IN THE ARMY NOW

Anything is possible. We don’t believe in miracles anymore. If you ask me, a miracle is having an unemployed young man, from a small village in an enslaved nation, achieve glory, despite the prejudices against his privileged ancestors, whose name he bore. What makes this tale even more astonishing is that everything I’m about to describe to you happened during the Second World War, a terrible era in human history, a time when one would never believe anyone could get ahead in life. This is the true story of this miracle, which changed the course of my grand-father’s life – and the lives of all of his descendents- forever.
In the 40s, India was still under British colonial rule. My grandfather, Kavaseri Krishnaiah Venkateswaran, was a young man who had just finished his Bachelors’ degree in Arts. In the year 1941, it was pretty unusual for a native Indian to be so well-qualified. Unfortunately, because of belonging to the ‘Brahmin’ caste, the former elite caste which was generally hated (and not without good reason) by the emancipated folks of the new age, this exceptionally well-educated young man couldn’t get a job anywhere.His father (my great grandfather) still wanted his son to live with his family and wanted him to follow in his father’s professional footsteps. “I will get you a job as a Collector,” he boasted to his son, with the rider, “Stay at home, my son.” In those times, nearly every Indian family was a joint family. Unthinkable to let a son of the house go far from the bosom of the family home.
But my grandfather had a better handle on reality, bitter experience having opened his eyes to the truth. The Brahmins had abused their privileged position in society for far too long, and nobody, but nobody wanted to give a Brahmin a chance to regain a position of power once again. So young Venkateswaran decided to hide his caste from prospective employers. He applied for a position as a train conductor at Trichy, the place where he lived, now part of modern-day Kerala, in the very southernmost region of India. He soon received a call for a job interview. At first, it seemed like everything would work out. But at the end, the person conducting the interview casually asked, “So, what is your caste?” Venkateshwaran was obliged to reveal the truth. “Brahmin? Get out!” shouted the interviewer rudely.
Most people would have been discouraged by the tough situation in which this unemployed young graduate found himself. My grandfather, the world’s biggest optimist, went to see the famous Christmas celebrations in the city of Bangalore. His best friend, Krishna Nayar, also wanted to go there, but to enlist in the British Indian Army. Young Mr Nayar, who had never travelled by train before, was afraid to go alone. “I don’t want to go alone! Come with me, please,” he begged his best friend.
At that time, the British were looking to recruit people from the colonies in Asia to fight against the fascists. The British Army had announced that it would send free return tickets for the train journey to people who came to enlist. My grandfather decided to take advantage of this opportunity. That was how fickle chance tossed young Venkateshwaran on a train journey with his best friend K. Nayar, who was on his way to enlist as a recruit in the great war that had engulfed the entire world.

The two friends gave the exam, and they both passed. When he was invited to join the army, young Venkateshwaran hesitated. Krishna Nayar pressed his friend to enlist. Peer pressure seems like a modern phenomenon. But 75 years ago, my grandfather went to Bangalore to give a friend moral support, and ended up being a recruit in the British Indian Army – that too, in the dangerous time of the Second World War! Like any teenager today, he lied to his father to do so, too. The adventure which led my grandfather all across the Asian sub-continent had begun. In those days, it wasn’t unusual to spend one’s entire lifetime in one place. But destiny led my grandfather to the ends of Asia, across seas and deserts. It was perhaps the force of his optimism that led him to realize his dreams of grand adventure, and to give him what he had been looking for all along – a job. 

 

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RISING THROUGH THE RANKS

Having enlisted in the British Indian Army during the peak of the Second World War, my grandfather went home and broke the news to his appalled father. It had been just one year since he'd got married. After the failure of all the blandishments, inducements and entreaties to persuade my grandfather to stay home like a good boy rather than go off to war, his dad reluctantly bid him adieu, knowing perhaps, that there was no chaining his free spirit.

Armed with a kit with the standard-issue khaki uniform, hat and boots, my grandfather got ready for life in the army. The first two months in the army were spent loading and unloading supplies and digging trenches, in addition to the small arms training that was mandatory for all recruits. The new recruits prepared for the rigours ahead by digging, lifting, hauling and shooting; all on a monthly salary of Rs 10 per month - a sum that was not considered all that bad, back in those days.

My grandfather was recruited as a Sepoy Storekeeper. He spent two months training how to shoot weapons like sten guns (widely used in the Second World War), pistols and rifles, after which the third month was dedicated to learning the trade of the storekeeper, the position he'd been chosen to fill.

That wasn't all, either. My grandfather and his best friend Krishna Nayar were both Kerala born-and-bred, and had been brought up on rice meals all their lives. In the army though, a nasty shock to their culinary sensibilities awaited them, in the form of the unfamiliar north Indian fare of yellow lentils and unleavened flatbreads (dal and rotis) which the army had decided would serve as native 'Indian' fare for all Indian army personnel.

But you just can’t keep a good man down. The Army began to pick out recruits for promotion based on an examination. Out of the 600 people who took the examination, my grandfather stood first. He had his reward in a triple promotion. He skipped from the rank of Sepoy Storekeeper straight to the rank of Havildar Storekeeper, a prestigious position which made his salary jump to the then princely sum of Rs 70 per month. Three months into his first job, he sent his entire salary to his overjoyed and proud father.

That was how he got his first promotion.

 After his promotion, though, he was posted at Allahabad Arsenal, where he got his first taste of discrimination. The facility had British officers, sergeants and men, working along with the Indians. White men of the same rank, whose uniform bore the same three stripes as his, were paid seven times as much as my grandfather. The British ruled the country at the time, and the British officials would bark insults at the Indians with impunity, and the Indians had no choice but to tolerate the slights that came their way. "Bloody Indians!" they'd say as they passed (this must've really stung, because my grandfather remembered it and repeated it with great bitterness, though 75 years had passed). There was a separate mess for British personnel and a separate mess for the Indian personnel, all nicely segregated, apartheid-style.

Getting your own back was out of the question, of course, but a measure of vindication was to come later. The post-independence Indian Army had many British officers who had opted to serve out their tenure in India rather than to retire prematurely. As an MT (Mechanical Transport) instructor, my grandfather, still at the rank of Havildar, had the privilege of teaching a class full of lieutenant colonels and colonels. The Commandant himself  used to sit right behind him during the class. 

"But you're an Indian! How are you so good at this?" came the surprised exclamation, after his very first class. Hardly a politically-correct remark, but to an Indian in a newly-liberated slave nation, such praise was a triumph, a victory of personal merit over colonial prejudice; hard-won and infinitely precious.

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THE WAR IN IRAQ, CIRCA 1941

Long before terrorism and petrol shortages, there was war in Iraq.

70 years ago, during World War II, my grandfather was posted to the sea-port of Basra in Iraq, to join the famous 5^th Indian Division. 

The journey by sea was no luxury cruise. The British Indian army personnel sailed from the port of Bombay (now Mumbai) on the west coast of India to Basra in the height of the monsoon season, during which heavy rains lashed the ocean, making it rough and choppy. In June 1941, they travelled in the lower deck, where the maximum impact of every toss of the heaving ship could be felt by its suffering passengers. To top that, Hitler’s forces were continually bombing the sea routes, so the ship took a meandering, zigzagging route to avoid the enemy planes.

The sea-voyage to Basra in Iran, packed closely in the lowest reaches of large, heaving ship, was an ordeal. Sucking lemons to fight seasickness in cramped quarters, subsisting on wholewheat flat-breads (chapatis) that had been burnt black from being cooked on charcoal stoves, they covered the four-day journey in 14 days.

When they got to Basra, thousands of tents stood pitched in the sand, stretching for miles and miles across the desert. The lights were turned off at night, in order to stay hidden from the enemy, so getting lost on the way back to the tent was a regular thing. During meal-times, getting to the mess and back with his plate was a real problem. My grandfather recalls having to count the rows and remember how many tents down from the left or right he’d find his own tent, hidden in plain sight among thousands of identical, anonymous-looking tents. He recalls many long, exhausting searches, often in the dark at the end of the day, looking around for ages before he could manage to find his own tent. Not that the food was worth the long trek – far from it. The only vegetarian food that could be managed in a tiny, predominantly carnivorous foreign town was a horrid mess of slimy, grass-like boiled vegetation that served as rations in the desert, liberally peppered with the sand that managed to get into everything.

The camp at Basra was a nightmare, but it was a stepping-stone to better things. 

By the sort of strange miracle that seems to follow my ebullient grandfather around, the next stop was Baghdad, the capital city. His luck had finally turned, and brought with it a promotion to the rank of Jamadar Quartermaster. And so he swapped the three stripes on his uniform for his first star.

Baghdad was a large, fashionable city. As the man in charge of supplies, he presided over large stores of tinned milk, liquor and Woodbine cigarettes; and quickly became a very popular man, thanks to his generosity. In a single stroke of luck, he’d gone from slimy boiled weeds to sweet tinned milk.

But that wasn’t all either. Within six months of being posted in Iraq, the 5^th Indian Division was posted back to India. They had been brought in to fight off the successful Germans advancing from North Africa. The Panzer Tank Division had come right up to El Alamein, a small place in the desert in North Africa. They had also carefully laid landmines to blow up any Indian forces unwise enough to venture into their captured territory.

In one of history's great ironies, though, the Germans never reached Iraq. They ran out of petrol.

The Germans were forced to abandon their tanks in the desert and retreat. With their retreat, there was no further need for the 5^th Indian Division to join the fight. And so my grandfather came back home, having narrowly (if rather regretfully) missed the fight – for then.

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DRIVING TO WAR

They say that war brings out the best – and the worst – in people.

 Most people come back from war with tales of horror to tell their shrink. With my grandfather, we had tales of adventure from the war (the nastier bits left out), narrated with the flair of a natural-born storyteller, told to a bunch of spellbound, wide-eyed grandchildren. One of the most interesting of his stories, for us, was his recounting of the Burma campaign in World War II.

 General Slim, the Supreme Commander of 14th Army, was to lead the British Indian Army in a campaign to recapture Burma. My grandfather, then posted to COD, Dehu Road in Pune, received orders to move to Ranchi, from where they would then proceed on to Burma.  

 “Waran!” barked Major Heptinstall, the man in charge at Ranchi. “Drive the truck with supplies to the camp!" “I don’t know how to drive, sir,” young Waran protested. “I don’t care! I have 50 trucks and only 30 drivers. You have to do it!” said Heptinstall. “I don’t even have a license,” the young Quartermaster began to explain. Heptinstall responded by making out an impromptu driver’s license on the spot, signing at the bottom to lend it the stamp of officialdom; and handing it over to young Waran.

They were to start driving from India to Burma in two days.

 For all that, Heptinstall wasn’t being unreasonable or unfair. Orders were orders, and Major Heptinstall had his orders to march. In the army, obeying orders is such a way of life that not to do as one was ordered it would have been unthinkable. Heptinstall had to finish the job, in any way possible.

In the course of the second great war that swept across the world, with everything from drivers to supplies at a premium, army men stepped up to the mark to meet impossible demands in untenable circumstances.

Meanwhile, my grandfather, who had never driven a vehicle in his life, had two days to learn the theory of driving. Fortunately, his immediate senior, the Havildar Major, who knew how to drive, was a good friend. Sitting in a stationary vehicle with the Havildar Major (they didn’t have the authorization for practice drives), my grandfather learnt the basics about the accelerator, brake and clutch, moving the gears about to learn how it was done.

It was a quirk of destiny that got a man of such unquashable optimism in just the place which needed men whose spirit could not be broken. Such things happened to my grandfather all the time – fate loves an optimist!

So he drove a motor vehicle for the first time in his life, from one country to another, in the middle of a raging war. At the wheel of a monster 3-ton truck, he drove all the way from Ranchi to Burma, the last vehicle in the convoy of 2000-odd vehicles of different shapes and sizes. The vehicles began driving at 8 am and kept driving till nearly 6 pm, when they stopped for the night and set up camp at one of the designated halts en route. They were on the move, driving through the day, every day, for one-and-a-half months. During the drive, he had to navigate with the help of map reference points, in a truck loaded with all the food and cooking vessels for all the men.

That was how my grandfather learnt how to drive.

This nerve-wracking introduction to driving might have put some people off driving. Not so my grandfather. Till he was 92, he was zipping around on his Sunny, an un-geared scooter that was hugely popular with teenagers - and people like my grandfather, ever the teenager in spirit.

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BASE CAMP: NIPPON OR INDIAN?

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.

That was how my grandfather almost became a Japanese prisoner of war – but didn’t!

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UNDER FIRE

Coming head-to-head with the enemy is the quintessential war experience. That’s when you find out what you’re really made of. My grandfather was a very resourceful man. And out in the wilderness of the Burmese jungle, he proved it.

  On that fateful day, having driven the whole day, at six o’clock at night, my grandfather thankfully got to base camp – only to be sent back.

“Waran! I’ve run out of petrol. You need to drive to the POL Point and get it tonight!” said the Commanding Officer. The Petrol, Oil and Lubricant Point or POL Points were the basic refueling stops for the Allied Forces in Burma, set up by the army to make sure that the all the cogs in the machinery of war moved with well-oiled precision. As the Quartermaster, all supplies were my grandfather’s responsibility. So when the petrol ran out, he was the one who had to drive back 50 miles to the last POL Point for it. They needed that petrol- they had to start driving the next morning.

He gathered a ‘working party’ - a group of men to do the heavy lifting- which consisted of four men, and set off to get the necessary fuel.

This time, however, there was another, unforeseen danger.

They had driven about 20 miles when the air was rent with the rattle of machine-gun fire. The staccato bursts came from Japanese troops who were hiding in the trees, waiting to pick off any enemies who might passing by on that road.

“Stop, stop!” said the co-driver, who was fortunately a man experienced in the ways of war. “We must stop, and hide, so that the enemy thinks we’re dead and moves on,” he said. They stopped hurriedly, scrambled out of the vehicle and dived into the shallow ditch-like trenches dug on the side of the road. At that point, my grandfather confessed, he thought it was all over for him.

Or almost.

My grandfather was never the sort of man to give up.

In tense silence, crouched in the trenches, the men waited breathlessly for a sign that it was safe to move. My grandfather had his service revolver on him which had five rounds. He fired five shots, one after another, to lure the enemy out.

Nothing.

He and his men made their way cautiously back to their vehicle. No sooner had they started the engine, than - rat-a-tat-tat! The staccato of machine guns spat fire with redoubled fury.

The truck standing conspicuously in the middle of the road presented a large and easy target to the enemy. The men in the truck scrambled out and hid in the trenches once again.

The service revolver was now empty, and there was no more ammunition left.

Then my grandfather had an idea. In one of those happy strokes of luck that came so often to my grandfather, he had held on to his haversack while making a hasty exit from the truck. Being the Quartermaster, his haversack held, among other things, matches – and Bicat Strips. Bicat Strips were used as training ammunition. Their chief feature was that they went off with a real bang. With nothing else to hand and nothing to lose, my grandfather lit them up like firecrackers and tossed them towards the enemy. The Bicat Strips made an enormous noise, and the Japanese, believing that their enemy had brought out the machine guns too, turned tail and retreated, with many shouted curses and threats.

They then went on to the POL Point at Mile No. 50, filled the steel drums in the vehicle with petrol and drove all the way back to base camp. It was 6 am by the time he returned. The CO (Commanding Officer) upon hearing what had gone down during what was meant to be a routine refueling trip, commended him warmly on his presence of mind.

That was how my grandfather won a gun-battle against the Japanese without ammunition, and came back not only alive, but unscathed.

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ISLAND IDYLL

In war, it’s not just enough to capture a territory – in order to maintain the upper hand, it’s equally important to hold on to your gains.

It was in order to achieve this aim that the 5^th Indian division was sent to the island of Surabaya in Indonesia, recently captured from the Dutch. The Indians were to be there and hold the fort (so to speak) to make sure the enemy didn’t try and recapture the island.

Of all the lucky breaks in what can only be described as a charmed life, this one was the best.  The enemy had fled, leaving behind their luxurious houses and superb Dutch cars. Their mess was like a palace. Most men had a car at their disposal for the duration of the stay. My grandfather had a blue Chevrolet. With nothing much to do on the island, he often took out his beautiful, mint-condition blue Chevy for long drives along the sea coast, driving as much as 60 miles in one trip.  

As quarter-master, the spoils of war were at my grandfather’s finger-tips. The fleeing enemy had left behind godowns packed with foreign goods, from Woodbine cigarettes (a popular brand at the time), to the best Scotch whiskey - and of course, my grandfather’s absolute favourite , sweet tinned milk.  

The Indian contingent were a huge hit with the locals. They bought bundles of Chinese silk, gold jewellery and ‘luxury’ items like bottles of soft-drinks. The Indians had nothing to do but spend their money on the gorgeous island paradise. Far from haggling, the Indians would press more money on the vendors than they’d asked. I still remember how my grandfather would tell this (our favourite story) to us, his excited, saucer-eyed grandchildren.

“We’d ask, 'how much is that?'," he'd say, warming up. Then, doing both sides of the dialogue, "If the person replied, ‘200’, we’d say, ‘Take 300! Take 400!’ ” And we'd all laugh delightedly, including him.

My grandfather’s naturally expansive nature blossomed joyously under the unexpected wartime windfall.

When the time came for the contingent to leave, my grandfather says, the locals were actually crying. “Please don’t go! Stay with us!” they pleaded tearfully with the best customers they’d ever had.

When my grandfather recounted this story to me at age 97, he still remembered those days with a fondness that most people wouldn’t associate with war.

Life as an Indian soldier in the Second World War might have been the least fun place to be in the world. But more incredible things happen everyday than any of us would ever believe. Like being sent into war as cannon-fodder, and ending up living like a king on a beautiful tropical island.

At the end of the posting, the Indian soldiers were flown back from Indonesia to Dum Dum Airport in Calcutta, adding another rare experience to my grandfather’s cache, for most Indians in the early forties would never have had the chance to even see the inside of an airplane, let alone travel by airplane.

That was how my grandfather returned from war with loads of happy memories and many souvenirs of a sojourn in paradise.

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