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Some events stay for ever in your mind, especially at times of emotional stress. One in particular I recall was on board a Liberty boat leaving Rangoon, Burma to return home. Together with hundreds of lucky beggars (we could hardly believe our good fortune), I was looking at the magnificent sight of the Schwedagon Pagoda for the last time when a boat came out from the shore packed full with a West African bugle band in red uniforms to play us farewell.

Not being used to any gratitude for beating the Japs, we were about to jeer and take the rise out of them when they started to play, apparently ‘The Howzah Farewell’, which I found a bit moving. So did the rest, mostly Welsh Fusiliers, so we kept our peace, listened, and looked at each other’s gaunt, yellow faces, the result of Mepocrin anti-malarial tablets which rendered us impotent, at least so rumour had it. I was normally a bit skinny but had lost half a stone in three and a half years abroad. These infantry wallahs looked ghastly, although on the way home did a lot of sun bathing trying to change the yellow faces for a healthy tan.

My brother (8th Army) and I had been in digs when we were called up so had no home to come back to, and it was soon made obvious to us that we were no longer welcome. So although there was plenty of work in Birmingham, finding digs there was another matter. The West Indians were more welcome than us ex-soldiers. Brother George had had a rough time in the war, going down with malaria and diphtheria at the same time in Germany, while I only had discharging ears and one more attack of malaria. In fact, my brother wished he’d signed on for seven years!

Of course, both of us were on Z Reserve, that is, available for instant recall. In fact, during the Suez crisis in 1956 I received a letter to be ready for recall, never mind the beggars who’d dodged out or made a fortune in the factories or the black market, farmers or Holy Joes who would not fight even to protect their own families, but didn’t mind if someone else did!

I had hoped to get some sort of consideration when I returned. Some hope! No digs in Birmingham, no jobs in Scotland, so I decided to emigrate to Canada to Aunt Mary but failed the medical: shadow on the lungs. Lady Astor was right. She wanted us Burma lot to wear yellow armbands to warn everyone that we were DISEASED! - probably rotten with V.D.

After years of swearing it was difficult talking, so most of us said nothing and spent our paltry gratuity while on the dole. Still, the grateful country buys a poppy on Armistice Day to clear any guilt feeling they might have.

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Graham Brown of the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Shropshire CSV Action Desk on behalf of Alexander Donaldson and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

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