The first difficulty that arose was over command of the operations in Burma. It had originally been intended that Stilwell would command the Ledo advance and the Chinese Yunnan forces as soon as they entered Burma. At this time, November 1943, his command was in effect only a small corps, but it was hoped to bring in more Chinese divisions to join the Ledo force, and, when the large but amorphous Yunnan armies were added, Stilwell would have under him the rough equivalent of an army. The other Burma operations, in Arakan, on the Central front, and the two airborne landings behind the Japanese would be under Fourteenth Army. Stilwell and I would each act as army commanders, under General Giffard, the Commander-in-Chief of 11th Army Group, who would thus have two fairly well-balanced armies in his group. This would have been the logical and militarily sound organization of the command. Stilwell, however, bitterly resisted it, and when that old man resisted anything it was a dour business. Dour, yet not without its humorous side. To watch Stilwell, when hard pressed, shift his opposition from one of the several strong-points he held by virtue of his numerous Allied, American, and Chinese offices, to another, was a lesson in the mobile offensive-defensive.
Finally, to settle this matter of command, the Supreme Commander held a conference—wisely not so large a one as usual. There were present, besides the Supreme Commander and his chief staff officers, American and British, General Giffard, Stilwell, and myself. The proceedings opened by Admiral Mountbatten very politely suggesting that as he had a military Commander-in-Chief for an Army Group, and as his own headquarters was not designed to deal direct with subordinate formations, Stilwell should come under General Giffard’s command. Stilwell at once pointed out that, as C.-in-C. of the Chinese forces in Burma, he had to obey the Generalissimo’s order that these formations must remain under his direct command, subject only to the overall control of the Supreme Commander. After some brisk argument around this contention, Stilwell came out as the commanding general of the American China–Burma–India theatre. Giffard, he said, was not an Allied but a British Commander-in-Chief, and, as an American general, he had not the President’s authority to put himself or his forces under a purely British commander. A good deal more time was occupied in arguing that. Then the redoubtable old man changed hats again and appeared in another role. As Deputy Supreme Commander he was, anyhow, senior to any group commander and could not, therefore, fittingly be put under General Giffard! The more Admiral Mountbatten, showing infinite patience, reasoned with him, the more obstinate and petulant the old man became. The real trouble lay in the unfortunate personal antipathy that had existed between Giffard and Stilwell from their first contacts. While each had basic qualities that should have appealed to the other, they were such poles apart in manner, upbringing, outlook, and methods, that neither could or would conceal his opinion of the other.
The temperature of the meeting rose. Stilwell fell back on a surly obstinacy that showed him at his worst. I, of course, said nothing, as I was only there to accept such decision as would be reached; neither did General Giffard, who in spite of considerable provocation, behaved, as he always did, with dignity. The American officers were in a peculiarly uncomfortable position—and they looked it—for, although of Admiral Mountbatten’s staff, they realized clearly that Stilwell was very much the senior American general, and the Americans have a respect for seniority only equalled by our Navy. He would have been a brave American who would have stood up to Joe Stilwell to his face. Admiral Mountbatten was growing, understandably, more and more exasperated. He had, as one of the powers granted him by both the American and British Chiefs of Staff, the right to remove any Allied officer in his command if he thought fit, and thus held the final card if he cared to use it. It looked as if there could be no solution to the deadlock but a flat order from the Supreme Commander to his Deputy.
Suddenly, with one of those unexpected gestures that I had seen him make more than once, Stilwell astonished everyone by saying, ‘I am prepared to come under General Slim’s operational control until I get to Kamaing!’ With great relief, this surprising solution was hastily seized upon as a way out of the impasse. Actually it created an even more illogical situation. By it, I took command of all land operations on the Burma front, but I was responsible to my Army Group Commander for only the Fourteenth Army portion of my force. For Stilwell’s formations I was theoretically responsible only to the Supreme Commander, thus by-passing my own Commander-in-Chief. Rather rashly, Admiral Mountbatten inquired how Stilwell and I proposed to work this military nonsense. With one accord we asked to be allowed to discuss that together. The conference broke up, and Stilwell and I went straight to his Delhi headquarters, where he functioned as Commanding General of the American China–Burma–India theatre. He was, while determined on certain things, by no means uncompromising. Luckily he and I were determined on the same things—to get more Chinese divisions for the Ledo force, to push hard for Myitkyina, and to use Wingate’s Chindits to aid that push. After my experience with Sun’s 38th Chinese Division in the Retreat, I had always agreed with Stilwell that his Chinese, given a fair chance and a superiority in numbers, could beat the Japanese, and that he was the man to see they did. Tactically we were in agreement and, wisely, we avoided strategic discussion. He told me how he proposed to launch his offensive and what his objectives were. I assured him that, as long as he went on those lines, he would not be bothered by a spate of orders and directives from me, that Wingate’s force would be used to help him, and that my operations on the Assam front would keep the main enemy strength engaged. We shook hands; he went back to his headquarters and I to mine.
In practice, this illogical command set-up worked surprisingly well. My method with Stilwell was based on what I had learnt of him in the Retreat—to send him the minimum of written directions, but, whenever I wanted anything, to fly over and discuss it with him, alone. Stilwell, talking things over quietly with no one else present, was a much easier and more likeable person than Vinegar Joe with an audience. Alone, I never found him unreasonable or obstructive. I think I told him to do something he did not approve of on only two or three occasions, and on each he conformed, I will not say willingly, but with good grace.
I was told that the command organization, especially the fact that Stilwell was under my operational control, was not to be made public. Whether this was face-saving for Stilwell, on the lines of our Chinese allies, or to avoid the criticism that such an illogical set-up was bound to provoke, I do not know—both, probably. In any case it did not affect me, and I was careful at all times to observe the condition. Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek had at the end of November agreed to Stilwell and his Chinese army coming under my control, but had made it clear that this was a concession that applied only and personally to me. As he had never seen me, I cannot help thinking that, had Stilwell held other views, he might as easily have persuaded the Generalissimo to accept General Giffard.
After these conferences I flew from Delhi to Comilla, where Fourteenth Army Headquarters were now established. Thanks to Steve Irwin and Alf Snelling, I found the various offices and departments all settled in and working smoothly, while the Signals under Brigadier Bowen, my Chief Signal Officer, had accomplished marvels. It is not often realized what a volume of traffic the Signals of an army headquarters have to deal with—more than that of a large town—and to be ready to accept and transmit on that scale so soon was a great achievement. I never met anyone who could make a piece of wire stretch as far as Bowen could. Strangely enough we had first met years before when as subaltern he had joined my Gurkha company. His technical knowledge and interest in wireless had led him to transfer to the Royal Corps of Signals, and I found him in 1942 Chief Signals Officer in Burma. I seized the chance to get him in the same position when the Fourteenth Army was formed.
Our organization at Army Headquarters was basically the same as I had used for 15 Corps. I never adopted the ‘Chief of Staff System’, which, following the German and American lead, had been introduced in some Briti
sh armies. Under this system the Chief General Staff Officer not only co-ordinates the work of the whole staff, but is the mouthpiece of the commander to the other principal staff officers and heads of Services, interpreting to them his Commander’s intentions and wishes. I preferred to stick to the old British method of the Commander dealing directly himself with his principal staff officers. Command is the projection of the commander’s personality and, as such, is an extremely individual matter. What, therefore, suits one commander may not suit another, and, in practice, whatever system is theoretically laid down, individual commanders will, as they quite easily can by altering the emphasis within the organization, produce a headquarters which responds to their personality. It is not that one system is so much better than another, but that a wise commander chooses the one that enables him best to instil his will into every part of his force. The real danger is that generals may slavishly model their personal behaviour and their organization on those of some outstandingly successful commander, when they are quite unlike him in character, mental qualities, and perhaps physical appearance. Imitations are never masterpieces.
In Fourteenth Army, while I relied on my Brigadier General Staff to co-ordinate the complex working of the headquarters, my senior staff officer was actually my major-general in charge of administration. For an army engaged in a campaign in Burma this was logical, as administrative possibilities and impossibilities would loom large, larger than strategical and tactical alternatives. In any case the immense supply, transport, medical, and reinforcement organizations that we were beginning to build up more than justified a major-general’s rank.
The principles on which I planned all operations were:
(i) The ultimate intention must be an offensive one.
(ii) The main idea on which the plan was based must be simple.
(iii) That idea must be held in view throughout and everything else must give way to it.
(iv) The plan must have in it an element of surprise.
My method of working out such a plan was first to study the possibilities myself, and then informally to discuss them with my Brigadier General Staff, Major-General Administration, and my opposite number in the Air Force. At these discussions we. would arrive at the broadest outline of possible alternative courses of action, at least two, more often three or four. These alternatives the B.G.S. would give to our team of planners, specially selected but comparatively junior officers, representing not only the general and administrative staffs, but the air staff as well. They would make a preliminary study, giving the practicability or otherwise of each course and its advantages and disadvantages. They were quite at liberty to make new suggestions of their own, or to devise permutations and combinations of the originals. The results of the planners’ examination of the proposals were put up to me as a short paper, largely in tabular form, and from it I decided on the main features of the plan to be followed. At this stage I usually discussed with the intelligence officer whom I had selected to represent the Japanese command at my headquarters—a key appointment—what the enemy’s reactions to this plan were likely to be. I was, of course, kept daily in the picture of the Japanese actions, intentions, and dispositions, as far as we knew or could surmise them, but I intentionally waited until I had selected my plan before considering the enemy response to it, as I intended him to conform to me, not me to him. A consideration of these possible Japanese counter-moves never, I think, caused a major alteration in a plan, but they did affect such things as the location and expected tasks of reserves. After that I would talk it over with the A.O.C., who would already be acquainted with the work of the planners through his representative in their team. As few of our plans were not dependent on air support and air transportation, this was the stage at which general agreement between us had to be reached. This done—and thanks to the generosity and unselfishness of the air commanders, British and American, with whom I was lucky enough to work, it always was done—the next step was a meeting of my principal staff officers. At this, besides the Major-General Administration and the B.G.S., would be present my chief gunner, engineer, signaller, doctor, ordnance and R.E.M.E. officers. To them I would put over my plan, meet or override any special difficulties they might have, and send them off to their own staffs to hold their own conferences and to get the thousand and one things required moving. Meanwhile the B.G.S. and the Senior Air Staff Officer got down to the dovetailing of the land and air aspects on which so much would depend. There was still more for the B.G.S. to do. He had to produce the operation order or directive for the corps and other commanders who were to carry out the operations. This he prepared in conjunction with the administrative staff and the Services.
I suppose dozens of operation orders have gone out in my name, but I never, throughout the war, actually wrote one myself. I always had someone who could do that better than I could. One part of the order I did, however, draft myself—the intention. It is usually the shortest of all paragraphs, but it is always the most important, because it states—or it should—just what the commander intends to achieve. It is the one overriding expression of will by which everything in the order and every action by every commander and soldier in the army must be dominated. It should, therefore, be worded by the commander himself.
The next step was to take the operation order myself to the subordinate commanders who were to act on it. On principle, in the field, it is better to go forward to them, than to call them back; to give them their orders at their headquarters rather than at your own. That applies whether you command a platoon or an army group.
In November 1943, about one-third of the combat aircraft were American, the remaining two-thirds British, but the proportion of American, especially transport aircraft, was increasing. Throughout the campaign the total number of British squadrons exceeded that of American, but in transport aircraft the Americans rapidly increased until they held a large majority. At first the whole of the American air force was under the direct command of Stilwell, not of Peirse, the British Air Commander-in-Chief; but, very wisely, Admiral Mountbatten, against Stilwell’s wishes, enforced the integration of the two air forces and made Peirse the Allied Air Commander-in-Chief. As his second-in-command, the United States Major-General Stratemeyer was placed in command of what was called Eastern Air Command, which contained all Allied air formations operating on the Burma front—in other words, practically all the air forces in the theatre. His command in the air, as long as I held operational control of all land forces on the Burma front, thus corresponded to mine on the ground. Eastern Air Command was organized as:
(i) The Third Tactical Air Force.
(ii) The Strategic Air Force.
(iii) Troop Carrier Command.
(iv) The Photographic Reconnaissance Force.
Air Marshal Baldwin commanded the Third Tactical Air Force, which in turn was subdivided into:
(i) The American Northern Air Sector Force whose task was to support Stilwell’s Chinese and to protect the air-ferry route over the Hump to China.
(ii) 221 Group R.A.F., with its headquarters at Imphal, responsible for the support of 4 Corps on the main central front.
(iii) 224 Group R.A.F., with its headquarters at Chittagong, supporting 15 Corps on the Arakan front.
Stratemeyer’s headquarters was set up in a huge jute mill near Barrackpore, while Baldwin’s Third Tactical Air Force Headquarters was alongside mine at Comilla. Brigadier-General Old, the commander of the joint American and British Troop Carrier Command, also established his headquarters there. In actual practice we, Fourteenth Army, Third T.A.F., and Troop Carrier Command, worked to a considerable extent as a joint headquarters. We pooled intelligence resources, our planners worked together and, perhaps most effective of all, the three commanders and their principal staff officers lived in the same mess. We even reached the stage when the Americans contracted the tea-sipping habit and the British learnt to make drinkable coffee. With this intimate contact between Baldwin, Old, and myself and our staffs, direct ref
erences to Eastern Air Command from Fourteenth Army became less frequent, although occasionally Stratemeyer and I issued joint directives. I also found it less cumbersome to place demands on Brigadier-General Davidson’s Strategic Air Force through Baldwin, who in effect became my opposite number in the air. Fourteenth Army owed an especial debt to Third Tactical Air Force, to Troop Carrier Command, to the Strategic Air Force and to their commanders. We grew into a very close brotherhood, depending on one another, trusting one another, and taking as much pride in each other’s triumphs as we did in our own. The difficulties overcome and the successes obtained on the Burma front were a joint achievement.
Life at the headquarters followed a daily routine. At six-thirty I got up; at seven, saw the important messages received during the night; at seven-thirty to eight, breakfasted with the air commanders and our principal staff officers. I attended the joint air and land intelligence conference, known as ‘morning prayers’ at eight-thirty, when the events of the past twenty-four hours were related and commented on and those for the next described to a considerable audience by British and American army and air officers. I then dealt with any urgent matters with my B.G.S. and Major-General Administration, and saw to the multifarious business that comes to an army commander for decision. We all met again at lunch and usually talked shop through the pieal. I left my office at about three, read a novel for an hour, had tea, and went for a walk in the cool with one of my staff; dined at seven-thirty, talked at the bar of the mess till half-past nine, visited my operations’ room for a final look at the latest reports, and was in bed by ten. If, between then and six-thirty, when my faithful Gurkha orderly, Bajbir, roused me, anyone disturbed me for anything short of a real crisis, he did so at his peril. I had seen too many of my colleagues crack under the immense strain of command in the field not to realize that, if I were to continue, I must have ample leisure in which to think, and unbroken sleep. Generals would do well to remember that, even in war, ‘the wisdom of a learned man cometh by opportunity of leisure.’ Generals who are terribly busy all day and half the night, who fuss round, posting platoons and writing march tables, wear out not only their subordinates but themselves. Nor have they, when the real emergency comes, the reserve of vigour that will then enable them, for days if necessary, to do with little rest or sleep.
Defeat Into Victory Page 26
