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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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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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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