Chindit Affair

by Brian Mooney

  Lurid flames lit the sky. Then the carnage began. This is always the most antipathetic part of it. Unhappily, when dealing with the Japs, who can seldom be persuaded to run away, you have to go systematically through their ranks exterminating them.

  The total bag at the end of the day’s shoot, according to the gillie (although I have a distinct impression there were more) was forty-eight.

  A little later, in a more formal set piece, the Cameronians mowed down over two hundred.

  My friend young Lawrence who all during this period was performing the duties of a Platoon Commander with 30 Column told me some strange things about how the Jap reacted.

  ‘You know, they’re quite young – almost boys. They’re certainly different to our own fellows. When we hit their leading truck, of course it went up and there were no survivors. The other trucks stopped and naturally we expected they would de-truck and deploy. There was plenty of cover and they could easily have disappeared into the jungle, regrouped and counterattacked within fifteen minutes. But, instead of disappearing into the jungle, they simply jumped down and started digging. It was most methodical. They were in full view and made not the slightest attempt to take cover. They must have been given this order, you see, that when in doubt, you dig a foxhole. Of course, it’s good advice all right, but they applied it without the faintest indication of intelligence. I can tell you, to stand there and watch them behave like that was spooky. I walked down the side of the road with my Bren gunner and he picked them off like rabbits.

  They made not the least attempt at resistance. They didn’t even look at you. I think if one of them had looked me in the eyes, I couldn’t have done it.’

  It was in such a manner and according to such a pattern that Jack Masters softened up the Japanese around Kyaungle. Finally he decided to take the village.

  Needless to say, I didn’t participate in the attack, but I did get as far as the edge of the paddy and watched the King’s Own go in.

  For twenty minutes they had been lobbing three inch mortar bombs at the place (the heavy mortars were man-handled from mule-back in the jungle up to the front especially for that purpose). One or two huts on the edge of the village were already burning. It looked dirty and deserted and so unkempt as not to be worth the life of a single man. In the haze kicked up by the mortar bombs, the site gradually subsided under clouds of dust, but I could clearly see the panic-stricken pigs and the petrified pie-dogs running crazily about the debris and backing away from the bursts.

  We had called for a close-support bombing attack, but the bombers failed to materialize and Masters decided he couldn’t wait. The King’s Own went in. It is wonderful to watch an infantry attack trotting into action, rifles at the ready, pouches bulging with grenades and Bren guns hung sideways and waist-high, ready for firing from the hip. Imagine the anxiety while the men are in the open paddy and uncovered. Will they make it?

  They did.

  Emboldened by such successes, Masters decided to attack and capture Pinlebu town itself. Our morale was high; everyone was enjoying the battle; the Jap had proved anything but invincible. There is no doubt that, had we been allowed to, we should have taken it.

  Impelled by the intrigue of Stilwell in the north, however, acquiesced in by Slim, acceded to by Joe Lentaigne, we were ordered north again to complete our previous assignment: to relieve pressure on Stilwell’s five Chinese divisions facing towards Mogaung and Myitkyina at Kamaning. This implied being thrust into the thick of a battle along the sector occupied by the Japanese crack front-line 18th Division, a very different proposition from the mediocre line-of-communications troops who had fled from us, or been massacred, at Kyaungle, for they would have all their divisional artillery intact. We were to lay down a block just south of Mogaung, athwart the enemy’s lines-of-communication to that city and immediately to the rear of his font line facing Stilwell, in a position which was bound to activate his most sensitive reaction. The block was to be called Blackpool.

  But before we started north, up the Meza River and past Aberdeen towards our new operational area, something happened to me of importance. Masters sent for me and told me to prepare for going over to the attack.

  I thought he meant in a general kind of way – a matter of readjusting my attitude – although, God knows, I should have thought I was aggressive enough in my outlook to have satisfied the most bellicose. However, he meant real action right away.

  It was half-past seven in the morning. Obeying his summons, I turned up at Brigade Headquarters command post without having had any tea. I found him sitting between Macpherson, the Burma Rifles bloke, and an unknown villager. This Burman had come into camp very early with a few facts and an unusual request. Macpherson was translating for him.

  The facts were: that about twenty Japs had descended several weeks before on his sister-in-law’s village fifteen miles distant, where they had assembled large stores of clothing, petrol, rice and other commodities and from where they were terrorising the neighbourhood. The request: would we come and drive them away?

  ‘Certainly,’ said Masters, although I cannot imagine what could suddenly have given him such confidence in me. ‘We’ll send Baines.’

  In a few sparse phrases he gave me my orders. It was all over in minutes. ‘And,’ he finished, ‘I want you to take a prisoner.’

  I was so excited I could scarcely breathe.

  We were to leave immediately. Macpherson and his section of Burma Rifles were to accompany us as liaison with villagers and as interpreters. The Burman was to act as guide. The whole thing was settled so quickly that I hardly had time to comment on the orders, let alone turn them over in my mind. I was just able, while Masters was finalising them, to send Dal Bahadur off to alert havildars Tulbir Gurung and Ganga Bahadur and to tell them to prime the grenades. Thaman Bahadur, I regretfully decided, I would have to leave behind.

  ‘Remember,’ Masters persisted, ‘that I want you to take a prisoner!’

  Minutes later I was racing through the jungle at Macpherson’s elbow at the head of my fifty men – that Burman trotting along enthusiastically.

  Thirty miles there and back is quite a lot of mileage to traverse in eight hours (which was what Masters had allocated for the exercise). I calculated on getting to the objective in three hours, spending two hours on the attack and destruction of the depot, and taking three hours to get back. It meant whipping along at five miles an hour; but of course we had our heavy packs.

  Luckily the jungle proved less formidable than I had anticipated, but doubtless our Burman led us by the most easily negotiable tracks.

  A good many reflections occurred to me while we were on the march, now that I had some moments to give attention to them. Principal among these were some unwelcome thoughts about the process of taking a prisoner. This was a matter about which I had distinct reservations. It would mean edging up close to a Japanese and actually touching one. I visualized it as like trying to snare a snake.

  Some extremely unpleasant stories were current about how beaten Japanese soldiers avoided being taken. They generally involved some beastly attempt at suicide and included taking their captor with them. The more I thought about the subject, the more daunting it became. How on earth did one go about it? I hadn’t liked to ask Masters in case I should appear ignorant.

  With such thoughts preoccupying me, we arrived within striking distance of our objective. Time and miles seemed to have flashed by too quickly. I had kept on repeating to myself that I was bound to be visited by some sort of inspiration. Now it was too late.

  We had emerged from thick jungle, which offered us plenty of protection, onto the open platform of a much used and well beaten track. Our Burman guide stopped dead. He pointed diagonally to another part of the wood where dense scrub grew in a sort of saucer beneath tall, stately trees, and said simply: ‘There it is.’

  We all peered myopically in the direction indicated as if expecting to see Japan’s warlord Tojo himself appearing in a sort of vision, b
ut absolutely nothing was visible. All the same, I felt the blood slowly draining from my face while my feet turned to lead.

  ‘Are you sure that’s it?’ I turned to Macpherson suspiciously. ‘In that direction?

  He repeated my question to the guide who nodded vigorously and added a few phrases of his own.

  ‘He says the house is about three hundred yards in that direction. After you’ve gone a short distance, you’ll see the roof. It will be sticking out above the bushes. The village is in this direction. You can also reach the house this way, but it’s a bit longer and means traversing the village street. Now he wants to go. He doesn’t want to be mixed up in the business. He’s asking for money. Shall I give it to him?’

  ‘I suppose so. There’s nothing else we can do. You don’t think he’s leading us on a wild goose chase?’

  Macpherson turned to the guide and evidently voiced this suspicion. His protestations were so obvious that there was no need to translate. I believed him. I nodded. Macpherson transferred this huge sum in silver from the pouches where he ought to have been keeping his grenades, and the detestable transaction was completed. I don’t think, in fact, that the sum involved was more than thirty silver rupees – the traditional price for a betrayal – but it seemed to my tingling senses and sharpened perceptions to represent a king’s ransom.

  The guide smiled broadly on receiving it, and the flat face that had formerly seemed to be homely and trustworthy suddenly appeared hateful. I was deeply shocked at such a dubious exchange.

  I was eager to go. Every minute that we spent in this exposed position might spell disaster, and I fully expected a Japanese patrol to come trotting round the corner. In spite of it, our guide insisted on counting every shekel. When he had finished, he vanished into the shadows.

  Macpherson and I were left alone. We gazed blankly into each other’s faces. Brief but bleak, that exchange of looks revealed everything. It told me that I would be wasting my time expecting help from that quarter. I would have to rely on myself.

  Accordingly I propounded my plan. It was not particularly creative, but it was the only one available if we didn’t want to rush headlong up to that Jap occupied house as an undisciplined mob and end up shooting each other in the back.

  ‘Look here, Mac,’ I said, assuming the tone of a master strategist. ‘If you’ll take the 4/9 defence platoon the long way round and up the village street I’ll take the 3/4 platoon straight through this hollow. I’ll probably get there first but I’ll try and hang back in order to give you a chance to get into position. If I meet a lot of opposition and get pinned down, you’ll be able to come in from the flank and sweep all before you.’

  Well, that’s how they talk, isn’t it? Infantry Commanders? Note that bit about being pinned down – there speaks a real pro. Masters would have been proud of me.

  I am glad to say that Macpherson responded to my plan without demur and assented eagerly. We accordingly divided the platoons and I told Ganga Bahadur to go with Macpherson.

  ‘Tulbir, you stay with me. Get your grenades out of the pouches and hang ’em on your belt. Don’t take the fuckin’ pin out, you pubic hair. Not yet. Wait till you throw ’em. Have your spare clips available. Now put one up the spout and put the safety-catch on. Keep your safety-catch on until you’re well in sight of the house. I don’t want you alerting the Japs before we’re ready, or shooting me in the back of the neck.’

  The crash of twenty rifle bolts withdrawing, engaging, then driving a live round into the chamber was deafeningly loud. I imagined it might have been heard in Rangoon, but not a leaf stirred.

  ‘Are there any questions?’

  ‘No, huzoor.’

  ‘No, huzoor.’

  ‘No, huzoor.’

  ‘Then does anybody want a shit or a piss?’

  At first there was an uncomfortable silence in response to this challenge. Finally a little squeaky voice from the rear piped up: ‘Yes please, I do!’ It was Agam Singh. Everyone collapsed into uncontrollable giggles. So we all responded to a call of nature.

  Then we started out. Underneath my bravado I was as pale as a ghost.

  We advanced in open formation, strung out in a long line – twenty-five of us. I was in the centre. Tej Bahadur, the Bren gunner, was the right of me. Dal Bahadur was to the left of me. I glanced at him anxiously, wondering how he was taking it. I was horrified to notice how he had changed. His eyes were popping, his mouth was grinning, and his short bristly hair was standing on end. His normally gentle personality had undergone a complete transformation. At the prospect of battle, he had become quite frenzied.

  The last thing I wanted to see was my little friend running amok and getting himself killed in his enthusiasm. I didn’t have any personal weapon other than a small .38 pistol. I am one of those who have never felt it part of their business to rush into the thick of the melee and lay about them. I belong to the school who believes that an officer should not only not be armed with a sword, a Bren-gun, a bayonet, a rifle or any other of the selection of military hardware available – I believe that he should be armed with nothing more aggressive than a stick. I consider, moreover, that in an attack he should be guilty of no more offensive action than occasionally flipping the head off a dandelion.

  You can only behave like this with very highly disciplined and sophisticated troops. I could not stand idly aside and flick the heads off dandelions while there was the slightest possibility of my little friend rushing about and flicking the heads off Japs. Accordingly I had to think up a stratagem to keep him near me – and out of mischief.

  ‘Would the honourable rifleman,’ I whispered, ‘consent to lend the humble officer his personal arms? In the heat of the moment this stupid person has come away without providing himself with the appropriate weapons. I’ll let you have a pistol in exchange.’ This was artful, for I knew he secretly fancied firing a revolver.

  ‘Will you really?’ he replied with heart-warming simplicity.

  ‘Yes.’

  The exchange of rifle-and-bayonet for .38 pistol was effected in less than a second.

  ‘I want you to guard my back. Be a good boy and don’t leave me. I need you to protect me while I’m occupied with other things, so please don’t go running about after the enemy.’

  ‘Huzoor, I promise.’

  ‘Good. Thanks.’

  In this manner, then, creeping forward with excessive caution and taking extreme pains not to tread on any broken twigs, we finally came in sight of that house, just as the Burman had predicted.

  It was an ordinary Burmese village house of modest proportions, probably belonging to a well-to-do person who had been able to spend a certain amount of money on it. It was built of wood and roofed with shingles. The walls were of boards. There were one or two refinements, however, which made it outstanding, notably the carved gable-ends, the decorative shutters and, particularly, the massive teak timbers like stilts which raised it several feet above ground-level and kept it dry. It must have been this feature which prompted the Japanese to choose it for their store in the first place.

  I now had quickly to formulate in my mind some sort of scheme about what to do when we got there. It was still several hundred yards away – in fact, its roof was only just visible over the bushes. All the same, if we continued to creep forward even at the stealthy pace we had adopted, there was the distinct possibility of our creeping right up underneath its walls without being detected. This was a circumstance I definitely wanted to avoid.

  There are, of course, several cinematographic sources available to draw upon in such an emergency. They are mostly, however, based on aggressive and masculine American techniques with which I was totally out of sympathy. I honestly couldn’t see myself shouldering through a door into a roomful of seated Japs – probably all playing cards – and picking them off unerringly. My hands are far too unsteady.

  The only other alternative, namely of lobbing half-a-dozen grenades through an open window, seemed vaguely unsporting. It
did not appeal to me – more particularly as the board walls might prove so thin that they would be no protection to oneself against splinters.

  In that case then, the only solution would be to get the Japs out into the open where they could run away. How to do that, however, was the problem. As I was cogitating, we drew implacably nearer. Not all my caution was able to keep us away.

  Blast! Neither sight nor sound of a sentry! Such negligence seemed positively criminal.

  I was saved by an intervention of providence. Which god is it, I wonder, whose symbol is the cock? He was the one who did the trick! Suddenly from the grass at my feet there rose up a jungli murga (wild cock) with the most frightful screams of alarm. He flapped away over the roof of the house, his wings beating loudly. He was followed immediately by his hen. We were about two hundred yards distant and we had the house clearly within our sights.

  A man – he might have been a villager (and this was an unforeseen development) – appeared. He was bare-chested and wearing a longyi. I had not expected that the Japs would be in civvies and that there would be a problem of identification. This fellow looked exactly like a Burman. The only thing that provided a clue to his identity was his posture. He took up exactly that distinguishing stance which you see all Samurai do in Japanese prints. It is absolutely unmistakable and, once seen, can never be forgotten.

  I therefore raised Dal Bahadur’s rifle-and-bayonet to my shoulder and tried a winged shot. Thereupon all hell broke loose. Lots of little men with bare chests and wearing longyis poured out of the house and took up similar postures, with the additional refinement of putting one hand up to the brow to shade the eyes.