Defeat Into Victory

by Field-Marshal Viscount William Slim

  ‘We will now go to a company.’

  I was not sure that a company, just as the attack was starting, was where I wanted to be, but it was a question of ‘face’ for me now. So, not liking it very much, I went on, dodging along shallow nullahs to a company command post. We had not been there long when the attack went off. There was no hesitation about these Chinese soldiers. I think a lot of them must have had experience under fire, as they used ground skilfully. The Japanese made a lot of noise as the Chinese broke cover, but, as usual, their shooting was high and bad. The Colonel turned to me. For one awful moment I thought he was going to say, ‘We will now go to a platoon!’ but he did not. Instead, he looked at me and grinned. Only a good and seasoned soldier can grin at you like that when bullets are about.

  The Chinese attack we had watched reached the Pin Chaung and cleared the north bank, but failed to take the strongly held road-block at the ford. Even the tanks, prevented from closing by the soft sand of the river bed, could not drive out the defenders. Sun got busy preparing another attack, but with communications as bad as his were and with the units by now rather mixed up, I did not think he could renew the assault as quickly as he hoped.

  Meanwhile, the Burma Division had begun in real earnest the Battle of the Oilfields. And a brutal battle it was. The temperature that day was 114 degrees; the battlefield was the arid, hideous, blackened shale of the oilfield, littered with wrecked derricks, flames roaring from the tanks, and shattered machinery and burning buildings everywhere. Over it all hung that huge pall of smoke. And there was no water.

  At 6.30 in the morning, the Burma Division attacked. Progress was made, under cover of artillery, but the guns were running short of shells. Then some Burman troops faltered. In spite of this a by-pass road was cleared and a good deal of transport got down almost to the Pin Chaung itself, only to be held up by Japanese on the south bank. The British and Indian troops of the division fought doggedly over low ridge after ridge, the Japanese defending each one to the last man. A detachment of the Inniskillings struggled through to the Pin Chaung and enthusiastically greeted the troops it found there, believing them to be Chinese. They were Japanese who lured the Irishmen into an ambush. The tanks made a last attack on the road-block, but it was defended by several anti-tank guns, and the tanks, bogged in the soft sand, became sitting targets. The attack, like that of the Chinese from the other side, petered to a standstill.

  More Japanese were coming in from the east and were reported on the river. The situation was grave. At half-past four in the afternoon, Scott reported on the radio that his men were exhausted from want of water and continuous marching and fighting. He could hold that night, he thought, but if he waited until morning his men, still without water, would be so weakened they would have little or no offensive power to renew the attack. He asked permission to destroy his guns and transport and fight his way out that night. Scott was the last man to paint an unduly dark picture. I knew his men were almost at the end of their strength and in a desperate position. I could not help wishing that he had not been so close a friend. I thought of his wife and of his boys. There were lots of other wives, too, in England, India, and Burma whose hearts would be under that black cloud a couple of miles away. Stupid to remember that now! Better get it out of my head.

  I thought for a moment, sitting there with the headphones on, in the van with the operator crouching beside me, his eyes anxiously on my face. Then I told Scott he must hang on, I had ordered a Chinese attack again with all available tanks and artillery for the next morning. If Burma Division attacked then we ought to break through, and save our precious guns and transport. I was afraid, too, that if our men came out in driblets as they would in the dark, mixed up with Japanese, the Chinese and indeed our own soldiers, would fail to recognize them and their losses would be heavy. Scott took it as I knew he would. He said, ‘All right, we’ll hang on and we’ll do our best in the morning, but, for God’s sake, Bill, make those Chinese attack.’

  I stepped out of the van feeling about as depressed as a man could. There, standing in a little half-circle waiting for me, were a couple of my own staff, an officer or two from the Tank Brigade, Sun, and the Chinese liaison officers. They stood there silent and looked at me. All commanders know that look. They see it in the eyes of their staffs and their men when things are really bad, when even the most confident staff officer and the toughest soldier want holding up, and they turn where they should turn for support—to their commander. And sometimes he does not know what to say. He feels very much alone.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ I said, putting on what I hoped was a confident, cheerful expression, ‘it might be worse!’

  One of the group, in a sepulchral voice, replied with a single word:

  ‘How?’

  I could cheerfully have murdered him, but instead I had to keep my temper.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, grinning, ‘it might be raining!’

  Two hours later, it was—hard. As I crept under a truck for shelter I thought of that fellow and wished I had murdered him.

  Throughout the night, as we sat inside a circle of laagered tanks just above the Pin Chaung, we could hear and see the crump and flash of Japanese shells and mortar bombs flailing Scott’s wretched men. His guns did not reply. They were down to about twenty rounds per gun now, and he was keeping those for the morning. Time and again the Japanese put in infantry attacks, attempting to infiltrate under cover of darkness and shelling. These attacks, one after the other, were beaten off, but certain of the Burma troops panicked and abandoned their positions, throwing extra strain on the British and Indians.

  The day began for me before dawn with a severe blow. The Chinese attack across the Pin Chaung to take Twingon, a village about a mile south of the ford, which I had hoped would start soon after daylight, could not be got ready in time. After a good deal of talk it was promised for twelve-thirty as the earliest possible hour. I was then faced with the problem of either telling Scott to hold his attack, which was due to go in at seven o’clock, or to let it go as arranged. I decided to let it go, rather than keep his men and transport sitting cramped and waterless under artillery, mortar, and air attack.

  At seven o’clock the Burma Division resumed the attack, but a reinforced Japanese defence held it after it had made some progress. Meanwhile, on the north bank, while still urging the Chinese to hurry their preparations, we had managed to scrape up a small British force which attacked and, during the morning, actually got a squadron of tanks and some of the West Yorkshire Regiment across the Chaung. This small success might have been expanded had not one of those infuriating mishaps so common in battle occurred. An officer some distance in rear, received a report that strong enemy forces were advancing to cut off the transport assembled about Gwegyo. Without realizing the situation forward, and still less that the threatening forces advancing on him were not Japanese but Chinese, he ordered back the tanks and accompanying infantry to deal with this new but imaginary danger.

  Burma Division was once more halted in a tight perimeter and was being heavily shelled. The heat was intense, there was still no water, the troops were exhausted and they had suffered heavy casualties, their wounded, of course, being still with them. At this stage the Burma battalions, in spite of the efforts of their officers, really disintegrated. I Burma Brigade reported that the bulk of their troops were no longer reliable; even 13 Brigade said that some of theirs were shaky. It was hardly to be wondered at; their ordeal had been terribly severe.

  The Chinese attack, promised for 1230 hours, had now been postponed to 1400 hours. Just before that time it was again put back to 1600 hours. We managed, however, to get it off at 1500 hours instead. These delays were of course maddening, but I had not then learned that time means little to the average Chinaman. Actually, with their lack of signal equipment, of means of evacuating wounded and of replenishing ammunition, and their paucity of trained junior leaders, it was not surprising that to sort themselves out, reform, and start a fresh attack took
time. The trouble was not with Sun, who was all energy and desire to attack, but with so many of his subordinates, who promised but did not perform, and in the delays and errors that occurred in getting his orders to them. One of their troubles, and a real one, was water. They could not attack until water had been replenished, and they had no means of fetching it up except a few petrol tins slung in pairs on a bamboo and carried, willow pattern plate fashion, across a man’s shoulder. We got one of our few remaining water lorries and ran it up nearly to their front line, with orders to make continuous trips backwards and forwards. It went the first time and did not return. Eventually the British driver appeared on foot. He said, with soldierly embellishments, that having emptied the tank of water, the Chinese, in spite of his protests, emptied the radiator also, and, when he left to get help, were trying to empty the petrol tank as well! Sun dealt with that incident; we got the water lorry back and it ran regularly. Even so, when I was at one of the forward Chinese headquarters, a large and very fat Chinese officer protested volubly that it was impossible to attack as none of his men had water. He was deeply moved about it. I noticed that all the time he was so passionately describing the sufferings of his men he had a very large water bottle hanging from his belt, and that even at his most gesticulatory moments it lay snug against his ample posterior. I walked quietly up to him, lifted it, and shook it. It was full to the cork. There was a pause in his flow of language, and a moment’s hush among the spectators. Then all shouted with laughter—in which the fat officer joined. Without more ado he agreed they could attack by 1500 hours, and they did.

  Unhappily, before that time communication with Scott had ceased and his last desperate effort to break out could not be co-ordinated with the Chinese attack. His squadron of tanks had found and cleared a rough track, leading east, down to the Pin Chaung, over which it was hoped vehicles could move. Scott himself formed up the column, guns in front, wounded in ambulances and trucks next, followed by such vehicles as had survived the bombardment. With a spearhead of tanks and infantry the column lurched down the narrow, uneven path, through the low hillocks. But the trail turned to sand; the leading ambulances were bogged and the column stopped. As many wounded as possible were piled on the tanks, and Scott gave the order to abandon vehicles and fight a way out on foot across the Pin Chaung. This his men did, some in formed bodies, some in small groups, and on the other side they met the Chinese. At the sight of the water in the Chaung the mules which had come out with them went mad, and the men flung themselves face downwards into it. The haggard, red-eyed British, Indian, and Burmese soldiers who staggered up the bank were a terrible sight, but every man I saw was still carrying his rifle. The two brigades of the division had reached Yenangyaung at a strength of not more than one; there they had lost in killed and wounded twenty per cent of that small number, with a considerable portion of their guns, mortars, and vehicles. None of these losses, either in men or equipment, could be replaced. After its ordeal the division would be of no fighting value until it had rested, and, as best it could, reorganized. We collected it that night about Gwegyo.

  When the Chinese did attack they went in splendidly. They were thrilled at the tank and artillery support they were getting and showed real dash. They took Twingon, rescuing some two hundred of our prisoners and wounded. Next day, the 20th April, the 38th Division attacked again and with tanks penetrated into Yenangyaung itself, repulsing a Japanese counter-attack. The fighting was severe and the Chinese acquitted themselves well, inflicting heavy losses, vouched for by our own officers. Sun now expected a really heavy Japanese attack at dawn on the 21st. I discussed this with him and agreed that he should come out of the town, back to the Pin Chaung. His division had done well and I did not want it frittered away in a house-to-house dog-fight for the shell of Yenangyaung. In spite of the stories I had heard from American sources, of Chinese unwillingness to fight, I had remembered how enthusiastic officers, who had served with our own Chinese Hongkong regiment, had been about their men, and I had expected the Chinese soldier to be tough and brave. I was, I confess, surprised at how he had responded to the stimulus of proper tank and artillery support, and at the aggressive spirit he had shown. I had never expected, either, to get a Chinese general of the calibre of Sun.

  As I talked this over with Davies, my Chief of Staff and my mainstay in these difficult times, we thought we saw a chance of striking back at the 33rd Japanese Division. True, our 1st Burma Division, never really a division in either establishment or equipment, was at the moment incapable of action, but it was definitely recovering in the peace of Mount Popa, where we had sent it. In a week or two we might hope to have it back in the field at a strength of, say, a brigade. If we could get the 17th Division, still in Taungdwingyi, we might, with the Chinese 38th Division and anything else we could scrape up, try a counter-stroke. We were always building up our house of cards, Davies and I, and seeing it fall down—but we went on. So we renewed our attempts to persuade Burma Army to let us take the 17th Division from Taungdwingyi. Meanwhile the 38th Division and, as usual, 7 Armoured Brigade covered the 1st Burma Division as it lay gasping but not dying.

  A number of our badly wounded had of necessity been left in the ambulances when the Burma Division had finally broken out. A young gunner officer volunteered to go back to discover their fate. Under cover of darkness he did so. The ambulances were still standing on the track, but every man in them had had his throat cut or been bayoneted to death.

  We were not alone in our misfortunes. While the battle of Yenangyaung was in progress the Japanese attack on the Chinese VI Army in the Shan States was causing anxiety. In fact, the final phase of the campaign had opened. When the V Army had been driven out of Toungoo north towards Pyinmana, the VI Army was occupying the hills between the Mandalay–Rangoon railway and the Sittang River. The country was wild and broken, pierced by only one road from west to east, that from Toungoo to Mawchi, and one from south to north, the Mawchi–Bawlake–Loikaw road. The 55th Chinese Division was spread out from Loikaw in depth along the Mawchi road, with the other divisions of VI Army, the 49th still farther north and 93rd as far away as Kengtung. Detachments of the Japanese 56th Division, amounting to about a brigade group, commenced to push up towards Mawchi at the beginning of April. The British-led Karen Levies, newly raised and partially trained, tried to delay them, but they and the Chinese were swept away and the town, with some of the most valuable wolfram mines in the world, fell into Japanese hands. The Chinese withdrew to strong positions in the Bawlake-Kemapyu area. The commander of the 55th Chinese Division appealed for reinforcements, and the 93rd Division and one regiment of the 49th Division were ordered to Loikaw. One regiment was, however, retained at Mong Pai, ten miles north-west of Loikaw. Through bad staff work, failure to use properly the transport allotted, and the normal difficulties of moving a Chinese force, these reinforcements were delayed, and the forward troops of the Chinese 55th Division again fell back. A Japanese frontal attack was held, but on the 16th April an outflanking movement, after heavy casualties to both sides, compelled a further withdrawal to Bawlake. Next day the enemy cut the road west of Bawlake, thus isolating a large part of the 55th Division. Throughout the 18th, the Chinese fought hard to open the escape road but failed. Suddenly all telephone and wireless communication with the 55th Division ceased. It had been overrun and scattered. Early on the 18th, Japanese armoured cars appeared only nine miles south of Loikaw; VI Army hurriedly evacuated the town, leaving only partially organized rearguards. Moving rapidly by side tracks, the Japanese cut the main Thazi-Loilem-Kengtung road behind the VI Army, which scattered and fell back pell-mell without demolishing bridges en route. On the 20th April its remnants were halted on a position twelve miles east of Hopong, eighty miles north of Loikaw.

  We were aware that this was roughly the actual position on the VI Army front, when General Alexander, Stilwell, and I met on the 19th April to decide what should be done next. We planned on the basis that the VI Army, while being pressed,
was in extremely good defensive country and should be able to hold anything the Japanese could bring against it, even if it had to give way a little. On the V Army front, the Japanese, after capturing Toungoo, had attacked and taken Yedashe, fifteen miles farther north, on the 5th April, and the Chinese had fallen back slowly on Pyinmana, where General Tu had hoped to stage another ‘Changsha’ battle. It was for this reason that he had ignored Stilwell’s orders to send a division to take over Taungdwingyi, but Japanese air reconnaissance and spies had discovered his trap and the enemy refused to walk into it. Tu still had three divisions in the area and the enemy showed no signs of staging an attack here. The Chinese LXVI Army had its 28th Division in Mandalay and its 29th still moving into Burma at this time. Thus Stilwell was, or rather thought he was, able to dispose of three armies totalling seven or eight divisions, the ninth division—the 38th—being under my command.

  There had already been a good deal of talk among officers and men about giving up any idea of holding even Northern Burma and, instead, concentrating on getting out to India and China what could be saved from the armies in Burma. As a precautionary measure, in case it should be decided to do this, outline plans had been prepared in Burma Army Headquarters at the end of March. The method then proposed was:

  (i) Chinese VI and LXVI Armies

  Troops east of the Salween to return by direct route to China; those west of river also to return to China via Hsipaw and Lashio.

  (ii) Chinese V Army

  To China via Lashio.

  (iii) British

  (a) 7 Armoured Brigade and one brigade group of the 17th Division to Lashio with V Army for China.

  (b) 17th Division (less one brigade group) via Mandalay–Shwebo–Katha–Hukawng Valley to India.

  (c) 1st Burma Division via Kalewa–Tamu to India.

  The objects of this plan were, first, to cover the exits from Burma into China and India, and, second, by sending a British force with the Chinese to ensure their remaining active allies.