Chindit Affair

by Brian Mooney

  It was early in the morning of the second day, consequently, when everyone had settled down and the lineaments of this subterranean conflict began to make themselves more clearly visible, that I privately sought out my havildar. It was during our ensuing conversation that he unknowingly revealed to me that he was an unacceptable risk. Regretfully I accepted the fact that I would have to put into operation my contingency planning.

  In order to get to the root of the matter I feigned sympathy, deliberately drawing him out, acting as an agent provocateur. It was all the easier for me to do this because we actually liked each other and he trusted me, and because I was hanging on his words deceitfully with a simulated care for his well-being. It was true, what I had intuited – he was a strong and determined character far in excess of the defence platoons’ trifling requirements.

  As a matter of fact, I was rather frightened of him. He was a man whom, on account of his independence of mind, the other soldiers respected. He could very easily have led them into courses of action we might later all have had the occasion to regret. I decided I would have to get rid of him.

  I wrote Jack Masters a letter. I described my situation as precarious. I assured him, however, of my confidence in being able to retain control of the pass on condition that certain obstructions to my success were removed and certain deviations from discipline were rectified – for instance, the bearer of this letter. I then told Masters what had been going on and asked him to keep Tulbir Gurung away from me.

  ‘Tulbir!’

  ‘Huzoor!’

  ‘Come here! I have a very important commission for you.’ ‘Huzoor!’

  ‘I want you to deliver this chitti to the Brigadier. I can’t send anyone of lesser rank with it because I don’t trust them to get through. You are a man of resource. I want you to go alone. I can’t afford to send anyone with you. It’s twenty-five miles of rough country. Do you think you can remember the

  path? Can you find it?’

  ‘Is it about me?’ he asked suspiciously.

  For a terrible moment I feared he was going to refuse. There would then be the difficult situation of confrontation, close arrest, court-martial and probably mutiny as well.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does it concern my promotion?’

  ‘Well, in a sort of way it does, and in a sort of way, it doesn’t. I can assure you that your whole future may depend on it. Take the letter. Deliver it personally to the Brigadier. Go with God!’

  I saw disbelief and distrust battling in his face for mastery against his personal regard for me and respect for an officer. It was a titanic struggle. Regard and respect won.

  ‘Very well, sahib.’ His sternness broke disarmingly. ‘Do you want me to go at once?’

  ‘Yes, got at once. If you push hard, you may still get there before nightfall. It’s all downhill.’

  Having successfully deceived him, I could not now bear that he should linger for a moment. So Tulbir Gurung went. The upshot was that the men conceived a new respect and admiration for me, as being incontestably more cunning and crafty than others. It was inconceivably disconcerting.

  Tulbir’s career had come to an end. He was returned to unit and went down into Blackpool. But because of his unsatisfactory record – the result of my adverse report and counter-recommendation – he was exposed in the most dangerous positions and sent out on the most difficult assignments. During one of these – on 17 May, to be exact, and while gallantly fulfilling his duty – he was shot in the chest. He died instantly. They did not recover his body. He was remarkable, so one of his companions told me, for never opening his mouth. During the whole of the two weeks he was with them, he never answered more than ‘no’ or ‘yes’.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Blackpool

  The Brigade came over the pass and descended towards the Blackpool block-site on 5 May. The first I heard of it was from one of Ganga Bahadur’s sentries. He came running up to the forward section where I was, and reported that strange soldiers were coming over the ridge. I rushed back to the path intersection, not quite having fully understood him. It was with considerable relief that I discovered that the taung-ya cultivation had merely been occupied by a British battalion. It was a platoon of the King’s Own acting as advance guard who had squatted down there to enjoy their ten-minute smoke. They were followed, after a short interval, by Jack Masters himself.

  I received him with all the ceremonial formality expected of a minor, feuding vassal in welcoming his king. He completely failed, however, to respond to the honour. He was very preoccupied. He listened to my excited account of adventures courteously enough, but he couldn’t conceal from me that he hadn’t absorbed a word of my explanations. Compared to his responsibilities, of course, my trifling affairs were insignificant, but I had hoped that he would break a K-ration with me. He shook his head.

  It was rather a solemn moment. I stood at the side of the path and watched the long column of men and animals pass down towards the block. I was waiting for young Lawrence. I wanted his advice about my practical problems.

  In this he was very accommodating. He delayed his departure while together we inspected all my weapon-pits, slit-trenches and prepared positions. He was able to point out one or two ways in which I could improve them.

  We ended up in Shiv Jung’s forward section-post. It was strange that I should have picked on this particular morning to send out a patrol, but so it was. Feeling secure enough now in my dug-in positions and a little more familiar with my environment, I felt capable of showing some initiative. I had sent out Shiv Jung with orders to proceed cautiously along the path ahead and discover where the Japs were located.

  I had already established by further interrogation of some villagers – not nearly so nervous, these, as the earlier ones, for they had come and volunteered the information quite spontaneously – that there was a village, now deserted, about half a mile along the ridge. It was abundantly clear to me, from the enemy presence every morning at the water-point, that the Japs were occupying it. I told Shiv Jung, therefore, to creep along with his section and, if he should get an opportunity, put in a good, long burst with his Bren. After that, he was to skedaddle back without paying undue attention to heroics.

  Now young Lawrence and I were standing in his section-post, staring speculatively out into no-man’s-land and waiting impatiently for his return.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a walk along the path to the village and have a look.’

  It led slightly downhill. At the bottom of the incline, screened by some ferns and bushes, it turned a corner. Just around the bend the Japs had started to construct a block. They must have been interrupted by my earlier arrival. It could only have been from here, or from a point just a little further to their rear, that they had fired their opening shot. The obstacle was quite rudimentary and consisted simply of some felled thorn trees and a tangle of brambles.

  All the same, it might have been booby-trapped; consequently it was impossible not to admire young Lawrence’s bravado in negotiating it. He simply brushed through it. I was most impressed by his calm professionalism and coolness.

  We were in the process of peeking about like a couple of broody hens newly released from the hen-coop when, from way ahead, just what I had been waiting for happened. It was a long – long – incredibly long – burst of light-machine-gun fire, succeeded by a shorter one. It was followed by complete, sustained silence. In the suspension of noise which ensued, I thought I detected pounding footsteps.

  Yes – along the path ahead whence came that burst, Shiv Jung and his section were legging it towards us with all the speed at their disposal. They were making no pretence about conducting an ordered withdrawal and were panting heavily. On their face I noticed the most extraordinary expressions.

  They wore that pleased, lolling-tongued look of hounds returning after a successful hunting trip. Young Lawrence was slightly scandalized.

  But there could be no doubt of their success. The patrol
reached me and crumpled at my feet, collapsing in laughter.

  ‘Right in the middle of ‘em!’ shouted Shiv Jung. ‘It must have killed or wounded ten – right in the middle of ‘em!’

  Suddenly, as if the enemy had only just recovered from his shock, all hell broke loose. Light machine guns started rat-tat-tat-tatting form the Japanese positions and grenades and mortar-bombs went a-popping. Then there began an indiscriminate bombardment from two inch mortars, some of whose shells came uncomfortably near.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to young Lawrence. ‘Let’s take cover.’

  He had the grace to look impressed. It was fortunate that the Jap should have emphasized his position by this spirited display of his presence. It made my contribution look almost convincing, and Shiv Jung got the military medal.

  To the accompaniment of this tiny bombardment, the Brigade descended to the block. Their story, for the next few weeks, is part of history. As I was not present during that phase of fighting, I can say nothing about it. I can only affirm one thing. Despite the obvious difficulties and dangers which menaced the enterprise, none of us expected failure or defeat. I bade goodbye to young Lawrence, therefore without any scruples of conscience.

  The day was oppressive and clammy. The weather menaced thunder. A sort of brooding calm hung over the pass; we were not far from the monsoon. Nothing, however, of this sombre atmosphere marred my parting with young Lawrence. We stood at the path intersection conversing for a few minutes before he left. He was rather late. His platoon (30 Column’s explosive platoon, the same to which Tulbir Gurung was attached, and the only one of 30 Column’s contingent to accompany the Brigade to Blackpool) had gone on before him.

  He was loaded with pack, groundsheet, blanket, a new pair of boots dangling by their laces, all his guns, ammunition and grenades – to say nothing of his K-rations, his haversack stuffed with spare socks, his pouches bursting with fresh clips, his water-bottle, his map case. Despite this heavy equipment he ran comparatively lightly along the path across the taung-ya cultivation, holding his flapping map case and water-bottle with his hands while his slung carbine jogged over his shoulder. He stopped when he got to the other side where the path started to descend, grimaced absurdly, then laughed and waved. His wave was of such grace and elegance and he looked, too, so young and handsome that my mind immediately filled with all the things which I had wanted to say to him but had either never found the opportunity to or had forgotten. My heart felt heavy as lead.

  ‘See you,’ I shouted confidently, ‘when you come back.’

  Silently he nodded, and then disappeared below the crest. He left me feeling lonely and empty, and so forlorn that I could have wept.

  Thereafter, the long slow days passed so leadenly that they seemed to seal us on that mountain top in a sort of self-closed, hermetic limbo. I was completely cut off and out of communication with both parties. On the west side, on the shore of Indawgyi Lake, 30 Column Gurkhas were maintaining a sort of rear headquarters in the village of Mokso Sakan. On the other side of the mountains to the east, Jack Masters was established in his unassailable fortress, which was to defy the might of Jap 18th and 53rd Divisions with two depleted battalions of British infantry until 14 Brigade and the West African Brigade arrived to reinforce him. There was no reason to be pessimistic. As I look back now, however, it seems an incredibly foolhardy venture.

  In the event, echoes of the fearful battle that had begun to be joined at the foot of the mountain at Blackpool reached me only furtively. By some quirk of ground configuration I noticed hardly any sounds that might indicate a desperate fight. Sometimes at night Dal Bahadur and I would lie awake listening to the rattle of the heavy machine guns, but generally we heard little.

  All at once, without warning, the wind might change. We would become aware of the fearful, sinister thunder of the guns’ heavy shelling. Under such circumstances, we could not help – all of us – becoming very jumpy.

  Meanwhile storm-clouds, more tangible than war-clouds, started discharging. It poured with rain for days on end. Sometimes, when the storms lifted momentarily, the planes would come. They would fly close to and parallel with our ridge – DC-3s laden with supplies and provisions for Blackpool – then dip through the cloud layer that blanketed the block and its strip. We would hear them going round in circles against the chatter of the Japanese ‘woodpecker’ and the rumble of the exploding mortar bombs.

  My own situation was also becoming increasingly unhappy. By this time we had completely run out of food. The Gurkhas, moreover, were displaying a degree of psychological instability which had me extremely worried. One night I was awakened by a strange sound, only to find

  Thaman Bahadur’s headquarters section barking and yapping in their sleep like dogs. When I complained, however, it became apparent that Thaman Bahadur regarded such a demonstration very philosophically. He muttered something about bhutas (spirits) and then dismissed the matter, going on to discuss something else. I found I was not myself able to adopt such an uninvolved attitude. I could no longer conceal from myself that we were haunted. I was dreadfully uneasy and deeply perplexed, particularly as Dal Bahadur became a principal sufferer. I had been watching him narrowly for several weeks.

  The manifestation generally occurred after he had had several hours of undisturbed sleep. I would find myself called out of my own dream-troubled slumber as by a sort of mysterious affinity and an obligation to support him. I would lie there, unaccountably awake. The moon would be rising, late and exhausted. In its ghastly illumination, Dal Bahadur stretched out beside me like a corpse – long since dead but still beautiful and, of course, perfectly preserved.

  ‘Perish the thought!’ I muttered superstitiously, looking round for something to neutralize it.

  Suddenly his body shuddered as if activated by a hideous, larval infestation from another world. He sat up stiffly like an automaton and let out a single, wolf-like howl. Coming from someone I loved, it was absolutely spine-chilling.

  I made a movement of embrace. A voice – it was Dal Bahadur’s – speaking from away behind my right shoulder said sepulchrally, ‘Don’t touch me!’

  Noli me tangere!

  I recoiled. He proceeded to disengage himself from his blanket with clumsy fingers. Then he threw himself upon me with a hungry sort of vampirism. His limbs clamped themselves to mine like a vine. Thank God, I had enough good sense or love or compassion or something – anyway, I did not reject this terrifying manifestation (and terrifying it was, for I felt I was being devoured) – but accepted it. I did all in my power to let pass from me to him whatever psychic substance it was which he wanted.

  He had been taut as a tensed spring when he first threw himself on me. Gradually I felt him relax. The fit passed, leaving his limbs cold and leadlike. I waited until my arms had warmed him affectionately. Then I gently displaced that breathing, trembling, clinging, palpitating creature – for it was not a person – from on top of me and disposed it, as gently as I could, under its proper blanket, on its proper bed. He did not wake up, nor did he ever know anything about it.

  But, notwithstanding these disturbing psychic proclivities during the night-time, he was still absolutely indispensible to me during the day. His was a temperament of tremendous resource and resilience. He now proved to possess a perfect flair for wandering about and searching for spoils in the jungle; also for cooking little meals in mess-tins out of the spoils he had procured.

  All the Gurkhas, in fact, possessed this remarkable facility for foraging. In our present circumstances it was just as well. This talent was the indispensable prerequisite for survival. We depended on what we could grub out of the ground by way of roots and tubers. The first aliment on which we descended was naturally the crop of tomatoes. We stripped these plants bare. Inevitably we were in due course forced to search further and further afield.

  The men’s physical and psychological deterioration inexorably moved us all nearer to the point where we would crack and crumple. Under such circ
umstances it was not in any degree convenient to be told that Ganga Bahadur was ill. I had had just about enough of this Brahmin havildar’s over-weening pretensions and assumption of arrogant superiority. I felt almost venomous towards him.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked the man of Ganga Bahadur’s section who had come to report the matter to me. ‘Can’t he get about his business even a bit?’

  ‘He’s sick.’ The man went through the motions of vomiting. ‘And he’s got pains in his belly.’

  I looked at him with such hostility and with such lack of concern for the sufferer that it must have been that which did the trick. In view of my obvious disbelief in such symptoms, the man feared to show the slightest signs of sympathy. At any rate, his stolid expression, probably caused by my own ill temper, was an exact reflection of my own scepticism. I wrongly concluded that the messenger himself did not believe in Ganga Bahadur’s condition. I therefore nodded cursorily in dismissal, and equally I dismissed the man and his matter from my mind. I simply assumed that it would be some entirely temporary malaise.

  Completely immersed in other activities, I forgot all about it. At the onset of the rains, all sorts of herbs and shoots were sprouting. They provided excellent opportunities for food gathering. I was very concerned that we take advantage of them. Every day patrols went out to collect mushrooms and fungi, sweet yams, unfolding fern-shoots and tender bamboos.

  What was my surprise, therefore, on the following day, to receive another plea from Ganga Bahadur – only this time couched in the form of a summons: ‘Will his excellency please come and examine the patient. The Havildar has taken a turn for the worse.’

  I could not very well refuse. I went along, although with bad grace. Ganga Bahadur was lying, well cared for by his section, in a hollow of earth. It was scraped out to form a sort of nest into which he could lodge his hip and lined with leaves and dry grass over which had been spread his groundsheet. He was lying on this and covered on top with his blanket. He looked a damn sight too clean and comfortable for my liking, curled up like a hare in its form, and this fact by itself predisposed me in his disfavour. We were all as scruffy as scarecrows, as dingy as gypsies and as screwed up as hell. I found it insupportable that this man alone of all my Gurkhas should somehow have escaped the general dirtiness.