by Boris Hembry
The party then stood around looking slightly self-conscious when one of Wavell’s aides whispered in my ear that the generals would appreciate a cup of tea. I sprang instantly into action, turned smartly and got as far as yelling ‘Arch– !’, coughed uncontrollably, and walked through to the mess room to issue the necessary instructions to Archibald, our mess orderly. Just in time, I hoped, I had remembered the C-in-C’s Christian name.
It was while we were taking it easy over the Christmas period that Gretton Foster and I talked for hours, sitting out under the stars, usually with whisky in hand, about our youth and early days in our respective peacetime careers, and what we would do after the War. Both were confident that we would survive, and on the winning side. I knew that Gretton was not married, but asked whether he was engaged. He explained that he once had been, but his fiancée had broken it off. He had been a keen poacher and one evening, still wearing his poacher’s jacket, he had taken her to the local cinema where during the film his fiancée had endearingly slipped her hand into his pocket – only to be bitten severely by his ferret. End of engagement.
The day after the generals’ visit, Maungdaw was bombed, and our sleeping quarters received a direct hit and were totally destroyed. We lost one CF, and all our personal kit. We took shelter in a slit trench, conveniently dug by the Japanese during their occupation. Some of the bombs fell unpleasantly close. So once again my personal possessions had been reduced to what I stood up in. Fortunately, one of our officers was on leave in Calcutta at the time and we were able to get a signal through to him, and in only a week or so he was back in Maungdaw with new equipment and clothing for us all. But, there were no free replacements from the army. Every item of kit had to be bought by myself, charged to my account at the Army & Navy store in Calcutta.
At the end of December Donald and I went on an operation which involved a visit to Foul Point, the tip of the Mayu Peninsula, just opposite Akyab, then the Jap’s area headquarters. I quote from the 14th Indian Division Intelligence Summary No. 26 dated 13 January 1943, which I retain:
Subsequent to the advance of our forces Lt Col Donald and Lt Hembry have organised a system of intelligence, with a few V Force agents and a number of locals, to get information about Jap movements from Foul Point to Lambagona. Both these officers have been to within a few miles of Foul Point, their agents going still further. On the 28th December Lt Col Donald reported that on the west of the Mayu Peninsula there were very few Japs in the hills. On the east, however, there were Japs in most of the villages, totalling from 300 to 400.
As regards Akyab, he estimated 3,000 Japs in and around the town, with another 300 on the north end of the island opposite Foul Point.
Reports like this, of course, give only the bare bones. No mention is made of the hours of planning, the risks involved or the dangers actually encountered. Donald and I had to walk through miles of open country well into Japanese-occupied territory to a secret rendezvous with a Mr Maracan, a well-known merchant and businessman who lived in a small village just north of Foul Point. Donald, in his own inimitable way, had nicknamed him ‘Maracan of Arakan’. Maracan was very loyal and his efforts on our behalf were invaluable. We needed to brief him very carefully before he sent an agent into Akyab. We wanted to know all about the sea and land defences, the disposition and numbers of troops. The planners were contemplating an attack on Akyab simultaneously from landwards and seawards by the very much enlarged 14th Indian Division. If we could capture Akyab we would have a substantial port for landing tanks and other heavy equipment for the build-up of sufficient forces to advance south. In the event it was all pie in the sky, for the delay in following up our capture of Maungdaw and Buthidaung enabled the Japs to regroup, recapture their lost territory, and force us to retire. Akyab was eventually taken by XV corps nearly 18 months later.
I shall always remember our trip to Foul Point and back. Striding along with my colonel, he wielding his polo stick and all the time singing, ‘Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelopes play.’ I did my best to keep him between me and the hills from where any shooting would most likely come.
The first Battle of Donbaik took place during the third week of January 1943. We had recently been joined by a new subaltern, Second Lieutenant Davies (I regret I do not remember his Christian name), and I thought that it would be ideal for his baptism of fire to take part in the battle. Before the start of the attack the enemy was to be subjected to a heavy barrage of 25 pounders, .37 mountain guns (howitzers) and a battalion of heavy machine guns, which would then creep forward as our troops advanced. I had decided to take young Davies to an artillery OP (observation post) to view the battle. Having been given the okay by the gunner battery commander I was told to follow the field telephone lines which would lead us to the OP. We soon picked up the cables and followed them. We seemed to be following them for miles. Disquiet set in after half an hour when we should have reached the OP within 10 minutes. I saw from my watch that it was 10.45. The barrage was due to begin at 11.00. The high ground on which the OP was located should have been in front of us, but there seemed to be no rising ground in front. I looked at my watch again. It was still 10.45. It had stopped. Davies’ watch said 1100 hours. Panic stations. I looked around and spotted a hole in the ground made by a tree that had been uprooted by shellfire – probably our own artillery’s ranging rounds. We fell into the hole at the very moment the bombardment began. It quite literally rained high explosives. I do not know exactly how long it was before the barrage lifted and moved on another 100 yards or so, but it seemed a lifetime. It was most probably only five minutes. Then the machine guns opened up. This was even more terrifying than the heavy guns, and lasted longer. Then these, too, moved on. We gave it another five minutes before we left the comparative safety of our hole. No sooner were we out in the open when bullets began whistling past our ears like angry wasps. We hurled ourselves back into our hole. Every time we lifted our heads ping went another bullet, sometimes so close that I could feel the hot air – or so I imagined – as it just missed. Obviously a sniper had survived the barrage. I suggested to Davies that he put his hat – as usual, I had no headgear, he had an Aussie army slouch hat – on to a nearby bush, with the idea of trying to spot the sniper as soon as a bullet hole appeared in it, whilst he was re-loading for the next shot. The crown was completely riddled before I saw a man halfway up a tree, and some 50 yards away. I told Davies to move his hat slightly and as soon as we heard the crack of the sniper’s rifle we would both stand up and let fly with our Tommy guns. We did just that. After a few minutes we both raised our heads again and saw the very bloodstained body dangling from the tree.
The telephone line that we had followed was, of course, Japanese. They must have watched us following it into their positions. We shall never know why they did not kill us, unless they had wanted to take us prisoner to interrogate us.
We picked ourselves up and scurried off in the direction of our own forward troops, halting only to allow Davies to go back and get his hat. This was silly because we were immediately fired upon from another direction. It was then that we saw the mules.
To quote from V Force progress report to Eastern Army HQ dated 31 January 1943:
During the Battle of Donbaik on 21.1.43 Lieutenants Hembry and Davies went into the fight to try their luck against Jap snipers. They had not been long thus engaged when they noticed some mules loaded with a mortar and some bombs wandering away without their darabis (drivers), so under enemy fire they caught the mules and brought them back to our lines. True enough they only saved the lives of a couple of mules, but against this it must be remembered that the Japs would have had a nice present of our mortar and several cases of bombs. All the more credit is due to young Davies as this was his first time under fire.
I was glad that no mention was made of my mistake over the Jap telephone wire.
We had led the mules a few hundred yards when a grenade went off very near us. We dropped to the ground, letting g
o one of the mules which wandered off to nibble at the undergrowth. I remember saying to Davies, ‘Bugger me, where did that come from?’ Just then we heard a groan from behind a bank. We let go of the other mule and each threw a hand grenade towards the noise and, after a few minutes of silence, crept up and peered over the bank to find not a Jap but a sepoy, badly wounded, wheezing and twitching horribly. I gave the poor man some water and saw that he had been shot several times in the chest but did not, I was thankful to note, appear to have received grenade shrapnel wounds. We pondered what to do whilst the battle went on merrily all around and over us. Then I told Davies to catch the mules again whilst I picked up the sepoy and slung him over my shoulder and we made our way back to our lines.
We had not gone more than a couple of hundred yards when we were surrounded by Sikhs. The Sikh officer viewed us with the gravest of suspicion. He could see that we were not Japs, but we could have been Germans. From time to time we had heard rumours that Germans were fighting with the Japs on several fronts, and we in V Force had tried on several occasions to verify this. We persuaded the Sikh officer that we were British, he relieved us of the mules and directed me to the casualty clearing station where I thankfully laid the poor sepoy down on to a stretcher. We then made our way back to V Force Advance HQ, made our report and treated ourselves to several large pegs of whisky.
It was at about this time that I was notified that I had been mentioned in despatches for the second time.
It was during the Battle of Donbaik that I witnessed a Sikh win the Victoria Cross. Some Bren carriers were badly shot up on the beach, put out of action and their occupants killed or wounded. Sergeant Packrat Singh of the 5/8 Punjabis drove his Bren carrier down the beach, under very heavy fire, calmly got out, hooked a chain on to one of the disabled carriers and towed it back to our lines. He then repeated the operation with the second carrier. I was about a quarter of a mile away in an OP and saw everything. I believe the award was immediate.
Sometime not long after Donbaik, Donald and I had returned from a rather special patrol and were sleeping, wrapped up in our groundsheets, not far from Divisional Forward HQ, when we were suddenly woken by cannon and machine-gun fire. We were partially undressed; that is to say we had removed our shoes and socks. I found and donned mine quickly, but my colonel was cursing and groping around for his, muttering, ‘Where are my fucking socks, where the hell are my fucking socks?’ I could not help bursting out laughing, which promptly produced a whole lot more curses. We grabbed our weapons and made our way to HQ, where there was not a little panic. There was more shelling and machine-gun fire coming from seawards and we assumed that the Japs were making a landing behind us, in their traditional way. We stood to all night to find, in the dawn, that we had been shelled by the Royal Navy who had got their co-ordinates wrong. Then, to cap that, the very same morning we were bombed by the RAF. They inflicted only minor casualties, but we did begin to wonder who our enemies were.
It was on my way back to our main V Force Headquarters, having hitched a ride with a gunner colonel, that we came across one of his unit’s three tonners broken down by the side of the road. We stopped, having seen a Tommy’s boots sticking out from underneath the engine. ‘What’s up?’ asked the Colonel. Back came the answer from underneath the lorry, ‘What’s oop? I’ll tell thee what’s oop. The fooking fooker’s fooked, fook it!’ I had never before heard a word conjugated as adjective, noun, verb and expletive all in one sentence.
After First Donbaik (there were two such battles) Colonel Donald, Gretton Foster and I went on a fortnight’s leave, leaving Davies in charge of our CFs. The road through to Cox’s Bazaar having now been completed we took the unit’s jeep, which I drove. There was still the odd Jap patrol infiltrating even this far so our weapons were always at the ready and loaded, but we were unmolested. Then from Cox’s to Chittagong by steamer, and on to Calcutta by rail as usual, before checking in at the Great Eastern Hotel, which appeared to have been much improved since my last stay. The rats and most of the cockroaches had been banished.
I immediately telephoned the Treanors, hoping to be able to spend my leave in Darjeeling, only to learn that they were going down to Gopalpur, a seaside resort in Orissa, for two weeks, but would I join them there? After a couple of days in Calcutta spent replenishing my meagre wardrobe and visiting the 4/3 Madras out at Barrackpore, I caught the train for the night’s rail journey to Gopalpur and a wonderful welcome from the Treanor family.
The days passed with nothing to do but relax, eat, sleep, bathe and talk. The only snag was the break in letters from Jean and the family, as they were still being forwarded to V Force in Arakan. This was unavoidable as, apart from the Treanors, I had not told anyone of my holiday plans, not even my colonel.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when, on the Saturday afternoon at the end of only the first week, the dak wallah handed me a telegram instructing me to report immediately to a Colonel Heath at an address in Ballygunge, Calcutta. At first I simply could not understand how anyone could have known my whereabouts – the answer, of course, was that I had been traced through the RTO at Howrah Station who had dealt with the furlough warrant – and then I was angry because I had only had one week of my fortnight. I talked the matter over with Colonel Treanor who, as an old army man, advised compliance with the order. Thus I arrived back at the Great Eastern Hotel early on the Sunday morning in time for breakfast and a spruce up, before taking a taxi out to the address in Ballygunge. Ballygunge was the suburb where most of the burra sahibs of the great Calcutta trading and tea companies lived in considerable splendour. Many of the large bungalows had been commandeered by the various headquarters for their staff officers, quite a few of whom had the good fortune to have their wife and family with them. I duly found the house and knocked on the door. It was answered by a man dressed in grey flannels and open-necked shirt who introduced himself as Colonel Heath. I told him who I was and showed him the telegram. To my utter astonishment he looked at it, said it was Sunday, and told me to return at ‘a reasonable hour’ on Monday.
I had quite forgotten that wars stopped on weekends for box wallahs. It was shortly before tiffin time and the man did not even ask me in for a drink or offer to call a taxi to take me back to Calcutta. I waved down a passing army lorry and was given a lift back into town. The incident certainly put me off Colonel Heath, who was to be my commanding officer for the next two years. Henceforth I never liked or trusted him, nor, incidentally, ceased to be amazed at the speed with which he had achieved such exalted rank, fast even by the nebulous standards of clandestine forces, and particularly so considering his comparative lack of seniority in his prewar job.
I returned to the hotel, mystified as to what it was all about, and seething with rage. I was used to being buggered about, having orders countermanded and changed in the field where everyone is confronting the enemy and sharing the dangers, and the situation changing by the minute. I had not yet learned that the further away from any action the more likely it was to experience pettiness, the lack of any sense of duty or urgency of many staff officers, who often worked the traditional peacetime hours, even with the Japanese pressing against the very borders of India. I cheered up considerably when, much to my surprise and delight, whom should I meet in the bar but Freddy and Bill Ferguson, two planting friends from Sungei Siput. Both had been pilots in the FMS Auxiliary Air Force and were now in the RAF, having had further training in Canada. We had a very good party
I did not realise it at the time but I had seen the last of Arakan. Looking back over those years I can say with all sincerity that the time spent with V Force was for me quite the most rewarding and interesting of the whole war. Despite the dangers and discomforts I would far sooner have stayed with V Force, with its completely unselfish and dedicated officers, than be with ISLD, where I found – as so accurately described by Brigadier Bowden-Smith in a letter to me on the cessation of hostilities – ‘a maelstrom of difficulties and opposition both from above and b
elow’. And that was not including the Jap!
I would like to quote from the final paragraph of Colonel Donald’s report to Eastern Army Headquarters dated 31 January 1943:
Before closing this, my final report on Arakan V Force, I must record my deep appreciation for the services rendered by all my officers. They have all at various times been in very tight corners which they have taken in their strides, without thought of praise and rewards. I have indeed been fortunate to have these officers, and my final remarks on them are AS FIGHTING MEN THEY ARE SECOND TO NONE.
The capitals are Colonel Donald’s.
ISLD (MARCH 1943 – APRIL 1944)
The following day I took a taxi out to Ballygunge again, my anger only slightly abated but nevertheless interested to learn why my well-earned leave had been curtailed. After a brief discussion about my activities with V Force, Heath disclosed that he, too, was an ex-Malayan, with Nestlé, and asked whether I knew a Laurie Brittain. I said of course I knew Laurie, who was also with Nestlé, and his charming American wife Verna. She it was who told me the limerick that I have remembered to this day:
There was a young lady of Madras
Who had the most beautiful ass,
Not round and pink,
As you might think,
But the sort with long ears and eats grass.
Verna, as an American, of course pronounced Madras, ass and grass to rhyme.
Heath then said that Laurie was in the building and would like to talk to me. I was delighted to see Laurie again, looking spruce in his pilot officer’s uniform. Heath interrupted our enquiries about our respective wives and the quick résumés of our recent activities by saying that he had been given an important task by General Wavell, and that I had been recommended for the enterprise, which would not be without danger. I was curious. What could be possibly more dangerous than V Force? But before they could say more would I sign the Official Secrets Act? Curiouser and curiouser! I agreed, and the document was produced and signed.
