大象传媒

Good-bye to a Comrade at Kohima

I sat with you; My Soldier Friend,
Your duty, you had well done,
You held my hand, and closed your eyes,
For you; That battle had been won.
No more, You will know that unknown fear,
And the noise for you is still;
No more will you feel that jungle sweat,
Replaced by the dawn鈥檚 cold chill.
Your blood now stains the jungle green;
But your pulse, alas, has gone.
Your fingers no more feel my hand,
Our last good-bye; Your Dawn;
Your Sten Gun stands beside your kit,
To be used by someone new.
A soldier, who may just sense that fear,
Which is no longer felt by you;
In that jungle hell; You did your job
And your comrades saw you fall,
So be at peace; and rest on High;
We know you gave your All.

This poem was written by me. It refers to a lad who was married to a Beverley girl. He was killed at Kohmia in May 1944. I found out later that he was married to my wife鈥檚 cousin.

My unit was stationed at Bishop Burton after France, June 1940. This was to re-fit. On my first evening I walked to Beverley and spoke to a young lady in Saturday Market Place, her reply was rather sharp. Some weeks later our paths crossed again, at the village green in Bishop Burton. The remarks were more amicable on that occasion. We became friends and kept in touch after my unit moved away. We have now been married nearly sixty-four years and have had a card from the Queen.

My section was stationed, in action, on Garrison Hill, Kohima, in early 1944. All water was supplied by air for 32 days. It was strictly rationed with none for ablutions etc. We got a bit grubby and unshaven.

We were eventually relieved and pulled back to the cleaning and mobile baths area. The baths were mobile oil drums cut in half, but still a pleasure to use. Clean uniforms were provided comprising vest, pants and boiler suits in jungle green. Pocket contents had to be changed over, and I had a photo in my hand. A soldier who was moving forward noticed the photo, and asked why I had it; he said he knew the girl and all the family, and that he was a Beverley lad. I explained why I had the picture. Stranger still, on being de-mobbed, our first house was as that lad鈥檚 next door neighbour. We all four became firm and real friends and thought it funny to meet a new neighbour all those miles away and in such circumstances.

At one point, later, while holding a listening guard near a jungle track, rather eerie, no sound except moisture drip, dripping and the occasional mongoose. At about 2 am there was still no sound of Japs when a branch brushed my face, causing a tense reaction. I got my sten gun ready. I could see a figure two yards away. I gave the password three times without reply. Too risky to wait so I alerted my weapon. My colleague then grabbed my wrist as the figure spoke out just in time, 鈥淒o you want a mug of cocoa?鈥� We had the cocoa and talked to relax. It was the Padre doing his bit.

On a later operation, I moved away as planned, from the main body, and had to take quite a detour to get back. After quite a distance, and in a desolate area, I spotted a basher (straw hut) with an elderly grisly man standing at the door. He was dressed sparingly in little more than a G-string. I tried signs etc to ask for a drink of water. He politely replied, 鈥淲ould you rather have a cup of tea?鈥� I accepted and chatted for a while. He explained that he was a retired teacher, having at one time worked at Wood Green near Birmingham. Luckily he had a map and he showed me the safest tracks through that part of the jungle.

A Piece of Jungle Green

In a quiet, but neat little cottage,
Just, at the close of day,
A Mum was watching her little boy
Who was busy at his play.
Her souvenir box he emptied,
Out on the old kitchen chair,
Then with eager little fingers
He searched among the treasures there.
A piece of tattered cloth he found
And gazing with wondering eyes,
Oh Mummy! What is this he cried?
Proudly, but tearfully, she replied.
It is only a piece of jungle green
So treasure it, my son, with pride;
It is part of your Granddad鈥檚 tunic,
Who so like a hero died.
It was at Garrison Hill at Kohima,
That is where your Granddad fell
When the Japanese were forced to halt,
Amidst the deadly shot and shell.
So when you see that tattered cloth
Feel proud, and walk real tall,
For just like all the lads who fell,
Your Granddad gave his All.

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