As the monsoon approached and the Japanese offensive on the main front developed, it became imperative to reduce as much as possible any demands, especially for air supply, that might come from Arakan. For this reason, and in order to avoid sickness, General Giffard had agreed to my proposal that 15 Corps should pull back its forward troops from Buthidaung, which was unhealthy, low-lying, and difficult to hold. In May, therefore, Christison drew back to a line which could be held by a minimum of troops, avoided the most unhealthy areas, and was not likely to require air supply. A firm hold was kept on Taung Bazaar, the high ground west of Buthidaung, on the tunnels area, on Maungdaw, and on the mouth of the Naf River by which it was approached.
This Arakan battle, judged by the size of the forces engaged, was not of great magnitude, but it was, nevertheless, one of the historic successes of British arms. It was the turning-point of the Burma campaign. For the first time a British force had met, held, and decisively defeated a major Japanese attack, and followed this up by driving the enemy out of the strongest possible natural positions that they had been preparing for months and were determined to hold at all costs. British and Indian soldiers had proved themselves, man for man, the masters of the best the Japanese could bring against them. The R.A.F. had met and driven from the sky superior numbers of the Japanese Air Force equipped with their latest fighters. It was a victory, a victory about which there could be no argument, and its effect, not only on the troops engaged but on the whole Fourteenth Army, was immense. The legend of Japanese invicibility in the jungle, so long fostered by so many who should have known better, was smashed. I could not help feeling an especial pride that it had been my old 15 Corps that had done it. Under Christison’s leadership they had earned at least one of the three V’s I had taken as their badge.
CHAPTER XII
THE NORTHERN FRONT
THE Northern was the most isolated of the Burma fronts. To reach it by rail—there was no road—you left Dimapur and continued your seemingly interminable journey through the tea-garden area of Assam. As you crept northward, it was impossible to avoid a growing feeling of loneliness, which even the sight of the increasingly busy airfields of the Hump route, strung along the line, failed to dissipate. At last Tinsukia, the junction for the Assam oilfields, was reached and your train turned wearily into the branch for Ledo. Ledo, in December 1943, seemed rather like the end of the world. Instead, it was the start of the road to China, the road that, if it were ever built, would replace the one from Rangoon, so effectively closed in early 1942.
Many people at this time, Americans no less than British, doubted if the Ledo road could be built. They doubted if the Chinese divisions would ever be able to drive back the Japanese and clear the route. They doubted if the Ledo railway would carry and maintain the troops, labour, equipment, and material required. They doubted if any road builders could overcome the monsoon climate combined with the extreme difficulty of the terrain. Many, even of those who believed it possible, did not think that the Ledo road would ever repay the expenditure in men and resources that would have to be devoted to it. Indeed, at this time, Stilwell was almost alone in his faith that, not only could the road be built, but that it would be the most potent winning factor in the war against Japan. His vision, as he expounded it to me, was of an American-trained and -equipped Chinese force, of some thirty divisions to begin with, maintained, except for what was available in China, by the road from Ledo. This new model army, under his command, would drive through China to the sea and then with the American Navy strike at Japan itself.
I agreed with Stilwell that the road could be built. I believed that, properly equipped and efficiently led, Chinese troops could defeat Japanese if, as would be the case with his Ledo force, they had a considerable numerical superiority. On the engineering side I had no doubts. We had built roads over country as difficult, with much less technical equipment than the Americans would have. My British engineers, who had surveyed the trace for the road for the first eighty miles, were quite confident about that. We were already, on the Central front, maintaining great labour forces over equally gimcrack lines of communication. Thus far Stilwell and I were in complete agreement, but I did not hold two articles of his faith. I doubted the overwhelming war-winning value of this road, and, in any case, I believed it was starting from the wrong place. The American amphibious strategy in the Pacific, of hopping from island to island would, I was sure, bring much quicker results than an overland advance across Asia with a Chinese army yet to be formed. In any case, if the road was to be really effective, its feeder railway should start from Rangoon, not Calcutta. If it had been left to me, on military grounds, I would have used the immense resources required for this road, not to build a new highway to China, but to bring forward the largest possible combat forces to destroy the Japanese army in Burma. Once that was accomplished, the old route to China would be open; over it would flow a much greater tonnage than could ever come via Ledo, and the Allied forces in Burma would be available for use elsewhere.
This became the fundamental difference between the American and the British outlook in Burma. To the Americans, the reconquest of Burma was merely incidental to the reopening of land communications with China, and need be pursued only to the limited extent necessary for that purpose. To the British, the reoccupation of Burma was not only an end in itself—the liberation of British territory—but, by the capture of Rangoon, the best means of opening up a really effective link with China. Both points of view were understandable and, with national backgrounds, almost inevitable. Unfortunately, they could easily be distorted, until some Americans could accuse the British of hoping to regain by the efforts of the Americans the Empire they had lost, and the British could retaliate by alleging that several Chinese divisions and great logistical resources, devoted to an unsound and largely political American objective, were being held by one Japanese division, while the British fought the main enemy forces. These differences of approach had no serious effect on the relations between the troops, but they did lead in 1943 and early 1944 to a mutual lack of appreciation of their respective efforts.
The main trouble as far as we, the fighting formations, were concerned was due, more than anything else, to the segregation of the various fronts. The British could not see the Americans and Chinese fighting and enduring in the Hukawng Valley, any more than the Americans could see us waging desperate battles in Imphal and Arakan. Actual contact between the troops of both nations would have soon cured it. Indeed it did. It was noticeable that, when the American light aeroplane pilots began to help in the fly-out of thousands of British and Indian wounded, and the American Field Service Ambulance units were attached to our divisions, a strong sense of comradeship grew up between these magnificent Americans, who never spared themselves in their work of mercy, and our troops. Squabbles between allies are hard to avoid, especially when both have suffered disaster as we did in 1942, but, as the tide of war turned and the fronts drew closer together, the troops forgot them, and rejoiced in one another’s successes.
In fact, more actual and determined opposition to Stilwell’s strategic ideas came from Americans, who, like Chennault, thought all resources should be devoted to building up a great American air force in China rather than to creating a powerful Chinese army. Their theory was that the Japanese in China could be defeated by air power, with such support as local Chinese forces could provide. Stilwell, for personal and military reasons, bitterly opposed this idea. As soon as the American air force became a real nuisance to the Japanese, he affirmed, they would retaliate by an advance against its airfields. Then, unless there were a well-found Chinese army to protect them, they would be overrun and the air force put out of action. Stilwell was undoubtedly right, but the controversy inflamed the rivalry and jealously between the two leading Americans. Their enmity did not help the Allied cause; still less did the activities of their publicity merchants.
However, it was not for me to decide the merits or demerits of the Ledo road. The
Anglo-American Combined Chiefs of Staff had told Admiral Mountbatten to make the road, and so, in every way possible, even to devoting half the total transport lift and large British ground forces to the Northern front, we in Fourteenth Army got down to helping Stilwell in what we knew was a tough assignment.
Before he came under my operational control, Stilwell had received orders from Admiral Mountbatten to occupy Northern Burma up to the Mogaung–Myitkyina area, so as to cover the building of the road, and to increase the safety of the air route to China. Obviously, in view of the relative value of Chinese and Japanese divisions, he would not be able to do this unless the main Japanese forces on the other fronts were engaged so hotly that they could not seriously reinforce their 18th Division opposing him. This was arranged, and in addition, to give him overwhelming odds, it was decided that Wingate’s Special Force would be used to cut the communications of the enemy’s Northern front. Everything was also to be done to persuade the Generalissimo at the same time to order the advance of the Chinese armies from Yunnan towards Lashio, though, wisely, no dependence was to be placed on this occurring.
In accordance with these plans, in October 1943, the Chinese 38th and 22nd Divisions under Sun and Liao were brought from Ramgarh to Ledo. Behind them, in India, the 30th Chinese Division and an American regiment of three battalions, originally intended for Wingate, were made ready to follow.
Stilwell had also a Chinese tank group armed with American light tanks and an irregular force of a few hundred Kachin raiders, local tribesmen led by American officers. Away on his left flank, completely cut off from all but air supply, was the small British garrison of Fort Hertz, consisting of Kachin levies stiffened by a battalion of Burma Rifles. The task of this detachment was to cover an airstrip which served as an emergency landing ground on the Hump route, and to prevent Japanese infiltration. At first, Fort Hertz was directly under Fourteenth Army, but later I transferred it to Stilwell’s command as it would have to act in co-ordination with his main force. To support him, Stilwell had the American Northern Air Sector Force. The whole Chinese-American force was known, rather clumsily, as the Northern Combat Area Command or N.C.A.C. At this time the Ledo road stretched only thirty miles towards China.
Opposing the N.C.A.C. was the 18th Japanese Division, our old opponents, who had been so roughly handled by the Gurkhas at Kyaukse in 1942. This division had its headquarters at Myit-kyina. One of its regiments was held as a reserve for either the Yunnan or the N.C.A.C. front. The other two were in depth at the head of the Hukawng Valley, with detachments forward in touch with the 38th Chinese Division. It was not likely that the 56th Japanese Division, which was watching the Yunnan Chinese, could spare any of its troops for other purposes, and so Stilwell would have a comfortable superiority in numbers even if, as was probable, the whole 18th Division were concentrated against him. I was as anxious that we should have this superiority here as I was to have it in Arakan. It was on the N.C.A.C. front and in Arakan that the first real clashes would come, and a lot would depend on their results.
Stilwell was not only the Deputy Supreme Commander; he was responsible for the actual Chinese fighting front, the training of Chinese armies, advice to Chiang Kai-shek, supply to China, Lease Lend to the Allies, and command of all American forces in the China-Burma-India theatre. When he announced that he would take personal command in the field, there were not wanting those who thought that, instead of acting as a corps commander, he should have delegated that to some more junior general and placed himself at Supreme Headquarters, where he might properly perform at least some of his other functions. Personally, I think he was right. The most important thing of all was to ensure that the American-trained Chinese not only fought, but fought successfully. No one could do that as well as Stilwell himself. Indeed, he was the only American who had authority actually to command the Chinese. At that time, while there were several able American staff officers in S.E.A.C., I do not think there was one sufficiently experienced to take command of a corps in battle. From my point of view, too, I much preferred to have Stilwell himself under me. I knew that any other American officer would refer all instructions to him, wherever he was, and I did not want a repetition of the Chinese Command set-up of 1942.
In October 1943, the 38th Chinese Division began the advance from Ledo against slight opposition, but early in November the Japanese defence stiffened, and the Chinese, reverting to their old methods, sat down and dug in. Stilwell was away at the Cairo Conference, and Boatner, his deputy, in despair at failing to get them to move, sent a signal to Delhi reporting that the Chinese refused to advance. This had a depressing effect in headquarters from Delhi to Cairo, and produced a good many ‘I told you so’s’ from both British and Americans. I was very disappointed when I heard, but consoled myself with the twofold thought that most troops are a bit sticky at times and that Stilwell was on his way back. He reached the N.C.A.C. front on 21st December. On 22nd and 23rd, he toured the Chinese positions, injected ginger into the senior officers, both Chinese and American, and laid on an attack in superior force on the Japanese detachment blocking the way. On the 24th, he saw the attack go in and stayed with the troops until the 30th, by which time the enemy had been completely cleaned up. On the 31st, Stilwell flew to Delhi for the conference at which he placed himself under my operational control, and was back again a few days later to repeat the performance at the next hold-up. After two or three of these minor successes, the Chinese began really to get their tails up. For the first time they were attacking and defeating a modern enemy—something that had never before happened in the history of China.
The Chinese were now firmly established at Shingbwiyang in the Hukawng Valley, and pushing for their next objective, Shaduzup, at the head of the Mogaung Valley. By 27th December, the road had reached Shingbwiyang, a hundred and three miles from Ledo—a magnificent achievement by the American engineers under Brigadier-General Pick and the heterogeneous labour force of Indians, Kachins, and Nagas that they controlled. To get this far, the road had been driven over the formidable Patkoi mountains, the most difficult section of the whole route. At Shingbwiyang the Chinese struck the fair-weather road the Japanese had built and this was, of course, a tremendous help in the construction of the new road, which generally followed the Japanese trace.
By 1 st February, the 38th Chinese Division had, after a series of small actions, occupied Thipha Ga, while a regiment of the 22nd Division, moving wide on the right flank, cleared the Japanese from the Taro Valley, which lay on the east bank of the Chindwin, separated from the Ledo road in the Hukawng Valley by a range of rugged jungle hills. This was the 22nd Division’s entry into the campaign, and they did well. In all these actions Stilwell had kept a close hand on the Chinese troops, steadying them when they faltered, prodding them when they hesitated, even finding their battalions for them himself when they lost them. He was one of the Allied commanders who had learnt in the hard school of the 1942 retreat. His tactics were to press the Japanese frontally while the real attacks came in through the jungle from the flank, with probably a road-block well behind the enemy. In this way, by a series of hooks round and behind the Japanese, he pushed forward. He, also, was an advocate of the sledge-hammer to crack a walnut, at this stage. He saw to it that if a Japanese company was to be liquidated, it was attacked by a Chinese regiment.
At the beginning of March I visited Stilwell at Thipha Ga just as he was launching up to then his biggest attack for the capture of Maingkwan, a large village and the capital of the Hukawng Valley. Besides his two Chinese divisions, he now had with him the American Long-Range Penetration Regiment. Stilwell had changed its original commander for Brigadier-General Merrill, whom I had known well and liked. After him, the regiment was christened ‘Merrill’s Marauders’. Merrill was a fine, courageous leader who inspired confidence, and I congratulated myself that I had restrained my Gurkha orderly, that day in 1942, when he would have tommy-gunned a jeep-load of men wearing unfamiliar helmets. If he had, the Marauder
s would have had another commander, and that would have been a pity.
Stilwell’s plan for the Maingkwan battle was for the 22nd Division (less one regiment) to continue its push straight down the road for the village, while its third regiment came in over the hills from Taro on the Japanese left rear. Simultaneously, the 38th Division was to make a closer wheel round Maingkwan and strike the enemy right. For the first time the Chinese tank group was to take part in a major engagement. The Marauders were to sweep wide and cut the road well south of the Japanese on both sides of the next large village, Walawbum, and hold their roadblocks until the Chinese advancing beyond Maingkwan joined them.
Stilwell met me at the airfield, looking more like a duck hunter than ever with his wind-jacket, campaign hat, and leggings. As always, he told me fully what was going on tactically, and explained his plan. Like most commanders I have known on the eve of a battle, he was concealing a certain jumpiness. He had had bad luck with the weather recently; there had been unseasonably heavy showers. Rain now would make things very difficult. He was depending, too, on co-ordinated timing between Chinese forces and, as he knew better than I did, there was risk in this. But the plan was sound, the Chinese in good fettle, and the Americans out to mark their entry into the campaign. In addition to his dispositions for the immediate battle, Stilwell surprised me by showing me on a map his idea for a sudden dash at Myitkyina, which he thought might be brought off by an outflanking march over the Daru Hkyet Pass and sudden descent on the town from the north-west, while the Japanese were concentrating on the defence of Mogaung. Naturally he could not forecast a date for this. As he said, it depended on how things went and when he got Shaduzup, his next objective after Maingkwan. This was the first I had heard of anything approaching a plan for the seizure of Myitkyina, and I do not know whether he had even discussed it with his staff. At any rate he asked me very solemnly not to speak of it to anyone, and made it quite clear that that included not only my staff but my superior commanders. He gave as his reason that if his intentions got to Delhi diere would be leakage, and that would be fatal to his plan. Actually there was, judging by experience, much more likelihood of leakage through Chinese channels than through S.E.A.C. or 11th Army Group, and I thought the real reason was that, if the operation did not come off or misfired, he did not want anyone to be able to say he had had a failure. I understood this feeling and, as the project depended on a good many intervening ifs, I gave him my assurance I would mention it to no one.
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