The major difficulty in training was opportunity. If troops are to be trained, they must be pulled out of the fight, even if only for a month. We could not do that. Every fighting man we had was needed, more and more pressingly, at the front. Experience taught a good deal, but with the Japanese as instructors it was an expensive way of learning. The Jungle Warfare School run by Army Headquarters turned out a few theoretically trained officers and men, but they all went to form small ‘commando’ units. It would have been better, I think, to have sent them to ordinary infantry battalions to raise the general standard, especially in patrolling—a crying need. The problem of lightening our equipment was to some extent solving itself. Men and units were jettisoning more and more as they realized that mobility and survival were synonymous. We could not, however, shake loose from the tin-can of mechanical transport tied to our tail, until we were both trained to move and live much more lightly and until we had more animal transport. We thought fleetingly of air supply; it was an obvious solution, but still in the dim future awaiting aircraft. Divisional and brigade commanders worked strenuously to devise and inculcate new tactical methods. The standard of jungle craft rose a little, but not really appreciably. I do not know to this day what more we could have done in the time and the circumstances.
Few problems are insoluble, but our wasting strength was one. The most we could hope was to slow up the decline. We combed out combatants or potential combatants behind the line but, in a theatre where almost all administrative personnel were Burman or lower-grade Indian, little could be scraped up from this source. Army Headquarters co-operated and we speeded up the return of men from hospital and of convalescents, but this is a method not without danger. Our medical services were much below what they should have been in establishment, and, even working as devotedly as they did, could not reduce the sickness rates. The tendency was, in fact, for sickness to rise as medical supplies grew scantier and men suffered more from prolonged strain, fatigue, and privation.
In East Africa, where, through the night, we had beaten the Ethiopian emperor’s rallying call on his royal drums to summon his subjects from the Italian regiments back to their allegiance, I had thought, ‘How terrible to be an Italian officer and wake each morning to find more of your men gone.’ Now I was learning what it was like. Reports of desertions from Burmese units increased. The Indian soldier has three loyalties: to his home, to his religion, and to his regiment and his officers. The Burman soldier, too often, had not had time to develop the third, so the fear of leaving their families unprotected in a Japanese-held Burma, made men slink off along the jungle paths for home. There was no way of putting that right except by victory and advance.
As we could not hope to find enough troops to hold the dangerous gap between ourselves and the Chinese, we attempted, in addition to our ‘Yomas Intelligence Service’, to produce a few mobile units of the mounted infantry type. The mounted portion of the Burma Military Police, whose men were Indians domiciled in Burma, were to form the nucleus, but there was a great shortage of ponies. I remember discussing on one occasion the provision of these ponies with an elderly, tired, and depressed civilian who, in other matters, it seemed to me, had shown no great nerve. On this subject, however, he roused himself and became positively animated, ‘Ah!’ he volunteered. ‘Ponies! The man you should have gone to was X. He could lay his hand on any number of ponies, exactly the sort you want!’
‘Grand!’ I said, thrilled that we were at last getting somewhere. ‘Where is he? Fetch him along.’
‘Alas!’ answered my civilian, dropping back to his usual lugubrious tones. ‘Poor X! He died three years ago!’
These mounted infantry detachments were to be pushed out along such tracks as there were to form watching-posts and centres to which the Yomas Intelligence Service could send their reports by runner. It would then be the duty of a despatch rider to get the news back at the gallop while the rest of the post, calling its supports to its assistance, delayed the Japanese columns by all possible means. This for the moment was the best we could devise to close, or at least watch, the gap.
Hard things have been said and sometimes written about the Civil Services and of the collapse of the administration in Burma. My general impression was that many of the British senior government officials were too old, too inflexible in mind, and too acking in energy and leadership really to cope with the immense difficulties and stark realities of invasion. But before soldiers criticize too much, I think they would be well advised to remember that in the defence of Burma, right from the start of the war with Germany, the vital decisions were made by the Fighting Services. It was the Chiefs of Staff who decided what forces should be allotted to Burma and the roles they should play, and the various Commanders-in-Chief and their local commanders who decided how these forces should be used. The Civil Services could at the best only conform to these decisions and co-operate in them. No doubt some civilians failed, but were the military results achieved such as to allow us soldiers to forget the proverb about people who live in glass houses? My experience was that, with very few exceptions, British civilians, both governmental and commercial, and many Burmans stood to their posts with courage and devotion. Nor did we always realize the extent to which, in the districts, the civil officials were hamstrung by the defection of their subordinate Burmese staffs. An inspector of police whose constables have mostly disappeared, the president of a municipality whose clerical and public utility staffs have taken to the jungle, a deputy commissioner whose subordinates have gone on indefinite leave on urgent private affairs, is liable to appear ineffective to a soldier, who, however difficult the situation, still has somebody who will take his orders. It can, of course, be argued that the fact that policemen, clerks, scavengers, and minor officials desert is itself proof of something very wrong with their superiors. Nevertheless, when all is said, the real reason the Burman civilian, like his soldier brother, left his post was because he doubted that we, the soldiers and airmen, could hold back the Japanese. The only thing we could do to help the civil administration was to keep the closest touch with them so that we could pool our information, give warning of our demands, and provide such help as we could in the maintenance of order, the control and evacuation of refugees, and a thousand other things. I asked for a senior but active civil officer to be attached to Corps Headquarters to assist this co-operation. I received Mr. Denis Phelips, who was invaluable, not only in the work for which he was appointed, but in the effect his courage, energy, resource, and devotion to duty had on all of us. He was invariably cheerful, but with the cheerfulness that, far from irritating when things are black, raises the spirit. His laugh was like a battle-cry to us, and, I am sure, to the Japanese too, for they must often have heard it. Phelips was the embodiment of the highest tradition of the Indian Civil Service; he was an example to us soldiers.
Our last and most fundamental danger would be a collapse of morale in our own troops. Morale depends on so many things: spiritual, intellectual, and material. Success is of course the easy foundation on which to build and maintain morale—if you have it. Even without success, confidence in their leaders will give soldiers morale. Difficult as it is to attain without the glamour of victory, we were better off here. The Army Commander was a great name after Dunkirk, to the British element at least. He showed himself forward freely and lived up to his reputation for personal bravery. The greatest assets for morale that we had, however, were the two divisional commanders, who had and held the confidence and indeed affection of their troops, British, Indian, and Gurkha, in a remarkable degree. The hard test of battle had brought forward some excellent brigadiers, like Jones and Cameron, who were real leaders, and they too played a noble part in keeping up tails that had every reason to droop.
The most important thing about a commander is his effect on morale. I was known to a number of the more senior officers, especially those of the Indian Army from the rank of battalion commanders upwards, but little to the troops. As far as morale was c
oncerned, I therefore started pretty well from scratch, which is not a bad thing to do. It has often happened in war that a fresh commander has taken over after a period of ill-success just as the reinforcements, improved armament, and increased supplies arranged by his predecessor are beginning to arrive in the theatre. This, of course, in no way detracts from the skill the new leader may show in the use he makes of the increased resources, but it does help him enormously in the fundamental matter of morale. The troops naturally identify him with the improved conditions, and he finds a ready-made foundation on which to start building until he can give them a victory, and thus, in the only permanent way, consolidate their morale. This advantage neither General Alexander nor I would have. We had to expect the exact opposite. The loss of Rangoon meant not only that our resources and amenities would be progressively and drastically reduced, but, combined with the fall of Malaya, that a tide of Japanese reinforcements would sweep in through the port. Clearly I must get about among the troops and see and be seen. Luckily there was no public relations department at my headquarters to greet my arrival with the clumsy beating of the big drum. A commander, if he is wise, will see that his own troops know him before the Press and other cymbal-clashers get busy with his publicity. All that can be most helpful afterwards.
The broad conclusion of my survey of the situation was the not very brilliant or original one that what was required for morale and for all our other troubles, was a good recognizable victory. We had a chance of getting this, I thought, ifwe could bring over the 1st Burma Division, reorganize the 17th, and carry out the overdue maintenance of our tanks, so that we could hit back with a united corps. If neither the pressure of the Japanese on our front nor events elsewhere forced us to undertake comparatively large-scale operations before we had managed to do these things, we might reasonably hope that the enemy would offer us an opportunity.
Our first task was to get the 1st Burma Division into the Prome area as soon as possible. Its move was, of course, dependent on the arrival of the Chinese to replace it. During January the Chinese VI Army (98th, 49th, 55th Divisions) had come into the Shan States; the V Army was now moving in south of it, but it would not go beyond Toungoo. This was most unfortunate as it meant that the 1st Burma Division, which had been conducting successful offensive operations well to the south, had to pull back, leaving open to the enemy a considerable stretch of the lower Sittang Valley. For supply reasons, also, the loss of one of the best rice production areas was serious. The 1st Burma Division had earlier sent some of its units to reinforce the hard-pressed 17th Division, and this withdrawal, for which the troops could see little reason, had a depressing effect, especially on the Burmese soldiers, many of whom found themselves abandoning their home districts. The Japanese followed up closely; rearguards fought stoutly and inflicted heavy losses, but the division arrived at Toungoo considerably exhausted. Here it passed through the newly arrived Chinese V Army, and on the 22nd March received orders from me to concentrate in the Dayindabo-Kyaukpadaung-Allanmyo area in the Irrawaddy Valley, some fifty miles north of Prome. I chose this area, rather than Prome itself or its immediate neighbourhood, for administrative reasons and because it was desirable that the division, which must of necessity arrive piecemeal, should be able to collect without interruption. The last thing I wanted was to commit any portion of it to action before the whole was ready. It was difficult to get a firm date for the completion of its concentration, but ten days to a fortnight was the estimate.
Meanwhile, the 17th Division showed its spirit. On the 17th March a young major, Calvert, afterwards to become the best known of Wingate’s column commanders, led a daring raid by river on Henzada, a port thought to be much used by the enemy. His scratch party of commando men and Royal Marines inflicted heavy losses on a force of hostile Burmese under Japanese officers who were holding the town. The 1st Gloucesters, at about the same time, surprised a Japanese battalion in billets in the small town of Letpadan, eighty miles south of Prome, inflicted severe losses on it, and chased it into the jungle—a most sprightly affair. There was obviously a great deal of fight in the 17th Division.
After seeing Cowan I decided to pull his division and the armoured brigade closer in to Prome. I did this to get them nearer to 1st Burma Division and to ease the transport situation. I was of the opinion, too, that it would lessen the chance of their flanks being turned from either the river or the Yomas, and that the country immediately south of Prome would be equally suitable for tanks. I rather hoped, also, that the move would throw out or delay any plans the enemy had for an attack. I was anxious at this stage to gain time for the corps concentration. I think I made a mistake. I should have done better to leave the 17th Division forward and to concentrate the 1st Burma Division about Prome. Apart from all else it was a mistake to begin my command by a withdrawal if it could have been avoided. However that may be, the 17th Division pulled in. One brigade (63) in Prome itself covered the main road from the south, another (16) in Sinmezwe-Hmawza held the south-eastern approaches, and the third (48) was echeloned back in the Wettigan area as reserve and to meet any hostile move round the flank. In rear was 7 Armoured Brigade with the reserve brigade, hoping to find an opportunity for tank maintenance. The left flank was protected by the Yomas Intelligence screen, and detachments of the Burma Frontier Force; the right by the Marines in their river craft and commando parties on the west bank of the Irrawaddy working with them. Corps Headquarters in Prome was now perhaps rather near the actual front, but I had no intention of going back if we could avoid it, so it remained.
Prome was bombed by Japanese aircraft, usually not in much strength, every other day or so, invariably at breakfast-time. I had been bombed often enough before, but never in a town, and I found it much more frightening than in the desert or the bush. We had difficulty in controlling the fires that broke out, and, even when there were no air raids, fires still occurred. These mysterious fires in towns we occupied became an annoying feature of the campaign. Sometimes we caught Burmans in the act of starting them, and they got short shrift, but to the end it was one of the favourite activities of the fifth columnists of whom there appeared to be plenty. Prome was, unfortunately, the centre of an area that was notable for its hostility. What with air raids, fires, and refugees, it was, in spite of its attractive situation, its bungalows and gardens, not a comfortable place. The thousands of wretched Indian refugees, many with smallpox and cholera, bivouacked all over its streets and river wharfs, waiting to cross the Irrawaddy and to trudge down the Taungup track to the Arakan coast, were in pitiable case. They were, in addition, quickly reducing the town and its water supply to a state that threatened an epidemic among the troops. The civil authorities with such help as our administrative staffs and units could give—which was not much—worked devotedly and passed thousands over the river to eventual safety in Bengal. The cleaning of the streets was a problem, as the municipal conservancy services had melted away under air attack. We solved it to a considerable extent by taking gangs of convicts from the local jail and giving them liberty in return for a few days’ work as street-cleaners. We began with the least criminal and gradually worked up the scale of guilt. The residue of really bad men, the violent criminals, we finally shipped upstream for confinement in Mandalay. The barge on which they were being towed was, however, attacked by Japanese aircraft. Convicts and warders took to the water together; some of the criminals were shot, some drowned, but none, I think, reached jail in Mandalay or anywhere else. I hope the survivors were a great trouble to the Japanese during their occupation; I fear they must have been to their fellow-countrymen.
CHAPTER III
A CHAPTER OF MISFORTUNES
WHILE we had registered only a couple of minor offensive scores on the ground, the Royal Air Force in Burma had achieved a more notable success. Reconnaissance on the 20th March reported fifty Japanese aircraft, part of the heavy reinforcements now arriving from other fronts, on the airfield at Mingaladon, near Rangoon, and an attack by all avail
able aircraft from Akyab and Magwe was staged next morning. The small force of nine British bombers and ten Hurricanes was intercepted by Navy 0 fighters some seventy miles from Rangoon, but fought its way in, bombed and machine-gunned the airfield, and fought its way out again. Eleven Japanese fighters were destroyed in the air and sixteen of their aircraft on the ground. All our bombers were hit but all returned; our total loss was one Hurricane.
Thoroughly pleased with itself, as it had every reason to be, our air force was preparing to repeat the dose the same afternoon, the 21st March, when Magwe airfield was suddenly attacked by Japanese fighters and bombers in overwhelming strength. During the course of the next twenty-five hours six attacks came in. In all, nearly two hundred and fifty enemy aircraft were employed, of which about one hundred and fifty were medium and heavy bombers. There is doubt as to what, if any, warning was received of the first raids; none was obtained of the later ones. When the first enemy wave came over there were twelve serviceable Hurricanes on the landing-ground. Some of these got up, intercepted the Japanese and shot down four of them, but the weight of the attack got home. By nine o’clock on the 22nd, after successive attacks, only three P40S of the A.V.G. and three Hurricanes were flyable, and of these only the Hurricanes were fit to fight. We paid heavily for our failure to provide pens and dispersal areas for our aircraft. The A.V.G. commander reported that, owing to the absence of warning and the scale of attack, he had no option but to withdraw such of his aircraft as could still fly, and during the afternoon they left for Loiwing. At half-past three the last three Hurricanes went up to intercept an enemy reconnaissance machine. At about half-past four, just after they had landed again, a Japanese attack by about fifty bombers in two waves with a strong fighter escort came in. This final attack completed the destruction of almost the whole of our aircraft. Those that could still fly left for Akyab during the late afternoon, and early next morning, the 23rd March, Burwing H.Q. and the personnel of its squadrons left rather hurriedly for Lashio and Loiwing. On the 23rd March, and again on the 27th, the Japanese repeated the Magwe attacks on Akyab, with the same results. Akyab was abandoned. The last of the R.A.F. had left Burma.
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