大象传媒

India! What a country- such a contrast to England, the colour, the smells, the sounds- to me it was just like a huge film set. We disembarked and were marched to the railway station; we were loaded into very basic railway coaches with slatted wooden seats, no glass in the windows and the toilet was just a hole in the floor at one end. We trundled off pulled by a very large, wood burning steam locomotive and after some hours travelling, arrived at where else, but Poona- home of the British Raj, beloved of Colonels and memsahibs the world over.
We didn鈥檛 stop here long but were taken by trucks to a Tank Training School some miles away at a village called Gauhati near Kirkee.
Here, of course, we had to run the gauntlet of the 'old sweats' who had come out before us. Calls of 'get your knees brown' etc and lurid tales of snakes, mosquitoes and other such perils. That first night, sleeping on a 'charpoy' (a wooden framed bed with a string mattress under a mosquito net supported on four poles was an experience in addition to all the unfamiliar insect noises, the fireflies etc.
In those first few days in India, we learned some things the hard way, like not putting your kitbag directly onto the ground at night because, on picking it up in the morning, all the contents fell out of the bottom which had been eaten all round the base by white ants. You soon learned to hang it up. Tin trunks were the obvious answer to this and they changed hands after much haggling Likewise, with the charpoy, this was always stood with its four legs in tins of paraffin to repel all boarders.
One incident which comes to mind which happened to us rookies to India and always caused much hilarity to the old sweats: The cookhouse and dining area was out in the open, except during the monsoon season and, after queuing for food, we had to walk several yards to the dining area, balancing two mess tins in one hand, main course below and sweet on top, in the other hand - a mug of tea. Unknown to us rookies, birds larger than crows called Kite Hawks, which were scavengers, congregated above and around the cookhouse. When the unwary one, doing the balancing act, was halfway across the open space down would swoop one of these birds and snatch the sweet course from the top container, usually sending the main course flying as well! The trick was always to put your hat over the mess tins - you soon learned.
Gauhati was where we settled down to do yet more tank training and - horror of horrors - Jungle Warfare Training in preparation for action. I was petrified by the idea of having to face the formidable enemy and the veterans' tales, told in the canteen in the evenings, did nothing for my morale. It was with these thoughts that we went out training and exercising day after day,
During this training we occasionally came across convoys of bullock carts on the village tracks, usually with only one man, in the leading cart, who was often fast asleep. We used to turn this cart round when all the others would follow. Eventually it was made an Army offence to play this trick.
Meanwhile, during the evenings and time off, India was growing on me. Walking through the little villages at night, some only lit by kerosene flares and wandering through the bazaars with all sorts of colourful merchandise, I found quite fascinating. The bartering for goods was fun too: nothing ever changed hands at the asking price. Whether it was a packet of razor blades or a cycle.
Your first offer was about half this figure and then you walked away. If you were followed or called back you were not far out but if not then your bid was too low to be serious. This haggling could go on for some time with much hand waving and head shaking.
The ingenuity of these street vendors never ceased to amaze me. They could repair practically anything in situ from a fountain pen (no biros in those days) to cigarette lighters, clocks and watches. All with the most primitive tools and squatting on the sidewalk. It was the same with the more skilled artisans, the 'durzi' (tailor) would measure you for a shirt or slacks in khaki drill, sit down with an old Singer sewing machine and complete them in a couple of hours; made to measure and nicely finished. The same with shoes; the shoemaker would chalk around your feet on a piece of cardboard and in three or four hours later deliver a wonderful pair of shoes, both a perfect fit and always done with great cheerfulness.
Everything was very colourful, the women in multi-coloured saris and the children so grown up and cheeky. Without exception, in the towns, they could all speak some English especially to ask for money, chocolate or cigarettes; most of this of course picked up from our peacetime occupation.
There was a sordid side too, lots of beggars and some children deliberately maimed to invoke sympathy and thus help the family eke out a living. Everywhere there were flies and smells though some of these were very pleasant, incense and spices etc they all blended together to create the special atmosphere of India.
The Indian version of buskers were all in the market places, there were fire-walkers who actually did walk on hot coals without any apparent ill effects - don't ask me how! Snake charmers with baskets of snakes and the wailing pipe, who at the drop of a hat would suddenly drape a long python around your neck. Many were the battles fought in a portable ring between a mongoose and a cobra - the mongoose always won. There was always something entertaining to see though I never did see the Indian Rope Trick.
Then there were the various 'wallahs', the char wallah (tea boy) the nappi wallah (barber), the dhobi wallah (washerman/woman). The char wallah appeared every morning around 6 - 6.30am (reveille) and chanting 鈥淐har wallah - hot char鈥� would dish out cups of delicious hot tea for about 2 annas (2p) to you in bed. So much better than the army brew. Next would appear the Nappi wallah who would shave any one who so desired it, still in bed. Although this was frowned on by the Army powers that be, it carried on regardless.
The dhobi wallah would next take your dirty washing and return it some two hours later, beautifully cleaned, starched and pressed, again for a few coppers. It was usually washed in the nearest river or stream by pounding it with stones, laid out in the sun to dry and then pressed with old flat irons heated or filled with hot charcoal.
Labour was cheap and plentiful and even we the BOR (British Other Ranks) lived like lords, off duty. No wonder the old British Raj didn鈥檛 want to leave India; they literally had everything done for them in the way of menial tasks.
Travelling into town from Camp was fun too, you hailed a 'Tonga', a small horse- drawn trap, seated yourself backwards, and away you went, bells jingling on the harness. If there was more than one passenger you took a 'Gharri' which held about four. At journey's end the usual haggle took place to decide the fare - again usually only a few coppers.
Looking back now, it was all a terrific experience, one that would cost hundreds of pounds to execute, even on a package holiday, today.

All too soon the news came that we were to be flown into Burma as replacements for casualties killed or wounded in action - training was over, fighting for real to begin. I was doubly unfortunate in that two days before this I caught a dose of malaria and was sent to No 5 IBGH (India Base General Hospital) when my mates went off, so when it was my turn to go I was with comparative strangers.
We were flown into Burma in Dakotas, sitting down each side on ammunition boxes whilst along the centre, tied to a rail, were mules. These poor animals had been de-brayed to prevent them making a noise in the jungle. They too were terrified of flying.
It was my first experience too of being off the ground but once airborne I didn鈥檛 mind it, apart from the nagging dread of the unknown to come.
We landed somewhere in Burma at a landing strip carved out of the jungle, to join the 14th (Forgotten) Army. It was in the Imphal, Kohima, Dimapur area (I found out later) but to me it was just jungle.
The actual bits of action I experienced were quite unpleasant. The stories of Japanese atrocities were true enough; British soldiers taken prisoner, tied to trees and used for bayonet practice; Jap fanatics walking into our murderous gunfire and officers committing Hari Kari on the spot rather than lose face. All this was quite terrifying but the comradeship and spirit of all the forces was something that has never been repeated since. I must not forget the Gurkhas, those wonderful fighting men from Nepal, so cheerful and so courageous; many a BOR and others, myself included owe their lives to them and many a fanatical Japanese died as a result of coming to grips with 鈥楯ohnny Gurhka鈥�. Everyone, without exception, would help each other, be it with food, weapons, mechanical trouble or in cases of injury. It was just one big brotherhood with a common cause - to beat the 鈥榖loody Jap鈥�.
Of course, it wasn't just the Japanese we had to contend with, we all suffered malaria, despite taking daily meparcrine, also dysentery and other obnoxious items.
Sleeping in the jungle wasn't funny either, if you took your boots off for the night you had to shake them well in the morning to be sure there was not a scorpion or centipede inside. One unfortunate in our group died of snakebite when a small but deadly Krait got under his mosquito net and bit him. Most times one tried to sleep on the engine cowling of the tank but never underneath the vehicle. On the soft jungle earth, the tank would slowly settle during a long halt and one crew were suffocated, a horrible death.
After a short spell of this action which seemed like years though in reality only months, I was wounded and returned to India for medical attention and convalescence
owing to an ankle/foot injury. I was told that further tank driving was out and I was medically downgraded from A1 to B7 which meant 'excused boots, PT and marching.

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