大象传媒

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It is difficult to spend three years in India without health problems arising, and sure enough I found myself in Barrackpore Military Hospital with Dysentery. Almost recovered, I contracted a fever which was to be a scourge for the rest of my life. This was diagnosed as "Dengue" Fever - inaccurately obviously, as it has plagued me in gradually diminishing degrees ever since and Dengue is one of the few none-recurrent fevers. There were so many fevers to be found in India that it was difficult to diagnose them. Malaria is the most common and they all seem to follow a similar path - headache, cold and shivering - and eventually it bursts into an almighty sweat. Weakness and disability follow. The only thing that seems certain is that the mosquito is the cause of it all.

After almost two years in the plains of India and no holiday or leave, it was decided that I and others with a similar history should have a break at a Hill Station. Of my own group it was Dan Davis, Bob Stannard and myself who were sent. Our destination was Darjeeling in the Himalayas. Perhaps the timing could have been better. It was April 1943 and the "cool" season when even Calcutta was bearable. It was, however, an unforgettable and magnificent experience. We were kitted out with Blue uniforms again and from Barrackpore station the train took us to Siliguri - the end of the line. This was an overnight journey. Then, on the small miniature gauge train from ground level to 6000 feet. Glasgow built engines pushed and pulled the little train in rising circles and often back and forward like this:

on the mountain face where there was scarcely room.

Himalayan Brown bears could occasionally be seen from the train and as the day went on and we climbed higher and higher the heat became cooler and then cold and then very cold and we arrived at Darjeeling at dusk. Gurkha girls and women descended on us to carry our luggage up the hill to the truck. One young lady grabbed my tin trunk and fastened it on her back with a band around her forehead. One of her friends throwing my kit bag on the top of the trunk, off up the hill she went and I couldn鈥檛 keep up - the cold air cutting at my chest like a knife. The elevation and cool air were too much of a change for me to adjust immediately. We were billeted in a Maharajas Summer Palace at Jalaphur, a good bit higher than Darjeeling itself. If this sounds like the ultimate in luxury, I should mention that everything movable had been moved. We were left with the bare walls and all equipment, beds, tables etc was definitely basic RAF. We were given a room on the second floor front. I doubt I have ever felt so cold as on that first night. No heat of course and I ended up with greatcoat, uniform and anything I could get piled up on the bed. But!!!! The following morning. Never in my life have I seen such magnificent loveliness as that. Straight in front of us was the Kanchenjunga range, with the magnificent mountain itself topping everything. It must have been almost 30 miles away but it still seemed immense and was inspiringly beautiful. Things like that cannot be described, they can only be experienced.

Darjeeling was hot in the daytime and cold at night. Cap and greatcoat had to be worn in the local cinema to keep warm. The locals, great gamblers would be playing for money in groups in the street. A short walk in the hillside would find a Holy man sitting quiet and motionless, staring at the distant mountain, a God to them.

Various invitations came to the unit from local white residences. We three accepted an invitation to spend a day with a Mr Cooksey on Landau Tea Estate. This was part way down the hill in a valley and we saw the whole process from picking, weighing, sorting and tasting. Afterwards, in his bungalow we sat in comfort and had cool drinks whilst he played classical records on his gramophone. Do all nice white people in India love good music? A meal followed and then back to Jalaphur.

Another morning we set off early on horses to go to Tiger Hill from where Everest was often visible. In mountainous country this was a hazardous operation for the unskilled rider like myself. We were each pursued by a "chico" who seemed to find the whole operation very amusing. We were just in time to see Everest. Rather disappointing really - just a knob sticking up between other and closer mountains. Not a patch on Kanchenjunga. Anyway, we could say we'd seen it. Cloud covered it over about 15 minutes after we arrived and so we returned to base.

The Indian government had a series of Dak bungalows, usually in remote and quiet places, for the use of their Inspectors and employees. For most of the year they are empty and can be hired by private people. The Lowes had taken one at Debrapani for a fortnight and it happened to coincide with our visit to Darjeeling about 15 miles away. At their invitation we went to visit them. With no transport and no map or any clue to its whereabouts, we hired a taxi.

The village of Debrapani was only small and about one mile from their bungalow which seemed to be surrounded by jungle. Indeed the Lowes had been told not to wander about outside after dark as it could be dangerous. This meant that we had to stay the night. The bungalow had only one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room. We slept on the floor in front of the fire in the living room, fully clothed. From the noises that surrounded us at night I wouldn't really have cared to make the short trip back to the village.

Eventually, another great Indian experience came to its end and it was back to Siliguri by the mountain railway and then on to Barrackpore.

Things were beginning to change at Barrackpore and perhaps Darjeeling had made me restless. Sir William (Bill) Slim, Commander of the Fourteenth Army and Lord Louis Mountbatten (Supreme Commander South East Asia Front), gave us talks on their strategy. The tide was beginning to turn. In late March an advance HQ for RAF, Army and USAAF was to be established in a more forward position at Comilla, Assam. Postings were made to newly recaptured airdromes. New personnel at last started to arrive from England to fill the places vacated by old friends. Dan - time expired - went home via Bombay. Brian Wilson was posted to Ranchi. Bob Stannard to 222 Group HQ at Chittagong and Bill Kerr to Cox's Bazaar. I was beginning to find my extra "church duties" irksome in the heat and could no longer claim any strong religious conviction. Staff was beginning to be plentiful at Barrackpore after two years of shortage. I was told by P/O Parry that I was to be posted to Comilla to the new HQ to take charge of a traffic watch - but, in view of my extra connections at Barrackpore, he could fix it for me to stay if I wished. I kept this offer to myself as I didn't want the Browns and my other friends to think me ungrateful for the great deal they had done for me. I decided I would go " East of the Brahmaputra" - at least I should see more of the country.

The journey to Comilla, like most in India, turned out to be not a little complicated. First, by train to Goalunder and the Brahmaputra River. No railway connection on the other side of the river. The nearest was at Chandpur, over 100 miles away down river. So onto the river boat - the 'Afghan' of the Rivers Steam Navigation Co. Ltd. This was an overnight journey. In the evening we were on deck when suddenly we had a plague of insects such as I have never experienced before or since. A hasty retreat indoors was necessary, amid cries of "Shut the doors! - Shut the windows!" Then we dug them out of our hair, eyes, nose and any other part of our exposed bodies. The Brahmaputra is a very wide river but fairly shallow in March and till the monsoons, with constantly shifting mud banks. We did, of course, run aground on one of them, but managed to reverse back off. So after chota nazri (breakfast) came Chandpur. It looked revolting - dirty, tin huts, a most unsavoury place and I could only be grateful that I hadn鈥檛 been posted there. There was a train alongside the quay - you could hardly call it a station - and off we went on the train to Lavisham junction. Off we got to wait for the train coming from Chittagong, going to Sylhet Bazaar. So to Comilla, a small town cum village surrounded by paddy fields and jungle. The village was about a quarter of a mile from the station and was just two dirt roads - one from the station and one from the Hindu Hostel, which joined in the centre.

Our billets were in the Hindu Hostel. This was three low brick buildings, split into rooms, on the sides of a tank (water), with a large bamboo hut on the side. The rooms each housed four Airmen and about 70 others were accommodated in the large hut at the end. The two large rooms at the entrance were given over to a rest room and orderly room. The room I shared was half way along the far side near some steps which went down to the water, and in Comilla my most enjoyable times were the evenings when we sat out on the steps at the water's edge and enjoyed a talk in the cool of the evening. Our accompaniment was the strange animal noises 'out there' and the inevitable distant 'drumming', which seemed almost incessant day and night. We were about 5 - 10 minutes away from our Signals building in the town - a brick building situated at the road junction. It was even busier and more intimate than Barrackpore because we were required to receive and transmit as well as organise the traffic. One of my stations was " Bradway", a curious name for one of Wingates remote landing places in the jungle. Although transmitting to them every hour on the hour, sometimes nothing would be heard for days as it was only an emergency landing strip and not a permanent station. The influx of new bodies into India hadn鈥檛 reached as far forward as Comilla so we were still working four shifts in three days. There was nowhere to go from Comilla, and in the place itself entertainment was confined to the local cinema and occasional gramophone record recitals. The cinema had so many leaky joints and holes in the walls and roof that it was almost impossible to see the film at matinee performances - due to the very bright light that shone in. The little caf茅, next to the Hindu Hostel, was our other main amenity. We usually called in before going on midnight watch, and those relieved would call in before going to bed. A coffee derivative called "Horses Neck" was much in demand and eggs were consumed in large quantities - though the yolks could be a pretty off putting colour. Shifts were spread out over the full three days instead of two as at Barrackpore. A free day was no use at Comilla - no Calcutta or any other large town around - no white civilian friends.

In May I was given leave again to go to Shillong in the Khasi hills. Like most journeys in India, it was quite memorable - about 150 miles by train to the railhead at Sylhet - then by bus to Shillong. The journey through the Khasi hills was magnificent. The narrow road wound through the mountains and for quite a distance could only be used in one direction at once - so for a few hours traffic only moved up - and then for a similar time it could only move down. The road itself was quite good, if narrow, with high mountains above and deep gorges below. As for Shillong itself, I remember surprisingly little. A typical Hill Station, it was part England, part India, and whilst very attractive fell a little short after the Darjeeling experience. There was a Garrison Theatre (where I saw Elsie and Doris Waters) and a cinema, but after 14 days I wasn鈥檛 really sorry to get back to Comilla.

So, back to work again and in good time for the monsoon, one day of which made our 'tank' overflow and render the bamboo hut uninhabitable. The Hindu priests have known a thing or two when they didn't build at that end of the water. Ponds appeared where it had been dry before and in them - fish! In between the rain it was still hot and our drenched clothes would dry in the sun in the short time it took to have a shower.

By now, I was anxiously anticipating news of repatriation. My overseas tour had started in November 1941 and I could thus hope to be in the boat by the end of 1944. I had started by loving India. I ended with a love /hate relationship which seems to be the common experience of most white Britons. My overseas tour had been, at the same time, the unhappy time of my life, the most exciting, the most dangerous and a tremendous experience I could never forget or regret. The friendships I made were mutually sustaining and from the "NICE" British in India I received much pleasure and help. When your life has been in danger and you have experienced what it is like to be "without", when you have been cut off from loved ones and when you have been subjected to differing ideals and ways of behaviour, it is not to be expected that you will come back home the same person you were when you left. My religious beliefs were in tatters. All the business of a Divine Being who even watches over a sparrow could hardly stand up to my experiences of the Bengal famine, not to mention every day Indian life. A man who was "Right Wing" politically couldn't survive with the same beliefs in view of the inequalities and class bias of the forces, politics and wealthy colonials - and the often incompetent and appalling leadership of those "born to lead".

So! Eventually the call came and in November I was back in Barrackpore briefly for the formalities of repatriation. From here, another four day rail journey to Bombay. Then a week of waiting at Worli camp and then through the "Gateway to India" and on to the "MOULTAN" and farewell to India.
Two things above all I remember about the "Moultan". One of its funnels was much bigger than the other and the other thing - the bread - newly baked daily - wonderful!

Across the Arabian Sea into the Red Sea where I symbolically threw my Topie overboard, and into the Gulf of Suez.

Of course, nothing goes straight forwardly in the forces and at Port Taufiq, just before we entered the Suez Canal we had to change ships. We were now on the larger and more modern "Strathmore" but not as comfortable as the "Moultan" and with a less efficient baker.

Through the Suez Canal, with the curious illusion that we were moving through the desert without any water around, and on Christmas Eve we arrived at Port Said. Christmas Day laid up but no more shore leave. Then, on again - the roughest sea of the journey was the Med. - and New Years Day in Gibraltar. No shore leave again. Not that we really wanted it. We didn't want to risk being left behind.

1945

Finally, dear old Liverpool again. Rows and rows of terraced houses soon to be demolished. It didn't really look much more spick and span than Bombay - and the pale Wintry light made it all so grey and colourless. But! We were safely home and would be with loved ones in a very short time - the greatest event in an eventful three years.

Nothing of real interest took place during the rest of my Airforce Service which was to drag on until the end of the year. The war was still on in Europe - which was very apparent when I spent part of my disembarkation leave in London with Betty. Hitler was trying a final desperate throw with his V2s.

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