My
grandfather had many terrible experiences in the Burma campaign in the Second
World War. One of the worst was getting there.
Having
just learnt to drive in theory, his knowledge was to be put to the test. My
grandfather began his journey by road from India to Burma, a new driver who
drove much more slowly than the others because of his lack of experience.
Driving
to Burma meant crossing the infamous Tiddim road. The Tiddim Road was narrow
10-foot road that snaked steeply uphill alongside the stormy river Irrawaddy, a tributary
of the tempestuous river Bramaputra. On one
side, the land fell away into a gaping chasm, at the bottom of which the waters
of the Irrawady flowed in swift, deadly currents.
My
grandfather, the first-time driver, inched forward, driving a lumbering, 3-ton truck
over a ten-foot hill track that was just barely wide enough for the vehicle. The
stench of the swollen bodies of Japanese and Indian soldiers who’d fallen into
the river floated alongside as a gruesome warning. If anyone fell into the
river, that was it. There was no question of even attempting a rescue.
Before
his very eyes, vehicles that lost their hold on their track tumbled into the
river and were lost forever. Many people from his convoy lost their lives on
the way, while the new driver watched grimly and tried to concentrate on the
road. Inch by inch, judging the road with inexperienced eyes, he drove over the
narrow, steep, serpentine road, one of the fortunate ones who made it through
the nerve-wracking journey alive.
On
the way, young Waran, who had not seen action so far, had his introduction to
combat at Mingalden Camp. The convoy passed through the body-strewn former
theatre of war, where the bodies of slain Japanese soldiers lay stinking and swelling
as they decomposed, still dressed in full battle-gear, still wearing their
watches. In the middle of war, nobody had the time to bury the enemy.
Real trouble came when
my grandfather reached the rain-forests of Burma. In fact, he nearly drove
right into it.
Nobody
learns to drive without taking a few wrong turns, and my grandfather was no
exception. Driving his big truck slowly and being the last in convoy in the
thick Burmese jungle, the newbie driver Waran lost sight of the convoy.
Guessing the way, he took the wrong fork on the road and got lost. New drivers
often have a problem judging distances on the road when they drive. My
grandfather miscalculated the distance and his left front wheel went over a
culvert, hooked over the edge of the tiny bridge.
Sheer
luck brought a British Sergeant on Military Police duty nearby to the rescue.
“What’s the problem, Johnny?” asked the MP. All soldiers were addressed by the
generic Englishman’s name ‘Johnny’ at that time, and to this day, the term
‘Johnny’ is sometimes used synonymously with ‘soldier’, especially by the older
generations of army men.
“My
vehicle has got stuck,” my grandfather told the MP. The MP used his radio to
call for a recovery vehicle or ‘breakdown’ (as they were called back then), to
pull the truck off the culvert and set it back on the road.
The
MP then told him that he was going the wrong way. My grandfather was headed
straight for the Japanese base-camp! Had his vehicle not got stuck, my
grandfather would have driven straight into the arms of the enemy.
Oh,
and there was more.
The
MP also told him that he was two miles into enemy-occupied territory, and that
Japanese were, in fact, coming up from behind him, gaining on him every minute.
“Run for your life!” the sergeant exhorted him. Turning the truck around, Waran
drove hell for leather through the jungle to reach base camp, putting as much
distance between him and the enemy with as much speed as he could.
When
he finally reached his own base camp, exhausted , it was about eight o’clock,
and everyone was in the middle of dinner. Huge cries of surprise and happiness
greeted him. “We thought you had been captured by the Japanese!” exclaimed the
other men. He very nearly had been, too.