by Ellie Dean
He’d managed to hold onto his emotions until she’d begun to sing ‘Yours’, a beautiful, heart-breaking love song he’d danced to with Peggy on his last leave. After that he’d been a complete wreck, saved only by her follow-up of ‘If I had My Way’, which was a light-hearted and rather saucy piece that had the men cheering again.
Jim had seen other concerts when he’d first been posted to India. They were jolly affairs put on by ENSA – or, as it was more fondly known; ‘Every Night Something Awful’ – and usually involved a bad comedian, some over-the-hill dancers and a glamorous singer or two. But Vera was different. She wasn’t a pin-up girl like some he’d seen, with lots of leg and cleavage showing, but the well-brought-up girl next door – the girl you could take home to Mum. And that made her very special, for she’d reminded him of his darling Peggy and his beautiful daughters, and somehow brought them a little closer.
There was no doubt that General Slim, who was in charge of operations in Burma, understood that the men serving under him needed emotional and spiritual nourishment as well as bully beef, bullets and beer. He’d realised his men were in danger of being the forgotten army, for the focus back home was on the invasion into Europe, and no other entertainers had dared to come into such a hostile environment. Jim suspected he was as surprised as everyone else that Vera hadn’t hesitated to accept the invitation.
Morale was intangible, but Jim’s experiences here and in India had proved to him that it could stir a man into giving his last ounce of strength to achieve something without counting the cost to himself. It was a force which made each man feel a part of something far greater than anything he’d encountered before, and therefore instilled in him the courage and energy to do his best and make his mark.
Big Bert came and sat down next to Jim on the fallen tree. ‘We’ll be off any minute,’ he warned. He took out an oily old rag and began to clean his gun and check the firing mechanism. ‘The CO’s just got a message through from HQ. The Japs are retreating from the Imphal to Kohima Road, and it’s suspected they’ll be making for a large camp to the north-east of us. Reports have come in that they’ve got a hospital, ammunition dumps, truck parks and the whole kit and caboodle there, so whilst they’re being held up by Vinegar Joe Stilwell’s brigade, we’re going in the back way to cause havoc.’ He grinned with relish at the idea of blowing things up.
‘How far is this place?’ asked Ernie.
Big Bert shrugged. ‘Who knows? But we’ll have to get a move on. Can’t let Stilwell have all the fun.’
Jim quickly stripped off his sodden shirt and used his scrap of towel to rub himself dry of salty sweat. He took the shirt to the nearby stream, rinsed it out and then filled his hat several times to douse his head with the cold, clean water. Feeling much better, he dabbed antiseptic cream on the wounds in his cheek and ear, stuck on a fresh plaster and slipped on the wet shirt. It felt cool and refreshing against his sun-darkened skin, and he didn’t mind at all that it was soaking through his shorts into his underpants. It would dry within minutes and then soak through with sweat again before the hour was over, but for now he felt ready to face anything.
They were called to attention to be told by their commanding officer that they needed to move fast if they were to reach their rendezvous with the 2nd Brigade in time.
Jim and the others set off across the plain and marched on through marshes and reed beds, past bamboo and reed houses on stilts, to a cluster of deserted villages where they were joined by the other brigade as planned. A large airdrop took place that night, and after a swim in a nearby stream, they ate and slept.
Dawn saw them on the move again. It was a stinking hot day, and they were faced with a long and very steep climb. It seemed they were heading for an unpronounceable village which was marked on the map as being halfway down an easterly ridge which eventually sloped off into a series of valleys.
Jim and the others trudged on at a fast pace, heads down, regulating their breathing as their shirts blackened with sweat and their broad-brimmed hats became even more salt-stained.
‘Let’s hope this place we’re heading for is still there, and not buried in the jungle,’ Jim muttered. ‘You know what these people are like. They use up the goodness in the soil around their village and move on, sometimes miles away. Then they burn a few more acres of jungle, plant their crops, build new homes and call the damned thing by the same name. Ten years later they do it all again, and we end up chasing our tails looking for them.’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Big Bert. ‘We can only hope the CO and his pathfinders can read co-ordinates on a flaming map and don’t get us lost.’
Just before nightfall they were called to a halt. The men, horses and mules were swaying with exhaustion and thirst, and Jim cast a glance at those around him, seeing his own doubts reflected in their eyes. Had the CO taken a wrong turning? Were they lost? One bit of jungle looked the same as the next, and the markings on the maps couldn’t be relied upon. There was no sign of the village they should have reached by now. To cap it all, there was no fresh water, just a steep, rocky track running through dense scrub and tall jungle.
The order came down the line to rest easy. It seemed the CO was sending out scouts to try and find the village.
‘I knew it,’ said an exasperated Ernie, dumping his backpack on the ground. ‘He’s got us flaming lost.’
‘To be sure, it looks that way,’ Jim replied mournfully. He eased off his heavy backpack. ‘I wonder if we’ll have time for a brew-up and a bit of nosh?’
‘We will if the scouts don’t find anything,’ said Ernie, lighting a cigarette. ‘And I doubt they will now. It’ll be dark before you know it.’
‘Ever the optimist, eh, Ernie?’ teased Jim, rolling a smoke.
A mutter went through the lines like wind through a dry wheat field, but before anyone could catch their breath, men further up the line were getting back to their feet as mules and horses were released from their hobbles and reloaded. The word reached them that the original village had been found, and they were to proceed with utmost caution and absolute silence.
Jim heaved the backpack over his shoulders, stuffed his unlit cigarette in his mouth, and gathered up his carbine and spare ammunition belts. Wedging his hat brim low over his eyes to counter the last blinding rays of the low sun, he got into line. He was gagging for a cuppa and something to eat, but he’d learnt long ago that this army didn’t march on its stomach, but on sheer determination and bloody-mindedness to get to their destination.
They passed the remains of three villages that were all overgrown and barely discernible in the regrowth of the surrounding jungle. Then the long column was brought to a halt again. The small reconnaissance group was sent out, guards were posted and everyone waited stoically for the next order.
They soon heard that the fourth village of the same name had been sighted two miles away in a shallow river valley, and that people were living in it. No Japs had been reported, but that wasn’t proof there weren’t any, so Jim and the others quietly moved into the valley and made camp out of sight of the village around the bend in the river.
There could be no cooking fires, no smoking and no noise, so they washed in the river, drank the water and ate cold rations, armed and alert for any sounds coming out of the jungle that might be a native, or a prowling Japanese patrol.
There was a good deal of muttering which petered out as the familiar nightly routine swung into action. Guards were posted, the animals watered, canisters replenished with water and salt tablets – and a day’s worth of K-rations dumped in a metal eating can to be stirred into a glutinous mess and gobbled down at a rate of knots before they fell asleep over it.
Too tired to even think straight, Jim eased off his boots, stuffed his socks inside them and plonked his hat on top, the chinstrap tethered firmly beneath the boots so it didn’t blow away. It was unlikely that it would, for the air was breathlessly still, the heat of the day continuing to hum in the ground as the chirrups a
nd buzzing of the insects slowly faded away, leaving the jungle silent.
Jim undid the top button of his flies, loosened his belt and propped his loaded carbine between his knees, barrel down, safety catch on. There wasn’t enough light to see to read or write, so he rested his head on his backpack, pulled the strip of blanket over him and was asleep within seconds.
He was startled awake by someone digging him none too gently in the ribs with a boot, and automatically reached for his gun.
Big Bert grinned down at him, his teeth gleaming in the moon’s glow. ‘Your turn for watch,’ he whispered.
Jim dragged himself to his feet and went to his guard post, which was a tree some two hundred yards away at the top of the slope. He settled on his belly, checked the sights on his gun and tried to shake off the strange dream he’d been having when Bert had so rudely woken him. He’d dreamt that Peggy and Vera Lynn were sitting at his kitchen table at Beach View whilst Cordelia sang out of tune and Harvey – resplendent in a bow tie, top hat and fancy waistcoat – played the piano. He shook his head and gave a wry smile. He’d clearly been in the jungle for too long.
It was an hour before dawn when he noticed that there was a quiet conflab going on amongst the column commanders, and he guessed they were probably discussing what to do next. He watched them for a while, but as he couldn’t hear what they were saying, he grew bored, his concentration flitting between the view into the valley from his guard post, his full bladder and rumbling stomach.
Jim came off guard duty half an hour later, and noted that the conference was still going on. He dipped into the jungle to relieve his aching bladder, and returned to his backpack and blanket, hoping to get some food and kip before the day’s orders came through. He was about to reach for his rations when he saw his brigade commander approach, noted the look in his eye and felt his spirits tumble. He just knew he was about to be volunteered for something.
‘The CO’s going in to recce a decent place for the next airdrop and HQ block,’ he said just above a whisper as he squatted in front of Jim. ‘And he’s taking six men with him: you, me, three Gurkha riflemen to cover our backs and translate if we come across the natives – and Flight Lieutenant Simms, who’ll check if the place has a decent landing site.’
‘Why me?’ Jim asked, getting to his feet.
‘Because you’re an engineer and I recommended you,’ the man replied flatly. He leaned towards Jim. ‘This is a covert op and must not attract attention. You’ll take no papers, no marked maps or notes and only light arms. Is that understood, Warrant Officer Reilly?’
‘Sir, yes, sir,’ he said, smartly standing to attention and saluting.
‘Good chap. Be ready in five, get the shirt off and put this longyi on.’ He handed Jim a length of filthy green checked cloth and then walked away to speak to the Gurkhas.
‘Bloody hell, Jim,’ breathed Ernie. ‘What’s with the fancy dress?’
‘Perhaps the CO thinks the Burmans will take me for one of them, though I don’t see how,’ he muttered, stripping off his shirt and tying the ragged, filthy piece of cloth at his waist so it fell in folds over his shorts to his boots. ‘In reality, it’s just another layer to make me even hotter, and I really can’t see the point of it because I don’t look a bit like a native.’
Ernie grinned. ‘I reckon you do, mate,’ he said, eyeing him up and down. ‘You’re certainly brown enough, and with that black hair …’
Jim swiped him playfully with his hat. ‘You’re only jealous of my tan because you burn, peel and go back to being pink,’ he retorted.
‘Orders is orders, even if you do look daft,’ muttered Big Bert, who was clearly not happy at being left out of the party. ‘By the looks of it the CO and the other officers are going along with the charade – even though they’re keeping on their shirts. But why on earth he’s got the Gurkhas to change into those filthy torn uniforms I don’t know.’
‘They’re officers, Bert,’ said Jim, picking up his carbine and settling his hat firmly on his head. ‘They don’t think like normal humans.’ He looked down at his two mates. ‘If I don’t come back, will you be after sending a letter to Peggy telling her how fearless and handsome I looked the last time you saw me?’ he asked lightly to cover the sudden rush of nerves.
His joke fell flat, and both men merely grunted. ‘Piss off and get on with it,’ muttered Ernie. ‘It’s too bloody hot to be sitting about waiting for you to play the hero.’
Jim just grinned, for he knew they cared about him really. He turned away, and went to join the CO and the rest of the small gathering down by the river.
The sky was pearly grey, the night mist dwindling away from the forest floor as they began to climb out of the steep-sided valley. Bird calls rang through the jungle and, aware that it could be the Japs signalling to one another, all seven men remained alert, their fingers poised on their triggers.
As the light strengthened they encountered a long-abandoned village and had to struggle through dense thorny undergrowth, lantana, bamboo, weeds and crops that had run wild. Upon reaching the summit of the hill and entering the jungle again, they all breathed a sigh of relief to be back in the relative shade.
Jim kept tripping over the blasted skirt, and in the end, he tucked the hem into the pockets of his shorts, promising the commanding officer he’d be properly attired when the time came. They’d left the camp an hour ago, and were now moving along the ridge towards what the CO was calling the railway valley, the site of the Japanese enclave they would be targeting.
Jim and the Gurkhas followed closely behind the officers, their eyes constantly moving for any sight of the enemy, their fingers still poised by their triggers as they carefully descended the ridge to the full-flowing river that ran between low cliffs. Always on the alert, the small party waded through the deep water for about a mile before climbing out and up into yet another band of high ridges and steep hills.
They came to a halt and the CO ordered Jim and the Gurkhas to remain on guard whilst he crouched down and surveyed the area through his binoculars. Jim was near enough to the officers to be able to catch what they were saying, and form his own opinion.
‘The flanking hills are too close to the north,’ the CO murmured, ‘but the water’s good and plentiful as well as being clean. The perimeter length is about right, but protection against artillery fire is only just adequate.’ He swung the binoculars over the valley and neighbouring hills. ‘Observation is good,’ he murmured. ‘Fields of fire are fair in most directions.’
‘The aerial photographs haven’t shown anything better in this area,’ said Jim’s brigade CO. ‘We could hold this place well against attack. Once we’ve got the C-47 field sorted, we’ll have our heavy artillery and really chew up any enemy within five miles, north or south.’
Jim could see the railway line and station from his vantage point, and the scatter of native buildings he now knew to be, not part of a Burmese village, but the Japanese hospital, ammunition dumps, stores, mess huts, garages and sleeping accommodation. All looked quiet down there, but that was probably because the main body of men were still being kept busy by Stilwell, and the few Japs there were probably only moved about after dark to escape the attention of the Allied Air Forces which patrolled this area regularly.
He listened to the senior officers and wondered why they didn’t just get on and destroy the place whilst it was still vulnerable, for once the C-47s and gliders came with more men and machinery, they’d be alerted to what was going on and react swiftly. Still, he mused, he wasn’t in charge, and no doubt the officers knew what they were doing – even if it didn’t seem to make much sense to him.
Jim got to his feet and followed the officers as they turned away from the railway valley and headed across the ridge. The sun was high, and he was sweating profusely as his eyes darted back and forth searching for any enemy patrol which could be hiding in any one of the rocky defiles. He could only hope that the aerial photographs proved to be right and there was somewhe
re nearby to build an airfield big enough to take a C-47 – or they would be clambering about in these damned hills for days.
They came to a halt again and then began to descend into another valley, most of which was taken up by an enormous paddy field. Hunkering down in the shade of the trees and scrub on the edge of the paddy, they were glad of the brief respite from the blazing sun. There was a cluster of bamboo huts on stilts in the trees and a few Burmese working in the field, but nothing else moved, and all was silent.
‘Right, Warrant Officer Reilly,’ whispered the CO. ‘Now it’s your turn. Take off the hat and wind this cloth round your head like the natives do. You and Flight Lieutenant Simms are going to walk right down the middle of that paddy to measure it and see if it’s long enough for an airstrip. Your job will be to gauge what machinery we’ll need and the number of men it will take to clear it. As you walk, you must both look as if you’re going somewhere, but not be in a hurry. Understood?’
The airman muttered confirmation, and Jim just nodded and copied the way the other man was wrapping the black cloth over his hair.
‘Stick your carbines down your longyis like this,’ said the CO, shoving his gun down his shorts and adjusting the native cloth over the handle so it couldn’t be seen. He waited for both men to comply, looked them up and down and nodded. ‘You’ll do. Off you go.’
With the others poised in the scrub to give covering fire, Jim and the RAF man cautiously stepped out into the brilliant morning sunshine and began the slow, heart-stopping walk across the paddy field under the very noses of the Burmese workers and any Japanese who happened to be hiding in those bamboo huts or surrounding trees.
