The Following is an extract from 'Memories of Friends and Foes' written by Gian Singh
7th Indian Division

This is a collection of poems and Battle Experiences of Gian who served with the 7th Indian Division - it is well worth the read!

On the Passing of a Colonial Colonel 

Be thrifty with your sorrow surely he would want it so,
The ‘Burma’ General ordered him you know he had to go.
He’s been recalled to G.H.Q to meet again the men he knew,
For service to his country this reward is overdue.
From infirmities he’s been released he’s earned eternal rest,
With old soldiers there beside him, he marches with the best.
He’ll be greeted by old comrades some of a different creed,
His turbanned warriors will be there, and the brave of every breed.

 An Explanation 

This book was originally never intended to be published. It is only by a fantastic series of circumstances that it is now in print. 

When after or rather just before the war ended I came to Britain I married for the first time. As my children grew they occasionally asked about the war. I’m sure, other fathers as I told them partial truths. Yet as far as my children went they wanted to know the gory details. These I left out. Over the years, in fact for most of my life, I’ve longed to express myself in poetry. Surely, no one who is a scholar and loves the English language can remain unmoved by good poetry, e.g. Thomas Grey’s ‘Elegy in a Country Churchyard’. Even General Wolf —England’s hero who died at the battle for Quebec — is reported to have said: ‘I would much rather have been the author of that verse.’ 

How publication of this book occurred is like this. My wife and I have a mutual friend who sometimes visits us. She has two teenage sons. To these two boys I read the poem ‘Kohima’. They seemed impressed. One day she called with a friend and he looked at my oil paintings. As they were leaving she happened to say how impressed her young sons were with that poem. Her friend was curious and asked whether he could borrow a copy. He had one as soon I could copy it. A few days later he called to say, ‘My father was a Colonel of a Sikh regiment there.’ He then said, ‘I too am a serving Colonel.’ It’s that officer and some inti­mate friends who have encouraged me to have some of my work published. 

I sincerely hope his faith is fully justified. May I with genuine humility say his generosity only is equalled by his modesty. He does not want his name or his father’s to be included. Of such men were the old Indian Army led. They were hand-picked for a variety of qualities. Some Indians say that India gave her best sons. That is so but they were led by some of England’s finest. 

I have tried not to favour either the British, Gurkha, Sikh or any particular people. Yet if more mention is made of the Indian or Gurkha you must bear in mind 80% of the combatants in Burma were not British and I did not serve in a British brigade. One thing we all learn sooner or later is no one race of people have the monopoly of all the best qualities to be found in the human race. Yet, because of the Asian peoples lower standard of living and the hardships that are everyday facts of life, the Asian (Indian) people can perform with efficiency and suffer more hardships than their white brothers, who for reasons of climate and food are at a disadvantage.

One more reason for me to try and show my neutrality. I am descended from various races. In appearance I am not English but definitely Indian. Yet my for­bears were English, Irish, French and Afghan. In me the Afghan is predominant. I am proud of my ancestry which can be traced long before the East India Com­pany and right through the turbulent times of the mutiny. One of my ancestors was Richard Barwell who is best described on his tombstone as a friend of Warren Hastings, India’s first Governor General. He remained his staunch friend even when Hastings was deserted by most of his ‘friends’ during his impeachment of which he was found not guilty after 7 years. 

My ancestors rode with the irregular cavalry during the mutiny. They were true to their ‘salt’ and fought the mutineers at Agra. One of my great grand­parents gave birth on the ride to Agra to escape mutinous troops while her hus­band fought outside. Her name is on the plaque in the fort. 

I have also a darker side to my family tree. We have had two murderers in the family. One at the end of the last century who was hanged. Another, a teenager at a public school, who in his dormitory killed two boys with his father’s shot­gun. The cause was never clear. It appears that it was his own peculiar manner of dealing with bullies. 

It’s only in the last 20 years that I have reverted to my real name. This is because my late sister wished it so. I never grew up with my family and hardly knew them. 

My education was in a charitable home for boys and girls. As one house-mistress had the cheek to tell us: ‘This school is for the planters’ bad habits.’ This same so-called humanitarian woman wrote to me after a space of 50 years asking forgiveness for cruelty she had inflicted on me! She was one of the better so-called staff who claimed they heard the voice of God calling them to India! I now have no time for any religion. 

One day, should I live longer, it’s my intention to write an account of those awful days at school. The school still exists but is much better run and the education is of the very best and much coveted by parents in India. Yet if the conditions that prevailed in my time were occurring today it would make head­line news in all the national papers. 

Therefore, I chose to publish under the name Gian Singh, as all that happened in my book, whether in India or Wales, happened while that was my name. 

 Kohima

 There’s a land called Assam between Bengal and Burma,
Where forgotten armies fought for Kohima
On those Naga hills at India’s East gate,
There General Slim decided to wait.
As allies of the British our fathers won glory,
On battlefields beyond the wide ‘Kala Pani’.
This was the last time when Sepoy, Gurkha and Tommy,
As allies fought their final enemy. 

2

From Burma we retreated outnumbered, outgunned,
Bridges and oil-wells were raised to the ground.’
Out-flanked and out-fought when we stopped to fight,
Betrayed by the Burmese we fled day and night.
Every pathway trod was strewn with dead,
Each river crossed the waters ran red.
We then vowed to return and liberate Burma,
To silence the cries of ‘Banzai’ forever. 

3 

Now refitted, rearmed, renamed the 14th Army,
On the hills of Kohima we awaited our enemy.
Gharwalis, Gurkhas, Dogras, Maharattas, Jats,
Rajputs, Sikhs, Punjabis, men of Kohat.
From the bare Khyber Pass to Cape Comorin,
At Kohima were gathered the regiments of Ind.
Struck by shell-fire we reeled in dismay,
Our guns roared defiance like tigers at bay.

4 

Our dead and dying we left untended,
We fought for our lives completely surrounded.
Shrapnel and mortars made us cower in fear,
Snipers’ bullets in passing whispered, ‘death in the ear’.
Pinned to the ground not daring to rise,
Waiting and watching for any surprise.
Under constant attack too tired to think,
Unable to eat, with little to drink.

5

 Daily they charged our crumbling defences,
Massed attacks overran the perimeter trenches.
Screaming ‘Banzai’ they rushed brandishing swords,
Our machine-guns traversed their oncoming hordes.
Undeterred they captured outposts with zeal,
We retook with bayonet and kukris sharp steel.
Those men of Japan preferred death to captivity,
In the name of ‘Bushido’ they committed every atrocity.

6 

No prisoners we took, no mercy we gave,
Their crimes against comrades we never forgave.
Continuous fire ruined Bren guns with heat,
After ten days we barely stood on our feet.
Fresh battalions relieved us, the battle was won,
The advance back to Burma was then begun.
Memories have faded, few remain who can say,
On the hills of Kohima I waited that day.

 Memories of Sergeant Petrie

The poem ‘Memories of Sergeant Petrie’ is about a real person. He was a sergeant in either the first or second battalion Black Watch Regiment stationed at Fort William, Calcutta. The sergeant was sent to instruct us in army drill at our school near Darjeeling. This was about 1934. After I left school and after the war had ended I was serving with the 53rd Welsh Division at Salisbury. One day in conversation with an old soldier we talked about the Black Watch. He told me about the Black Watch stand at St Valery. He said he knew Sergeant Petrie in peace-time and that he had died in the defence of St Valery. 

My poem is how I envisaged he died, because my opinion of him is that he was that heroic type of man, thoroughly dedicated to the Army and his country. This poem is a tribute to him.

1 

For years I’d tried to learn just how Sergeant Petrie died,
Now I had found a Private who was with him and survived. 
As we sat in an ancient tavern drinking a glass of ale,
He told me of that fateful day, it was a poignant tale.

2 

As he began his story my thoughts returned to Hindustan, 
There as a boy I knew he was a most impressive man.
In memory I recall him tall and proud in Black Watch kilt, 
With Skene Dhu in a stocking and Glengarry at a tilt.

3 

Dressed in Highland finery he filled us boys with awe, 
He was a dedicated soldier, he was our God of War.
His Scottish brogue confused our alien ears,
With endless patience he taught us though he was driven nigh to tears.

4

 Lost in my memory of him I awoke from my reverie, 
The Private uttered the magic words, ‘We came to St Valery’.
For miles we had passed defeated men all walking in a daze, 
Their martial pride had vanished, none would meet our gaze.

 5

Our Sergeant called us to him to give us what news he had, 
From his expression we all knew it would indeed be bad.
The Belgians had surrendered, the French were in full retreat, 
The onslaught of the Germans we were left alone to meet.

6

 There were thousands on the beaches waiting on the sand, 
For them to have a second chance we had to make a stand.
Sombrely the Sergeant said, ‘We must face reality, 
Each man must be prepared to die defending St Valery.’

7

 ‘If there’s any man among you who’s too afraid to die, 
It’s best he leaves our company and bids those who stay
 goodbye.
Those who remain and resist will ensure victory one day, 
But for those who find the price too high, there is no cause to stay.’

8

In  our ranks no one moved, we all looked straight ahead. 
Then Angus broke the silence and this is what he said:
‘Give over with the speeches, Sarge, we’re in no mood to weep, 
Our appointment at St Valery we all intend to keep.’

9

‘There is no disgrace in losing, fighting against the odds, 
For Scotland will ne’er forgive us if we run from the Nazi sods.
Let’s ensure they pay a heavy price by making our fire tell, 
Show us where you want the Brens we’ll give the bastards hell!’

10

Sergeant Petrie took off his battle dress, and donned the Black Watch plaid, 
‘There can be no better shroud for me if they should find me dead.’
We had little hope against their tanks and the deadly Eighty-Eight, 
But we delayed them at St Valery, they took Dunkirk just too late.

11 

‘I was wounded,’ added the Private, ‘and became a prisoner-of-war, 
One thing I’ll always remember of what I finally saw.
As they bore me past the spot where our Sergeant lay, 
They paused to pay him their respect, some even knelt to pray.’

To an Unknown Nurse

1

 When the sands of time for me are running low 
And what remains is but an afterglow.
When grey hair and worldly care my youthful figure alter, 
And in my step and speech I fail and falter.
Then shall I in an old man’s frame of mind,
Recall the days of youth I’ve left behind.
Yet surely in that future meditation,
A freckled face will give me consolation.

2

She was a lovely nurse, uniformed in white and blue, 
Sparkling with wit and sympathy but her name I never knew.
I’m sure that she was Irish — it was unmistakable, 
Her lilting voice made a song of every syllable.
Her’s was the pleasantest face I ever saw,
In that grim ward during the war.
Her soothing touch and gentle word,
Were the last the dying felt or heard.
So when I one day approach my grave,
Her memory will help me to be brave.

 British Military Hospital 1944

Battle Experiences

When the war ended, the time to start forgetting began. Yet for some it never was forgotten. In those days there was no such thing as counselling. A cup of tea and a cigarette was sometimes the best therapy you were offered — if you were lucky. 

Somehow you forgot or rather pushed it back in your memory, but it is there. Sometimes more vivid. It returns perhaps if you see the low mist in the Welsh valley where I now live. Memories of a dawn attack when the Japanese crawled up under cover of low mist. Then, perhaps lying in bed, you may hear some haif-witted hooligan screaming abuse at some­one after a late night at a pub. I wonder then how that idiot would feel were he in a shallow trench in Burma hearing a Jap shout out. All that Jap wanted was for you to fire or answer back. Then down would come the mortars from nowhere. I’m compelled to say that the hooligan responsible for disturbing my sleep would never stand up to the tensions of his father or grandfather. 

When my sons reached the inquisitive age, they learnt I had been a soldier. Sometimes when some war film came up their interest were aroused. How many men did you kill? How does it feel to kill someone? Queries came thick and fast. Most times I pushed them aside. Other times, in a more expansive, benevolent mood, I told them half the truth. Now my children are grown, they can be told the answers.

Firstly, I must disillusion them and their generation: Burma was not liberated by the Americans led by Flynn. Yes, the British were the for­gotten Army. Above all the British who took such a prominent part in Burma were never in the majority. About 80% of all troops were Indian or Gurkha. Yet the exploits of the British were magnificent. If only the knowledge of their stand at the Agent’s Tennis Court at Kohima were better known. There a Kent regiment, which was an ordinary unit, with­stood the Japanese for days. Across a tennis court they fought and held on. If they gave in the position would have been lost. There were also the brave charges by Rajputs, Sikhs, Gurkhas and Punjabis who repeatedly charged fortified bunkers which the British failed to take. It was a com­bined effort. 

Never again will those same peoples fight as allies. The politicians and events have put that likelihood beyond possibility. My own hope is may they never meet in opposition. 

The 15th Corps. 

I joined my unit at Ranchi, a town on the east coast of India in Bihar province. From my schooldays I had been told about the place. I tried to recall what was said. All that I remember was that there was a lunatic asylum or sanatorium there! This was no help. On the other hand the area for miles around resembled an asylum. There were troops everywhere. 

It became apparent that this was the H.Q. of 15th Corps. This was comprised of the 5th Indian, 7th Indian and 20th Indian Divisions. 

The 7th was my division and was nicknamed ‘The Arrow’. In Ranchi the divisions were brought to full strength. The 5th had mostly arrived back in India. They were a battle-experienced division and had seen ser­vice in the Middle East since 1940. 

Soon, Chinese troops began to arrive. We had never seen Chinese troops before and they aroused our curiosity. We saw NCOs hitting men for various reasons. This never occurred in the Indian Army and it was never forgotten. It drew many comments. After all, we were all volunteers, they were conscripts. 

In a short time they became smart soldiers, but had strange customs. We went through intensive training in jungle warfare. The 7th Indian had to learn new tactics for jungle warfare. In the Middle East the tactics were quite different. There were no big forests there and formations were different. 

The land around Ranchi was something like Burma. In fact it could be compared to the plains of Burma in summer. Every day we were on manoeuvres of some kind or another. Patrols day and night. Ambushes, water crossings, forced marches. The methods used by the Japanese were well-known. We had to outdo them at their own game — road blocks, flank attacks, etc. The first Arakan attempt to capture Akyab and pene­trate inland had come to nothing. We were to go in, so the rumours said, with stronger forces and engage them. 

One incident I’ll remember all my life and but for the fact it took place in bright sunlight, I would not be writing this story. It was an inter-battalion exercise. We were to ambush a convoy of motorised infantry. The ground our Company Commander chose to lay the ambush was fairly flat plain. All that grew were a scattering of small bushes at most four feet tall.

Watching us was a red-faced Captain wearing a red armband. He was one of the referees watching how our company was dispersed and at the end of the exercise would criticise our behaviour. 

The Captain was from the Scots Border Regiment and could not speak Urdu. There was no need for him to learn, whereas our officers could speak Urdu. With my Bren gun I took cover half hidden by a small bush. We were told to keep silent and not to move or smoke. It was absolutely quiet. Nearby, the Captain sat behind a bush and watched. 

After a few seconds I heard a small hiss. I kept still arid listened. The noise was like a tiny bicycle puncture. Something told me it was a snake. I strained my eyes trying to see where the snake was. There was nothing to see. Slowly, I backed out of the bush on my elbows. Then barely a foot away I saw it, a small grey snake on a branch barely six inches above the ground. It had been too close to my face to see! Jumping up, I smashed the butt of the Bren gun on the tiny snake. It was a krajt, one. of the world’s most deadly snakes. 

‘What the hell are you up to,’ shouted the Captain coming up to me. 

“What’s all the fuss about such a small snake!’  

‘That, Sir, is a krait,’ I replied.  

He had to be told by a Subhadar that it was just as deadly as a .303 bullet. He shook his head in disbelief. That man had a lot to learn and little time to do so.

Into Arakan

 At the end of the year the 15th Corps. was fit to meet the Japanese. We had been hard at manoeuvres for weeks and were made ready. Only the higher command knew what we were expected to do or where we were going. 

Slowly, we became aware of what was happening. It was still the dry season in November.  

The 26th Indian Division which had been on the front was now brought back into reserve at Chittagong. The 7th and 5th, to which we belonged, took their place. The African Division went south of Chirtagong. 

It had been stressed to us in our training at Ranchi that the practice of Bhai Bundh was frowned upon, i.e. if anyone was wounded we were not to take it upon ourselves to escort the wounded back to a forward dressing station in any numbers. In Indian it means a kind of brother bond. The reason was plain — if five or six men attended one man the platoon or company would be less effective. 

The job of the 5th was to capture Razabil, the 7th to go around Let­wedet and attack Buthidaung. 

The way to the southern front of Arakan was by river steamer and sail. 

From Dohazari, about 30-40 miles from Chittagong, we went into the war zone. Every day patrols went out. The farther we advanced the signs of what took place in 1942 became apparent. Often we found the bones of refugees who died from disease not far from safety. Also the Maughs and the Arakanese would kill each other — we saw signs of that. It was like the Hindus and Moslems in India. The Maughs were not Moslems and the Arakan people were. Later in the fighting we surprised many of these people, both Maughs and Arakanese, acting as porters in a Japanese supply column. The Arakanese ran off after the first shots, but the Maughs stayed — otherwise they would have been killed by the same people with whom they worked carrying food and ammunition for the Japanese. They were all of them untrustworthy. 

By December, just before Christmas, we faced the Japanese at Razabil. Maungdaw had fallen and the fortress of Tortoise had to be taken. 

For about one week it was shelled by British and Indian artillery. Our planes then bombed it. The position was like a half circle of low hills and on at least three of them the Japanese had dug into the hills and made deep bunkers. Early in the attack, while we waited to go forward, I had a bad experience. 

We were in a series of trenches below Tortoise and except for an occasional shell from the Japanese we were safe. About fifty feet from my shallow trench were two others from my platoon. One of them I was friendly with, a man named Harban Singh. I shouted to him whether he had any cigarettes. ‘Come over,’ he said, ‘and you can have one.’ I chose  a moment and ran over to his position. We had a smoke and he gave me a couple for my No. 2 on the Bren gun. I ran back and got down. 

Seconds later there was a ‘whoosh’ and a heavy crash which made me deaf for a moment. A bomb from one of our planes or a Japanese One-Five-Five had landed close. Some said later that it was a stray bomb. About five seconds later I felt a slap on my back and shoulder. When I looked there was a piece of human flesh about a foot long on my back. The couple who I had visited for a cigarette were blown apart. They had taken a direct hit. A few seconds earlier and I too would have been there in their position. Not much of anything remained of them. I smelled for days from the flesh which had landed on me. It was a frightening exper­ience and the only consolation I had was to know that they had felt no pain. 

When the aircraft finished bombing we went in up the slopes with the tanks. The tanks fired over our heads and it was strange to feel the wind rush past as the tank shells went into the Japanese strongpoints. 

For two or three days we went in, but every time we suffered high casualties. This was because the enemy kept in their bunkers while the tanks fired, but as soon as we got close the tanks had to stop firing in case we got caught in their fire. Then the enemy came up and slaughtered us with ease. 

By this time the hilltops were bare of leaves and the bunkers could be seen. It was then decided that different methods would be used. First of all high explosive shells would be fired to kill any enemy who dared to show themselves. Then the tanks would come with us close behind. As we got to the last hundred yards or so they would fire point-blank into the bunkers with armour-piercing shells. By that time we came in with grenades and Tommy guns and wiped them out. Not one of the Japanese tried to surrender, they all died fighting. These methods were used later on in other parts of the fighting. It was the only way to dislodge the Japanese from bunkers. 

While the battle for Tortoise was taking place the 7th Indian Division was the other side of the hills called the Mayu Mountains. The Scottish Border Regiment occupied a hill overlooking a vital road. This Scottish Regiment was a ‘sister’ unit in the division. They held the hill and would not give way to Japanese counter-attacks. They were relieved by the Gurkhas, and they too held fast. 

Where the road came over the mountains it passed a place with a strange name, the British called it Okey Doke Pass. In the huge hollow was the H.Q. and in an area about five square miles was the huge supply dumps of petrol, ammunition and the hundreds of mules we used to carry supplies to the West African Division in the Kalapanzin area. 

Never before or since have I seen such air battles. The Japanese Air Force sent in many fighters, but the RAF and JAF met them and we saw that we were winning the air war each time. In a few days the Japanese Air Force was not to be seen. However, from the many patrols we sent out we realised that the 7th and 5th were being surrounded by the Japanese. Very early in February 1944 a force of Japanese had come behind my division, the 7th, and that’s how we were surrounded. 

We were to stay and defend the place we were in, called the Admin Box. We were promised supplies by air, but at first we wondered how that could be. Within hours planes came over and began dropping us all sorts of supplies. There was a surprise waiting for the Japanese, they never thought there were also a number of tanks with us. I was also surprised when I heard them because I thought they were Japanese tanks. They were the 25th Dragoons who I saw on exercise at Ranchi the year before. 

The engineers of the 7th Division had somehow made a road for them from Okey Doke Pass. The Punjabis defended the engineers while the road was built. What had happened gradually came clear. The Japanese had somehow escaped our outposts and surprised our positions about two miles away at Taung Bazaar. 

Then they came down hoping to separate the 7th Division that was us from our sister Division the 5th. They were lucky at first, but units of the 7th Division met the supply columns of the enemy bringing supplies of food and ammunition. These we captured and made a good killing. We also captured many of their porters who were Maughs who they had forced to carry supplies. 

We learned from papers and maps our patrols captured the plans of the Japanese who captured Taung Bazaar and who were led by Colonel Tanahashi. Their plan was to go south and join the 9th, 89th, 33rd and 144 Brigades at Buthidaung and Letwedet. 

On the 5th or 6th of February, Taung Bazaar fell to the Japanese, i.e. a day or two after we had captured their supplies. Our loss of Taung Bazaar was less than their losses. 

The Japanese had to beat the 7th Division first before it could attack the 5th. They had few supplies so they had to finish us off. So they attacked us day and night. We were in a sort of low-lying area and they had the advantage of some hills.

Two things I remember and cannot forget. Firstly, they shelled our mules in their line and killed dozens — this made us mad. Secondly, on the night of about 8th or 9th February, the Japanese broke into our defences. They chose to break in where we had our field hospital.  

About 500 of them killed the wounded and even doctors who were operating. They took a few prisoners who we found the next day when we sent out patrols. They found Indian surgeons and orderlies bayonetted. From even before that day most of us were determined not to show these small yellow men mercy.  We often saw on patrols what they did to captured men. They even killed villagers by bayonet and sword. We saw our men who, when captured, had been tied to trees with their turbans and used for bayonet practice. 

Also on that night I learnt how easy it is to push a bayonet into some­one’s body. I was surprised that it made me feel somehow good. After all we were fighting those who did not behave like people should.  

All night we fought them off. In the morning we learned that our commander, General Messervy, had almost been captured. All he lost was his general’s hat. The Japanese had got into H.Q. 

This was called later the Battle of the Box. General Messervy was hemmed in by the Japanese and called in brigades from the 7th and 9th of the 5th Division. Patrols of the 7th were attacked as they moved up to Okey Doke Pass. The next day or so patrols of the 5th found a road-block the Japanese had placed across the Buthidaung road. We, the 7th, were surrounded. 

However, things were not as bad as we thought. Later we learnt that General Slim had ordered at least two divisions to come in behind the enemy who had us surrounded. So the 5th and 7th Divisions were surrounded, but from the north, by way of Taung Bazaar, now back in our hands, came help from a British division, the 36th and the 26th Division attacked from the west of the Mayu Mountains. 

Everyday that we fought at the ‘Battle of the Box’ it became harder for the Japanese. We found out later that they were so sure of beating us as they had before. Therefore, they never brought enough food supplies or lorries — they hoped to capture ours — while we were supplied by air with all we wanted. A patrol which went out ambushed a Japanese patrol and shot all of them. One of the enemy was wearing our general’s hat! 

The enemy tried many times by day and night to throw us out. Each attack cost them heavy in numbers killed. It was said that if a patrol brought a prisoner he or they would get special leave. I don’t know anyone who got leave — we killed them as best we could. 

The hardest fight was for the tunnels and it was a Welsh battalion who came with tanks that captured a tunnel which was full of Japanese ammunition. It is strange but I never thought that some years later I would live in Wales. At that time we all thought the Welsh were British and there was no difference. I know better now. Nor could I have guessed that in 1950 I would join the 53rd Division as a territorial. Perhaps I was the first Indian soldier who joined the Territorials and wore a turban. I was a member of the Cross Keys Unit at Gwent. 

The fighting was confused and we sent out many fighting patrols to cut their supply columns. On one occasion we captured a whole enemy field hospital. It was a good feeling to know that if any of us were wounded we would get first-class treatment. The badly wounded were carried on stretchers placed on mules. Many were flown out by small planes direct to hospital far behind the front lines. 

The more resistance we gave the enemy the more desperately they attacked us. From this we knew that in time we would drive them off. The ground was suited for defence against frontal attack. The Japanese used the same tactics and used the same lines of approach when attacking. So at night we fired on fixed lines and stopped them and in the day we let them get close before we shot them down. 

During one of these attacks during the day we beat them back from our positions. We went out to look for any of our men who were wounded in the forward area. There we found a naik (corporal) who lay dead and almost cut in half. Near him lay a dead Japanese officer with a sword. Also nearby was a Japanese with the naiks’ bayonet still in him. It was simple to see what had happened. The naik had bayonetted the enemy but instead of withdrawing his bayonet he had lifted the small enemy soldier off his feet to cast his body to one side. At the moment when his own body was open, the Japanese officer had cut his body almost in half. Within seconds the officer was killed in a hail of bullets. That is war. 

From experience you learn that for close hand-to-hand fighting the best weapons are the Thompson submachine gun, the Sten gun, and the kukri. 

A Gurkha from the 4/8 Gurkhas had demonstrated to me in India how best to use the kukri. Firstly, you get in close to your enemy and stab him in the lower body. When the kukri goes in, the enemy always doubles up. You then swiftly withdraw your kukri and take his head off. With a sharp blade that’s easy. I saw many an enemy with their heads off so it must work! 

Whenever we went into an attack or faced a charge I wished I was a  Gurkha and only 5 foot tall not 6 foot or more as I am. You make a bigger target the’ bigger you are. 

The enemy did their best to make us give away our defensive positions. They would creep up in the night and shout out in English or Urdu asking for help. They would pretend they were our men left wounded. It was unwise to reply or even to fire at the sound of their voices. If you did so you would come under fire. The best thing was to lie still with a grenade and keep an eye open. So the best way to keep watch was low down. In that position you could see a movement especially someone standing. Even then it was best to wait until the enemy came close and if possible kill him with a blade so he cannot shout and no flash from the  rifle gives away the position you hold.  

In the early morning there is often a low mist lying on the ground. It was a favourite trick of the enemy to creep up in the mist and suddenly get up and charge our positions. You had to depend on rapid fire to stop the attack. One thing we all noticed was the Japanese never seemed to fear death. They were very, very brave. 

What we must acknowledge was that among the Japanese were many of our own troops. When Singapore was captured thousands of Indian troops became prisoners. They were treated as bad if not worse than the British or Australian troops. They were starved and often used by new Japanese troops for bayonet practice. To escape such treatment many joined the Indian National Army formed by the enemy. Their political leader was Subhas Chandra Bose, a Bengali, who hated the British. He promised to liberate India and said the Japanese were the friends of India. Not many truly believed him. Least of all us who saw the Japanese in their true colours. Much as we felt sorry for our brothers who had taken the salt but turned traitor even though they had an excuse. We often gave them no mercy. They themselves had little faith in their masters and never showed an eagerness to fight for them. If they came against us they often surrendered without firing a shot. It did not take the Japanese long to find their unwilling allies were no asset and so they disarmed them and made them into coolies carrying supplies. 

After the war they were pardoned and some called them heroes. The only heroes for me were those Indians who refused to help the enemy. They were worthy of their ‘salt’. Gradually the enemy were beaten we had not retreated as expected but supplied by air fought the enemy to the end. Now it was our turn. Letwedet and Buthidaung were again in our hands. Our sister brigade, the 5th, attacked Razabil. Any day the monsoon would start and we hoped to have a rest. This was not to be. 

Just north of us was heavy fighting. The main Japanese attack came on Ukhrul, Tiddim and Imphal. With little warning we had to go by plane to reinforce those places. The 89th Brigade, to which I belonged, was sent along with two brigades of the 5th Division to Imphal and Kohima. This was because the third brigade of the 5th was sent separately up to Dimapur, which left the 5th Division one brigade short. 

So in March and April of 1944 we were put on American planes and flown out of the Arakan to another battlefield. With us we took our mules although they went in separate planes. We went into the planes which had no seats and I was more frightened than going on patrol. It was an experience to fly over hundreds of mountains fall of forest. We took hours to get to places we had marched for weeks to reach. The battle for Imphal and Kohima was at its worst. We who had come out of the sauce­pan were thrown into the fire. 

The Sword, Pistol and Ring 

The town of Imphal was besieged by the enemy and they had cut off the road to Kohima. About 20 miles north of Imphal they had captured a supply depot and along with the 123rd Brigade, who came from the Iril river, we had to cut into the enemy supply columns. We made progress and, just short of Kiangatobi, we came across an almost destroyed vil­lage. We approached with care and as the village was on a brow of a hill one company about 100 strong had the job of going up above the village and the other two companies approached on the road and below. After half an hour we on the road heard firing from above. Then we received a message over the field-wireless that a body of enemy were approaching from the other end of the village. So we hurried forward to occupy the few huts in the village. We took up defensive positions and waited. 

Our Company Commander, Jagit Singh, gave orders not to fire but wait until the enemy was right on us. The Japanese ran forward never suspecting a trap. It was all over in a few minutes. 

The enemy on the road fell except for a few who ran down the hill into the arms of our waiting men, while our men on the hill poured mortar fire on the men who had got away. Since the enemy could not get past us they decided to rush us. They crept up as near as they could and then sprang up screaming. They were led by an officer waving a sword. Not one man came close enough to bayonet. We waited for some time, in constant touch with the company above. They had a good view of the road to Klangatobi.

 We went forward to inspect the dead. The officer with the sword was furthest from us. His men had rushed forward; he had been our first target. I got to him and as I approached I saw him lying on his back a pistol in his left hand and a sword in his right. The pisto1 was one we all admired so I took it and had my back to the dead Japanese. Something made me look round to show the others what I had got. I had pulled the lever to check if the pistol was loaded, it was. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Japanese officer pulling himself up with a half-raised sword. It happened in a flash as I took one step back the sword came down. I felt nothing not even a tug. As the blade fell so did he as he lost his balance. It came automatically to me to raise the pistol — his pistol — and shot him in the head. We examined him and found he had bullet wounds in his stomach and thighs. He was paralysed yet he tried to kill me. 

On his hand was a heavy silver ring. As soon as I saw it I knew I was going to have it, even if I had to cut off his finger. Anyway the ring had a folding clasp so that it could fit any finger. I took it off and put it on my finger. On the ring, which was a signet ring, there were Japanese letters. Someone nearby drew my attention to my trousers and my right leg. Blood was running down my leg, and down my trousers there was a clean cut near the buttons of my front. The sword had caught me by the point and cut down. I had almost been castrated. I had assistance to the forward dressing station. Stitches were required. The orderly had a look and told me how lucky I had been. ‘If you had ran or jumped you would be dead because your main artery was just touched and it might have ruptured if you exerted yourself.’ As it was a few stitches were all I required and a few day’s rest. Often I’ve thought that if I had not picked up the pistol and had taken the sword first then the Jap would have shot me with the pistol. I had made the right choice. Then I wondered why did I pick the pistol because I already had a German Luger which I won from a man from the 5th Division who had been at Ranchi in India with us. His division had come from the North African fighting. 

While in the forward hospital my stomach trouble was diagnosed as dysentery then I contracted malaria. I was flown out to Comilla in India. The Japanese pistol I gave away but the sword came with me. There was no sign of it when I got to hospital. The pilot, who I was told was American, had most probably taken it ... maybe it now hangs in some house in America. 

The ring I wore for years. In 1950 I was in Wales and married a divorced woman. It was a disaster and we always quarrelled. The marriage broke down and I divorced her a few years later. 

In 1951 she and I quarrelled as we sat by a fire in our home in Oak­dale, Gwent, where I was a miner. She wore the signet ring which I gave her after many requests. Since I could not afford an engagement ring she claimed my signet ring. 

I don’t remember what we quarrelled about. Her usual behaviour would be to smash a plate or ornament. This time it was different. She pulled off the ring and flung it into the coal fire. I was too proud to pull it out, I decided to get up early and find the ring in the ashes. 

Early next morning I raked out the cold ash. There was only a lump of silver. So all I had left to remember those days is a scar.

Memories of the Syrhowi Valley

 1 

My children were all born in Oakdale, Gwent,
To revive pleasant memories back to old haunts we went. 
We saw Tredegar’s clock tower where I had once waited,
For the girl, now their mother, I had once dated. 
I recall how often the last bus I missed,
When all too ardently we had kissed.
On the long road to Blackwood, I had time to reflect, 
If my proposal of marriage she would reject.

2

 From India I came to mine coal in Wales, 
Of this lovely land I’d heard romantic tales.
At first people treated me as quite an oddity,
Some went so far as to question my sanity.
They.said, ‘You’ll not stay long in our profession, 
With conviction it was voiced on many occasions.
To be a miner, they said, you must be born and raised, 
We miners, as children, on slag heaps played.

3 

I was told of the dangers from rock falls and dust, 
In your sense for danger you had to trust.
I replied that Welshmen had fought bravely in Burma, 
So I too could work in the vale of Rhondda.
With the confines of a Welsh pit I was now faced, 
So resolved to work on and not be disgraced.
So for long years I worked and with the passing of time, 
The day finally came when an oil lamp was mine.

THE END

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