On the 28th April, Corps orders were issued directing:
(i) 1st Burma Division to cross the Sameikkon ferry and move to Monywa. There 13 Brigade was to cross to the west bank of the Chindwin to secure the town from the south and south-west.
(ii) 1 Burma Brigade to move from Monywa to Kalewa by boat.
(iii) 2 Burma Brigade (now on the Irrawaddy west bank) to withdraw via Pauk and Tilin into the Myittha Valley, to deny that route to the enemy and eventually make touch with the rest of the 1st Burma Division west of Kalewa.
(iv) 17th Division (less 63 Brigade) to cross and hold the north bank of the Irrawaddy from Myinmu to Allagappa.
(v) 63 Brigade of the 17th Division to cover the road thence to Monywa.
(vi) 38th Chinese Division and 7 Armoured Brigade to hold the river from Sagaing to Ondaw.
The Ava bridge had been allotted to the Chinese V Army, for the crossing of the Irrawaddy, but I obtained permission from Burma Army Headquarters to use it also for 7 Armoured Brigade. It appeared to me, however, that if the 17th Division was to cover the last of the Chinese over the bridge they might as well follow themselves before destroying it. The 17th Division was therefore ordered to hold Kyaukse until all V Army were north of the Myitnge River, then follow with 7 Armoured Brigade, cross, and destroy the Ava bridge.
Having seen the 1st Burma and 38th Chinese Divisions well started on their way to the Irrawaddy, with the Japanese showing little inclination to follow too closely, but being very annoying from the air, I started off on the 27th to visit the more dangerous 17th Division flank. On the west to east secondary road to Kyaukse we ran into increasing evidences of attacks and atrocities by gangs of Burmese against Indian refugees, Chinese stragglers, and, in one case, Indian troops who had been trying to repair a signal wire. We were fortunate enough to fall in with a mobile column from the 17th Division just in time to bring down a just retribution on the gang responsible for the last outrage, and to rescue two sepoys, one of whom was badly mutilated. The country was by no means safe for solitary vehicles, despatch riders, or signal linesmen.
In Kyaukse, we found 48 Brigade settled into a strong defensive position. The small town had been badly bombed and burnt out; many of its inhabitants with their cattle were lying dead in the streets. It was surrounded by paddy fields giving a good field of fire, but there were banana groves and some thick jungle on the banks of the river that ran round the southern and western outskirts. Brigadier Cameron, commanding 48 Brigade, had four weak battalions of Gurkhas, twelve guns, a troop of anti-tank two-pounders, and some Sappers, in all about eighteen hundred men. He was not strong enough to occupy the whole of the long pagoda-dotted ridge that ran out from the town to the east, but in true mountain warfare style he had placed picquets along it. While we were there, the last of the Chinese, footsore stragglers, were being passed through. Cameron had infantry in lorries and a few tanks well to the flanks and to the south to help bring in 63 Brigade, due that night, and to ambush any Japanese who might follow. I left feeling 48 Brigade would give a good account of itself. It did.
During the night, 63 Brigade with its tanks came through and moved on to hold the Myitnge crossings. Early on the 29th, flank patrols had brushes with armed Burmans and rescued more Indian refugees, but not before some had suffered atrocities. There was a brisk little action between our own and Japanese tanks, some ten miles down the main road, in which one enemy tank was destroyed and ours were bombed from the air. However, with the arrival of large Japanese reinforcements, our detachments fell slowly back to Kyaukse. At 2200 hours in bright moonlight, the Japanese launched a fierce attack on our positions astride the road. The Gurkhas held their fire until their yelling assailants were a hundred and fifty yards away and then let them have it. The attack withered away, leaving many dead. At midnight, a Japanese column of motor transport and bullock carts blundered almost on to our defences, and was heavily shelled and mortared. Half an hour later another attack was met with close-range fire and destroyed. At 0515 hours next morning in pitch darkness, a third attack was flung back in confusion. At dawn on the 30th April, tanks and Gurkhas sallied out and cleared a burnt-out village in front of our lines. Many Japanese in it were killed and several mortars and light automatics captured. The Gurkhas were particularly pleased at trapping thirty-eight of the enemy who had taken refuge in a culvert under the road. The enemy belonged to the 18th Division—one we had not previously met. The general opinion in 48 Brigade was that, compared with their old opponents, the 33rd Division, these newcomers were much inferior in both courage and fighting skill. The Japanese throughout the day shelled our positions heavily but not very effectively, except Brigade Headquarters which they appeared to have located exactly. It was clear during the 30th that the whole 18th Division was deploying for a renewal of the attack and that the usual outflanking movements were starting. The brigade was, therefore, ordered to withdraw through 63 Brigade that night. At 1530 hours yet another attack was repulsed, at 1700 hours our men were dive-bombed but suffered no casualties, and at 1800 hours they pulled out covered by one battalion and some tanks. 48 Brigade embussed in the dark a few miles up the road and then went straight through, across the Ava bridge to Myinmu. The action at Kyaukse was a really brilliant example of rearguard work. It not only enabled the last of the Chinese to cross the Ava bridge without molestation and gave us all a breathing space, but it inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy at extremely small cost to ourselves.
On the night of the 27th, I returned to Corps Headquarters, now at Sagaing. Mandalay was full of dumps, stores, and camps of every kind—almost all of them deserted. A few officers and men of the administrative services and departments remained, but there had been a general and not very creditable exodus. We were to find more and more that demoralization behind the line was spreading. From now on, while the fighting troops, knowing that their object—to get out intact to India—was at last clear, actually improved in morale and fighting power, the amorphous mass of non-fighting units on the line of communication deteriorated rapidly. In its withdrawal the corps was from now on preceded by an undisciplined mob of fugitives intent only on escape. No longer in organized units, without any supply arrangements, having deserted their officers, they banded together in gangs, looting, robbing, and not infrequently murdering the unfortunate villagers on their route. They were almost entirely Indians and very few belonged to combatant units of the Army. Most of them were soldiers only in name, but their cowardice and their conduct brought disrepute on the real Indian soldiers who followed. It was not to be wondered that as we retreated we found villages burnt and abandoned and such inhabitants as were not in hiding frightened and unfriendly.
It was impossible to guard all the stores lying unattended in Mandalay. On one dump—of special octane petrol for our tanks—we did, however, put a small guard. We were growing greatly anxious about fuel supply for tanks, and the find was a godsend, but when the tanks arrived next day to refill they found nothing but twisted and blackened drums. A senior staff officer, alleged to be from Burma Army, had appeared and ordered it to be destroyed, and so, with the help of the guard, it was. In the growing confusion, mistakes of this kind were almost inevitable, but none the less damaging.
Numbers of V Army Chinese were collected in Mandalay, and attempts were being made to get them away to the north by train. At the same time I was anxious to rescue some of the more important items such as rifles, bren guns, ammunition, medical stores, and boots, without which we could not continue to fight. With this object, two or three small trains were being loaded under the direction of a few stout-hearted British and Anglo-Burmese railway officials who set a magnificent example of devotion to duty. My Chinese of the 38th Division came one afternoon and told me that a certain Chinese general had discovered these trains and was coming that night with his troops to seize them and to escape north. I was in a quandary. I had not enough troops to guard them against the numbers who would appear, nor did I want a fight with our allies. I
sent warning to our railway friends and asked them to steam the engines ten miles up the line. In due course the Chinese arrived, piled themselves in, on, and all over the. wagons. The general ordered the trains to start. He was then told there were no engines, as on my orders they had all been taken away. There was nothing for my Chinese friend to do but to call off his men and think of some other way of stealing a train. Eventually he succeeded in doing so and got away, but it was not one of my trains. I met him frequently afterwards in India. We never mentioned trains, but I noticed that he regarded me with an increased respect.
The corps, with the exception of 63 Brigade, that still held the approaches to the Ava bridge on the south bank, was now all safely over the Irrawaddy. There had been an anxious moment with the tanks. I found a line of them halted on the south side of the bridge with officers in consultation. A Stuart tank weighs some thirteen tons, and a notice warned us that the roadway running across the bridge on brackets each side of the railway had a maximum capacity of six tons. I asked who had built the bridge and was shown a tablet with the name of a well-known British engineering firm. My experience has been that any permanent bridge built by British engineers will almost certainly have a safety factor of one hundred per cent, and I ordered the tanks to cross, one by one. I confess I watched nervously to see if the roadway sagged under the first as it made a gingerly passage, but all was well. Good old British engineers! At last even the Chinese C.-in-C. agreed that all his men were over, and so 63 Brigade was withdrawn across the bridge. With a resounding thump it was blown at 2359 hours on the 30th April, and its centre spans fell neatly into the river—a sad sight, and a signal that we had lost Burma.
CHAPTER V
EVACUATION
THE whole of the Burma Corps had crossed the Irrawaddy by the Ava bridge and the ramshackle ferries with much less trouble than I had expected. The vigorous Japanese follow-up at Kyaukse was not repeated against the 1st Burma Division farther west, and there, what might have been a very hazardous operation, was interfered with only by air attack. By the evening of the 28th April, the 38th Chinese Division, 7 Armoured Brigade, and the bulk of the 17th Division were in position along the north bank of the river from Sagaing to Allagappa. The 1st Burma Division was also over the river and about to move to Monywa. I made a quick tour of the river line and returned to my headquarters, now in a monastery near Sagaing. I was relieved that the crossing had gone so smoothly and reassured by the condition of the 17th and 38th Divisions.
There was still, however, plenty to cause anxiety. It was clear that, with the Chinese armies in the state they were and with the Japanese pushing so rapidly north on the east of the Irrawaddy, our positions along the river west of Mandalay could not be held for long. Apart from this tactical consideration, the next stage of our long retreat must start soon to avoid the monsoon rains. Our road would run through Ye-u to Kaduma, twenty miles to the north-west, and there it would plunge into the jungle for a hundred and twenty miles until it reached the Chindwin at Shwegyin. For that distance the route was no more, and often less, than an unbridged, earth cart track, with frequent sharp bends, steep gradients, and narrow cuttings. Long stretches, sometimes as much as thirty miles, were completely without water. It crossed several wide stream-beds of soft sand, difficult enough now for vehicles, and, when rain came, likely to be unfordable rivers. When Shwegyin was reached, the track ended and there was a six-mile river journey up-stream to Kalewa. Then came the long trek up the malaria-infested Kabaw Valley, through dense jungle to Tamu to reach the unmetalled road that we hoped was being built from Imphal in Assam. Whatever happened it would be an arduous march; if the monsoon rains came before we had completed it, it could be an impossible one. The consensus of informed opinion was that the monsoon could be expected to start in earnest about the 20th May but, of course, there might well be heavy rain before that.
I was, from what I heard of the route, doubtful if, even without rain, our heavier and bulkier vehicles could be got through. To test this and to discover where the track must be improved, I ordered a reconnaissance party with engineers to take a column consisting of one of each type of large vehicle, tank, anti-aircraft gun, lorry, etc., and go over the route to check its feasibility. Burma Army Headquarters were now working as hard as they could to improve the track and to stock it with supplies and, where needed, with water, while General Headquarters, India, were, we were told, working similarly from the other end. But time was short and the way would be long and hard.
I was sitting outside my headquarters at Sagaing, musing on these things, when I was surprised to see a civilian motor-car drive up and disgorge half a dozen Burmese gentlemen, dressed in morning coats, pin stripe trousers, and grey topis. There was a definitely viceregal air about the whole party. They asked to see me. They were a deputation of influential Burmese officials from the large colony who had taken refuge in the Sagaing hills in the bend of the Irrawaddy opposite Mandalay. They submitted a neatly typed resolution duly proposed, seconded, and passed unanimously at a largely attended public meeting. This document stated that the Burmese official community had received an assurance from His Excellency the Governor that no military operations would take place in the Sagaing hills, a locality held in particular veneration by the Burmese people. Trusting in this, they and their families had removed themselves there. Now to their dismay Chinese troops had entered the hills and were preparing defences, even siting cannon. They therefore demanded that I, as the responsible British commander, should order out the Chinese and give a guarantee that, in accordance with His Excellency’s promise, no military operations should take place in the Sagaing hills.
I was terribly sorry for these people. They were all high officials of the Burma Government, commissioners, secretaries, judges, and the like; their world had tumbled about their ears, but they still clung to the democratic procedure of resolutions, votes, and the rest that we had taught them. They brought me their pathetic little bit of paper as if it were a talisman. When I told them that, as far as I was concerned, I had no wish for military operations in their hills—I might have added truthfully, nor anywhere else at that moment—but that the Japanese general was equally concerned and not likely to be so obliging as to agree, they departed polite but puzzled. The impressiveness of the proceedings was somewhat marred by one gentleman who came back and asked could he not be issued with a six-months’ advance of pay? I do not blame him—it would be a long time before he would draw his British pay again.
The only Chinese now left as organized formations were our 38th Division, which was in better state than when it joined us, and the 22nd Division, which had been badly mauled but still held together. I think the 38th Division had enjoyed its time with us, for, as far as supplies, ammunition, artillery, tank support, and transport had been concerned, it had been on the same footing as our other two divisions. This would not have seemed a very generous scale to most armies, but to the Chinese it was luxury. We had developed a real affection for Sun and for the brave, cheerful, uncomplaining rascals he commanded. We had been told that they would remain part of the corps and that we should go out to India together. We were therefore the more disappointed when Stilwell asked for them to be returned to him to act as rearguard to the remaining Chinese struggling north, and General Alexander agreed. Sun would have liked to come with us, but there was nothing for it. He assured me he would not move his division until we were ready, and we arranged to concert our movements as long as we could. 7 Armoured Brigade was also left temporarily as rearguard to the Chinese, but with orders to rejoin us later.
On the 30th April, the 17th Division was still in position along the river bank from Sagaing to Allagappa, but my headquarters had moved back through Monywa, and was now established some miles north of the town, in a grove of trees around a small Buddhist monastery. Monywa itself was garrisoned only by a weak detachment of the Gloucesters, some Royal Marines of the river patrol, and a few Sappers. The town had been quite peaceful as we came through and the
civil authorities were still functioning. The headquarters of the 1st Burma Division was encamped four miles south of Monywa, and two of its brigades, 1 and 13, were plodding along the main Sagaing-Monywa road about twenty miles south. These brigades, after crossing the Irrawaddy on the 28th, had been delayed for twenty-four hours by lack of transport and exhaustion. It had been my intention to send one of them across to the west bank immediately on arrival at Monywa to replace 2 Burma Brigade which was under orders to begin its March to the distant Myittha Valley on the night of the 28tn/29th April. Very foolishly, although I knew the Burma Division would be at least twenty-four hours late at Monywa, I did not stop the march of 2 Brigade. As a result, the approaches to Monywa on the west bank were left without protection from the night of the 28th/29th. My only excuse was that news was coming in of hostile Burmese gatherings in the Myittha Valley which, especially if some Japanese were with them, could quite easily cut our escape route to India west of Kalewa. Threats were growing in many directions with competing claims on our slender resources. Forgetting the speed with which the Japanese might come up the river by boat, I chose to meet the wrong one, and we paid heavily for my mistake.
We were sitting, after our rather meagre dinner, in the twilight under the trees—Davies, one or two others, and myself. We had just received a visiting staff officer from Army Headquarters, and I was behaving rather badly to him. I was, in fact, telling him what I thought about the ‘Blanket’ system of administration. I was being quite unjust, because Goddard, General Alexander’s chief administration officer, had done an astounding job in circumstances of fantastic difficulty, and in any case the victim before me was not responsible. But tempers were frayed, and one or two things had that day annoyed me—more were going to! So, really enjoying myself, I was relating the administrative enormities that had been perpetrated against my long-suffering corps. At the end of each catalogue of crimes of commission and omission, I said, ‘And you can tell Army Headquarters that!’ My litany was still in full swing when looking up I saw, standing in the gloom, two or three white-faced officers whom I did not know.
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