INTO BURMA

At least that bit was true. We hoped they would come our way.  Just as they arrived reasonably close, they suddenly veered off in another direction.  It was disputable whether they were in fact nude.  They could have been wearing white blouse and white shorts.   We each had our own little fantasy.  We did try one more time after that but we missed them.  It turned out that they had selected a different time on that particular day.

One day we learned the road had been repaired and that a convoy of seven lorries was going to try and get through.  We would be on it and off to join a satellite of 169 Wing.  We left at 8 a.m. one morning.  I'll never forget that trip.  What a journey!  We took a side trip down a rutted road to the river to meet a barge and unload from it some equipment for 177 Beaufighter Squadron.  

It seemed like days before we reached Chiringa, as we seemed to have several meals en route.  I don't recall sleeping though, and then at about 7 p.m . one evening, after travelling over very muddy, rutted roads that shook the innards out of us, we found ourselves on the outskirts of the camp.  Here we ran over the now familiar wire-meshed roads, all through the camp, similar to the way the Yanks laid out their aircraft runways.   I spent the night in the Motor Transport billet and in the morning reported to the Orderly Room.  I was advised that the D/F station had come in to them damaged, probably from Akyab in a hasty withdrawal, and that some of the lads were currently trying to get it operational.  I went out to where they were working on it, and here I met Eric Foggo, Paddy Magowan Ken Loseby and Don Locke.  They settled me into the crude Signals Billet.  I spent most of that first day getting my dhobi [laundry] tended to and writing some letters home.   

Later, Eric Foggo and I went down to 211 Beaufighter Squadron stores to scrounge some white paint.  We got eight tins of the stuff.  I started to paint the inside of the D/F tender. 

At this point I should tell you that a D/F [Direction Finding] tender can be either just a big square trailer towed by a truck, or on a slightly larger scale can be inside a truck itself.  This makes it very mobile.  More about this later.  At this time Foggo, Magowan and Loseby had been detailed to escort a prisoner, Japanese or otherwise, I know not, back to Calcutta.  That left Don Locke and I to do the painting.  We then got some green camouflage paint and did the outside of the van.  

     Another of my first jobs was to assist in the building of a small bridge across a stream, so that we could drive our mobile signals van farther along and out into a high area among the paddy fields.  This whole area for miles each way was just paddy fields where rice was grown, bordered by dense jungle  It was part of a tributary of the Irrawaddy River and as the tides came and went, hundreds of miles away, so the fields were flooded.  I would have thought that salt water wasn't ideal for growing rice.  

Shortly after I arrived we were hung up with an equipment problem and were waiting for aircraft from Imphal to drop off some supplies.  Because of this lull I was given some time in the Hill Stations and was sent off to Shillong in northern India. It was much colder there and quite a relief from the humidity of a jungle area.  Once again I was amongst pine trees and in territory very much like our parks settings in Canada.  There was a Yank camp there as well and I made good friends with a couple of them.  One was an Everette Cooley from New York City and the other, Harold Roberts from Utica, NY.  We did a lot of walking everywhere, and just talking, about our homes, and life in general.  It was kind of neat for me after hearing the great mix of UK dialects.

Because it was a centuries-old peace-time British hill station nothing had been overlooked.  We were able to rent bicycles, and go roller skating at yet another roller rink with a wooden floor.  I also actually went horse-back riding.  The two Yanks were keen to do it, and I think it was a case of bravado on the part of all of us.  The horses were very slow and plodded along as we went out on the designated trail.  At about the halfway mark they began to trot and then to gallop, no matter what we tried to do. [My days on the Raper ponies stood me well]  One of the Yanks passed me in a hurry and was gone.  The other kept with me and we soon came upon his friend sitting on the ground and no horse in sight.  "What in the hell is the matter with 'em,"  he shouted as we galloped by, trying to rein in our Kentucky Derby contenders.  We soon found out, when we arrived in sight of the stables, from where we had started our little ride.   It seems that all of the horses are fed on return from a hiring out.  They are naturally very keen to hurry back.

Two weeks later I was back on duty. All of our small crew spent time doing a variety of jobs getting this Bedford VHF/DF van into shape.  We had a mechanic from the transport section make sure the engine just hummed and was ready to start in an instant.  In fact, later on we would always start it at the beginning and end of each shift.  TO BE CONTINUED

ARRIVE IN CHITTAGONG

I had teamed up with three other chaps from 35 PTC and we got rations for four, instead of single rations.  This allowed us to have more.  We had biscuits, bully beef, cheese, pickles, sugar and tea.  We had nothing to make tea in and instead bought some tea on the ferry for four Annas a mug.  

In the late afternoon our ferry arrived at a place called Chandpur.  Here we had to wait about 20 minutes in midstream before docking.  After docking we once again required coolies to take our luggage to yet nother train, where we boarded coaches right at the very end of the train. 

Our train then waited until about 7 p.m. until another ferry arrived.  They sure believed in packing the trains to the hilt.  Once again our impatience and hostile mood was tempered with more beggar boys providing entertainment.  One little group sang to us, believe it or not, "Hold tight, Hold tight, Want some sea food Momma.", which was one of the American hit tunes of the day. Finally about 8:15 pm we were on the move.  So crowded were we in our coach, that once again our bed rolls stayed rolled.  There was no lighting in the coach, and the issue of candles to us when we left HQ now made sense.  We of course lit them so that we could see what was what.   I made myself a drink of milk by pouring my condensed milk in my mug and adding water from my flask. Ugh!! I would say now, but then it was nectar.   This liquid was needed to wash down dried bread, pickles and cheese. 

  The rain continued.   At 4:15 a.m. we arrived in Chittagong.   It was pitch black and pouring with rain - STILL!  The stationmaster told us a lorry would be along to take seven of us to 224 Group HQ.  The lorry arrived.  We boarded and after a hell of a ride over bumpy soggy, muddy "roads?" we arrived 20 minutes later at Group.   The guardroom SP [police], told us that at about 6:30 a.m. there should be showers turned on.  Showers! Hell, all we needed to do was strip in the rain and soap ourselves down as we did at Risalpur.  Ah! but we were pleasantly surprised.  When he had said showers, he meant hot water.  Yes Hot Water!  It was a real treat, and we were also able to shave.  Ah luxury!   I received another pleasant surprise at Group.  The first one was that I had missed my posting to Akyab farther south.  WHY?  It had been captured by the Japanese.  Well that was a near miss!  Next little lot of pleasantries were as follows:  Group was very organized.  They had maps showing the war's progress.  The cookhouse food was good.  There was porridge, although it contained weevils, but heck they were dead and added a bit of colour and a bit of protein didn't hurt anyone.  After I had checked in I was told that I would not be staying there but was being moved farther inland.     

At Chittagong I was informed I was to join 5836 Mobile Signals Unit at Chiringa in Burma.  At 4 a.m. the next day I was roused to eat a hurried breakfast with a jeep driver and his dog.  He took me and my luggage to the ferry.  It was a miserable dark morning and still raining. 

At the ferry there were a dozen or more lorries waiting to unload West African troops.  A coolie grabbed my kit.  I said goodbye to my jeep driver, and slogged through mud to board the ferry.

We pulled out at 7 a.m. and by 3 p.m. we were anchored off of Cox's Bazar.  In relays we were loaded, baggage and all on to several invasion barges which took us about a mile up a narrow canal to a sort of jetty where the bow of the barge dropped and we walked off.    There were no coolies here so we were forced to carry our own kit.  It was no easy chore hefting a large tin box to your shoulder while a Sten gun hung around your neck. Maybe this is why we had the Commando training, to toughen us.  When I think back on that time,  I am often amazed that I was able to do it.  At Cox's I was told that the rains had been very heavy and the "road" to my next posting had been washed out.  I was taken to a transit billet to be "on hold" until I could proceed.  The "roads" to the billet were covered in a wire mesh to hold the soil together.

At the billet, water was obtained from a pump in the centre of a clearing.  Who should I run into here, but Horace Baldwin and John Simmons who had preceded me by a couple of weeks.  They were both operating a D/F tender on the out skirts of the camp.  Horace took me to see John who was on duty.  He was surprised to see me.  I switched my billet as Horace arranged for a cot in their billet.  Much better. 

My stay at Cox's turned into a few days.  While there I was told by the boys that there were two British nurses who rode horses early in the morning on the beach, AND IN THE NUDE, because they then went in for a swim.  I didn't believe it. Sounded like a likely story from guys who had been in Burma too long.  Anyhow, along with Horace and another chap I can't recall now, we did spend an early morning at the beach lying in the water [lovely and warm], like preying crocodiles, waiting for the

horse riding nurses.  We waited some time and then we were rewarded with the sight of them on their horses, in the distance.  TO BE CONTINUED

OFF TO THE FORWARD AREA AND A GUN-TOTIN' YANK

 Fortunately our C.O., Squadron Leader Noble,  a Battle of Britain pilot who had suffered burns in a crash, and whose present facial skin had once been his buttocks, appreciated the agony we had experienced.  In fact he told us a cute little story about kissing WAACs and then informing them they had just kissed his arse.  He was very sympathetic and our punishment was one weeks loss of pay.   

While at Madras I received a letter from mom, with a copy of a letter she had received from some big shot in the RCAF in Ottawa, saying it was now possible [I knew that], for Canadians in the R.A.F., to transfer to the RCAF, as from Mar 3rd, 1944.  I at once made yet another three applications which had three places to go before reaching RCAF Overseas Selection Board.

At this time I was due for some leave but it was cancelled due to a war situation and being shorthanded. I was due for another Hill Station trip, but with this cancellation I became fed up and PUSHED for my Forward Area posting and got it!   I made a quick trip in to the YMCA in Madras to say goodbye to Mrs. Chave.  Mrs Chave seemed to know my movements as she told me that one of the chaps I had met at her home, a Harvey Bantin was off on the same train as me.  Harvey and I met and proceeded to get the coolies cracking on our kit.  We each now had a tin trunk a kit bag, and a bed roll,  not to mention Sten gun and ammo.  A lot to try and carry and catch a train and get in the right coach.   

What's new?  The train was crowded and we had to travel 3rd. class,  wood seats and very smelly. We had a hell of a restless night, hot, sticky and smelly.  The next morning we woke covered in soot and feeling really dirty.  At the very next station we stripped off as much as we dared, and at a nearby platform tap we soaked ourselves and then soaped ourselves and rinsed off.  A little Indian girl was giggling and looking at me and pointing.  Then she showed me where I had left some soap up around and in my ears and back of my head. I splashed it off and then she laughed and  pointed again at another spot, and I splashed that off.  She was getting great entertainment from it.

The entire time I was washing, using both hands she kept operating the tap, as it was one of those kind on a spring that you had to hold open.  Of course she wanted some buckshee, a tip, so I gave her a couple of Annas, big deal.  She was keen on having some of my soap.  I had a few bars, so gave her one.  She immediately got herself all wet, little dress and all and then soaped herself all over, washing her dress at the same time.

Later that morning a Yank army type, a courier got on our train and in our compartment.  He had a brief case which was chained to his wrist.  He carried a pistol on his hip A La State Troopers in the U.S.A.    At one point on our journey he was very talkative about his job and made comments on the wogs  in the countryside as we sped along.  It was as though he had just been given the job, and was basking in his authority and the weapon on his hip.  He pulled it from its holster and took great pleasure in showing it to us.  Then he insisted on showing us how it fired and took pot shots out of the train window, at squatting "wogs" in the distance.  It was doubtful he could have actually hit any of them, but then there was also the remote possibility that he could.  He didn't seem to care.  He then put the revolver back in its holster.   We were stopped at a place called Dasawada Junction.  I was watching a scrawny dog run down the tracks toward me sniffing the tracks looking for food. A fast moving freight came up behind him and he went underneath. The poor dog tumbled and turned under the train, getting mangled.  After the train had passed the dog lay there still alive and in agony, a crippled bloody lump, whining, moaning - one ear missing - one leg missing, a back leg dangling.  The dog cried out in agony.  Then our "wog shooting" American Army courier jumped from the train, pulled out his gun again and shot the dog in the head to put it out of its misery..  The agonizing whining stopped.  What a lesson.  From shooting at wogs to feeling sorry for dogs.  Our American friend was a strange mixture.

TO BE CONTINUED