motilal Katju was my mother's elder brother. He won the Empire Prize for essay writing and was a war correspondent. I was told by my mother that he partook in the capture of a German post with swastika flag at Tobruk. He volunteered for the ill-fated Wingare Expedition and was killed on the Chindwin River looking for food.
My late mother lost two brothers in Burma; the other was her younger brother, a fighter pilot who died tragically after VJ Day when his plane turned turtle on the runway due to a pothole. His name was Ashok Katju.
My father and his elder brother were Piffers of 4/12 Frontier Force Regiment. My father went on to become an Ambassador to the Government of India, his brother Mohd Attiqur Rahman MC, became a Lt-General and Army Commander in Pakistan.
My grandfather was a Major in the RIAMC during WW1 and was awarded the Star of Mons and three times mentioned in despatches in Belgium. He later went on to the 3rd Afghan war in 1919.
To complete this tragic and yet heroic story, please see below the CWGC certificate for Motilal Katju and his inscription upon the Rangoon Memorial, where he is remembered amongst the 27,000 other personnel from the Burma campaign that have no known grave. Please click on either image to enlarge.
The CWGC certificate for Captain Motilal Katju.
|
Motilal's inscription upon Face 112 of the Rangoon Memorial.
|
Update 16/12/2016.
From a collection of papers once held by Captain Norman Fraser Stocks RAMC, comes this transcription of an article written for the Calcutta New Statesman, presumably in mid-1943, but certainly post Operation Longcloth.
The following comprise the last known diary entires of Captain Motilal Katju MC.
Captain Katju's Diary
New Delhi, May 21st. In the last week of February a few sheets of a diary came out from Brigadier Wingate's force. They were the first and last message received from Captain Motilal Katju MC, the Indian Army Observer, who marched with the force far into the heart of Burma.
"Practically none of us know where we are going, or for how long." wrote Captain Katju, who has since been reported as missing, believed killed.
Here are his surviving observations:
February 16th 1943. Tonight in the light of the waxing moon, we shall have crossed the Chindwin River in force. Already our advanced elements have crossed in safety. They are in sufficient strength to assure the rest of Brigadier Wingate's force of a safe bridgehead should the Japs get wind of our intentions and try to stop us.
A part of Wingate's force has crossed the Chindwin near the village of Auktaung, about 40 miles south of our present positions. Messages received from them show that there was no opposition. Most encouraging symptoms are the pleasure shown by the villagers of Auktaung and their desire to help us as much as they can. Our adventure has started well. As our commander said on the 7th February: "Our success depends entirely on the co-operation of the Burmese, and no effort should be spared to please and conciliate them. They will reap the reward equally with us."
Across the narrow steep tracks we have left behind and the trackless forests that lie ahead, we could not hope to transport sufficient supplies to keep us fighting fit. So a most important feature of this expedition, is the co-operation achieved between the ground forces and the air. Every member unit of the force has an RAF detachment attached to it. Not only can it call for supplies to be dropped from the air, but, wherever necessary, it can secure the co-operation of fighters and bombers to deal with any enemy opposition.
During daylight on the 14th February, supplies were dropped by planes across the Chindwin. On the night of the 15th-16th February, more supplies were put down on the far side of the river. When we cross over tonight we shall find waiting for us food dumps, from which we can fill our packs and carry on for a week or more.
Do the Japs know about this? It is difficult to state one way or the other. A small Jap force, probably not more than a company in strength is believed to be stationed ten miles southeast of us. They may have heard, or even seen the supplies come down. What will be their reaction? If they have heard that parachutes are coming down in large numbers in two different areas, they may well believe that it is a parachute force in operation and therefore not capable of great mobility. Our later moves should surprise them as much as this has done.
As I write this sitting on the top of a little hill, I can just see the Chindwin four miles away glistening in the sunlight, like a silver streak in a green bowl. Beyond, the forest-covered slopes of a hill come down almost to the river's edge. Behind that hill is the green jungle hell, through which we must find a way, whilst destroying the lurking enemy.
Looking behind me there is a never-ending vista of hills, small ones and tall ones, heavy with their weight of virgin forests, which have seen scarcely a few hundred human beings in their centuries of existence. Further back still are higher hills, almost mountains, which have left us a sore remembrance of blistered feet and aching backs.
Three days ago we passed a road marked Assam-Burma. We shed most of our superfluous kit before entering Burma. Carrying five days food on our backs and 20lbs. of bedding on our mules, we have trekked at night along obscure tracks to get to the Chindwin. Often the track has not been more than two feet in breadth, with the mule loads hanging over a steep slope, or banging against the hillside.
Climbing up steep hills, one had to rush along madly to keep out of the way of the mules behind, as they clambered swiftly from foothold to foothold. Down the slopes one had to keep an anxious watch, lest a mule or horse slipped down. But the journey has been completed without any accident; so perhaps it wasn't as terrible as it appeared to be. NB. Unfortunately his was not quite the case: Lieutenant John Lindsay Watson
In the force there are British troops and members of commando units, mostly volunteers and also Gurkhas and Burmese. For five months they received special training in the forests of India. They went through the tactics they will have to employ in Burma and a hardier, tougher lot it will be difficult to find anywhere else. Most of the Japanese success was due to their methods of infiltration; in our force we have well-trained infiltration troops and the future will show whether we can beat the Japs at their own game.
With the force are mules to carry most of the weight, chargers for officers who have to rush about along the column, dogs to carry messages and recently we have acquired a number of elephants. The transport officer's lot is a hard one. Earlier we had light carts drawn by oxen, but carts could not travel over over the hill tracks and so had to be left behind. But the mainstay of this force is our feet and our backs, which must take us wherever we need to go. The force does not travel as a whole. It is divided into several self-contained columns which make their own way, according to the Commander's orders. They may occasionally gather at one place for a big attack, or be marauding many miles from one another.
As we neared the Chindwin, orders were given that there was to be as little noise as possible. Men moved in single file, never speaking during the march. Fires were screened, and later on the operation no fires will be allowed at all. Mules and horses have been trained not to neigh. Each man carried on his back his food and water in addition to his weapons. We may have to march far, so we must march as light as possible. At our last halt, silver rupees were given to everybody. The Brigade-Major (George Bromhead) asked if anyone wanted some more, but there was no one to be found who would have liked to carry the extra weight, even in rupees.
In this force we have with us Burmese who have done this trek before, from Burma out to India. Their job is to tell the local Burmese that we are coming to their rescue and that we mean to do everything possible to help them and give them items such as salt, which is denied to them by the Japanese. This section of men will work to secure the co-operation of every Burman village or town.
Considering the amount of marching under very difficult conditions, the spirit of ordinary troops would not have been very high. In fact they would have been completely browned off! But in this force there is no sign of apathy or tiredness. Men are looking cheerfully towards the beginning of the real campaign. Burmese troops in particular, soon hope to be back amongst their own people. They are only too anxious to go forward. Our Gurkhas, those sturdy hill-fighters are looking forward to the day they will meet the Japs.
Already the Gurkhas have earned a name for themselves during the retreat from Burma and now they hope to do much better. The British troops are probably the most cheerful of all, they are looking upon it as a great adventure. Probably the greatest incentive conducive to good morale is the absolute faith which everyman has in the Commander. Practically none of us know where we are going, for how long, or what is our specific job. But one and all say: "The Brigadier will pull us through."
From a collection of papers once held by Captain Norman Fraser Stocks RAMC, comes this transcription of an article written for the Calcutta New Statesman, presumably in mid-1943, but certainly post Operation Longcloth.
The following comprise the last known diary entires of Captain Motilal Katju MC.
Captain Katju's Diary
New Delhi, May 21st. In the last week of February a few sheets of a diary came out from Brigadier Wingate's force. They were the first and last message received from Captain Motilal Katju MC, the Indian Army Observer, who marched with the force far into the heart of Burma.
"Practically none of us know where we are going, or for how long." wrote Captain Katju, who has since been reported as missing, believed killed.
Here are his surviving observations:
February 16th 1943. Tonight in the light of the waxing moon, we shall have crossed the Chindwin River in force. Already our advanced elements have crossed in safety. They are in sufficient strength to assure the rest of Brigadier Wingate's force of a safe bridgehead should the Japs get wind of our intentions and try to stop us.
A part of Wingate's force has crossed the Chindwin near the village of Auktaung, about 40 miles south of our present positions. Messages received from them show that there was no opposition. Most encouraging symptoms are the pleasure shown by the villagers of Auktaung and their desire to help us as much as they can. Our adventure has started well. As our commander said on the 7th February: "Our success depends entirely on the co-operation of the Burmese, and no effort should be spared to please and conciliate them. They will reap the reward equally with us."
Across the narrow steep tracks we have left behind and the trackless forests that lie ahead, we could not hope to transport sufficient supplies to keep us fighting fit. So a most important feature of this expedition, is the co-operation achieved between the ground forces and the air. Every member unit of the force has an RAF detachment attached to it. Not only can it call for supplies to be dropped from the air, but, wherever necessary, it can secure the co-operation of fighters and bombers to deal with any enemy opposition.
During daylight on the 14th February, supplies were dropped by planes across the Chindwin. On the night of the 15th-16th February, more supplies were put down on the far side of the river. When we cross over tonight we shall find waiting for us food dumps, from which we can fill our packs and carry on for a week or more.
Do the Japs know about this? It is difficult to state one way or the other. A small Jap force, probably not more than a company in strength is believed to be stationed ten miles southeast of us. They may have heard, or even seen the supplies come down. What will be their reaction? If they have heard that parachutes are coming down in large numbers in two different areas, they may well believe that it is a parachute force in operation and therefore not capable of great mobility. Our later moves should surprise them as much as this has done.
As I write this sitting on the top of a little hill, I can just see the Chindwin four miles away glistening in the sunlight, like a silver streak in a green bowl. Beyond, the forest-covered slopes of a hill come down almost to the river's edge. Behind that hill is the green jungle hell, through which we must find a way, whilst destroying the lurking enemy.
Looking behind me there is a never-ending vista of hills, small ones and tall ones, heavy with their weight of virgin forests, which have seen scarcely a few hundred human beings in their centuries of existence. Further back still are higher hills, almost mountains, which have left us a sore remembrance of blistered feet and aching backs.
Three days ago we passed a road marked Assam-Burma. We shed most of our superfluous kit before entering Burma. Carrying five days food on our backs and 20lbs. of bedding on our mules, we have trekked at night along obscure tracks to get to the Chindwin. Often the track has not been more than two feet in breadth, with the mule loads hanging over a steep slope, or banging against the hillside.
Climbing up steep hills, one had to rush along madly to keep out of the way of the mules behind, as they clambered swiftly from foothold to foothold. Down the slopes one had to keep an anxious watch, lest a mule or horse slipped down. But the journey has been completed without any accident; so perhaps it wasn't as terrible as it appeared to be. NB. Unfortunately his was not quite the case: Lieutenant John Lindsay Watson
In the force there are British troops and members of commando units, mostly volunteers and also Gurkhas and Burmese. For five months they received special training in the forests of India. They went through the tactics they will have to employ in Burma and a hardier, tougher lot it will be difficult to find anywhere else. Most of the Japanese success was due to their methods of infiltration; in our force we have well-trained infiltration troops and the future will show whether we can beat the Japs at their own game.
With the force are mules to carry most of the weight, chargers for officers who have to rush about along the column, dogs to carry messages and recently we have acquired a number of elephants. The transport officer's lot is a hard one. Earlier we had light carts drawn by oxen, but carts could not travel over over the hill tracks and so had to be left behind. But the mainstay of this force is our feet and our backs, which must take us wherever we need to go. The force does not travel as a whole. It is divided into several self-contained columns which make their own way, according to the Commander's orders. They may occasionally gather at one place for a big attack, or be marauding many miles from one another.
As we neared the Chindwin, orders were given that there was to be as little noise as possible. Men moved in single file, never speaking during the march. Fires were screened, and later on the operation no fires will be allowed at all. Mules and horses have been trained not to neigh. Each man carried on his back his food and water in addition to his weapons. We may have to march far, so we must march as light as possible. At our last halt, silver rupees were given to everybody. The Brigade-Major (George Bromhead) asked if anyone wanted some more, but there was no one to be found who would have liked to carry the extra weight, even in rupees.
In this force we have with us Burmese who have done this trek before, from Burma out to India. Their job is to tell the local Burmese that we are coming to their rescue and that we mean to do everything possible to help them and give them items such as salt, which is denied to them by the Japanese. This section of men will work to secure the co-operation of every Burman village or town.
Considering the amount of marching under very difficult conditions, the spirit of ordinary troops would not have been very high. In fact they would have been completely browned off! But in this force there is no sign of apathy or tiredness. Men are looking cheerfully towards the beginning of the real campaign. Burmese troops in particular, soon hope to be back amongst their own people. They are only too anxious to go forward. Our Gurkhas, those sturdy hill-fighters are looking forward to the day they will meet the Japs.
Already the Gurkhas have earned a name for themselves during the retreat from Burma and now they hope to do much better. The British troops are probably the most cheerful of all, they are looking upon it as a great adventure. Probably the greatest incentive conducive to good morale is the absolute faith which everyman has in the Commander. Practically none of us know where we are going, for how long, or what is our specific job. But one and all say: "The Brigadier will pull us through."
Copyright © Steve Fogden 2014.