Central Burma
Myingyan, Meiktila and Kinmagan.
We proceeded down the east side of the Chindwin. The road was unmade and just at that time the monsoon started. The rain was torrential and in a few minutes the whole road had become a quagmire.
The lorries were getting stuck as the wheels sank in, we had to keep pulling them out using the winch and cable. At one stage I could see the ground starting to crack away under a back wheel. I shouted, 'Drive on, drive on for heaven's sake', or something like that....
The lorry was driven forward and the section of road slid down the bank and into the Chindwin.
The route then turned inland and we drove through the jungle for fifty miles. I was most surprised that the area where the Chindwin joins the Irrawaddy is like a desert, just sand that has been deposited over the years.
We crossed on the ferry and went down to the airstrip at Myingyan. There were several active Thunderbolt squadrons there, but all that I remember is the colossal din made by thousands of bullfrogs in the waterlogged trench behind our tent. It was deafening, we could not sleep.
Meiktila was the place where the last stand was made by the retreating Japanese army and it was a fierce battle. The area where our tents were, at the north of the main airstrip, was covered in unexploded mortar shells.
There was also a defence trench that was still full of dead Japanese troops, complete with their equipment; all shot full of holes.
I found a dead Englishman, I cut off the lower of his identity discs and reported it. I remember his name, as it was the same as one of my forebears; he had been in the Tank Corps.
There were many unusable aircraft abandoned there. There was a Hurricane, a Harvard and several Mosquitoes, the plywood covering of the wings had warped and buckled in the hot sun.
Whilst at Miektila main, I had to work on a Westland Lysander, it was the only serviceable one left in Burma. It was painted black, it had a ladder fixed to the side and it was used for dropping and picking up spies.
It was very battered, but a replacement engine had been fitted. I had to fit a new fuel pump to it. It was very difficult as there was only about six inches of space between the back of the engine and the bulkhead where the pilot's
instruments were. I could not see what I was doing and I had to put my arm up and do all the fitting by 'feel'. I eventually got it fixed, it was started up and all was well.
I flew around the area several times in a Harvard and took photographs of Meiktila Lake. Sometimes I used to swim in the lake, out to the little island that had a temple on it. There was an open-air cinema on the camp and every night, before the film started, they played Glenn Miller's, 'Moonlight Serenade'. Whenever I hear it now, it brings back memories. (He would have to walk out of any room where it was playing).
I have mentioned earlier about the problem of the lack of forward-vision in the Thunderbolt 2s. When they were landing and the tail dropped, they would sometimes come off the edge of the runway, just missing oil drums and other equipment. I always kept well out of the way.
One day one Thunderbolt landed on top of another one. The propellor of the top one cut the fuselage of the under one into slices about one foot thick. The propellor ended up stuck in the port wing. The tip of the propellor just cut into the throttlebox by the pilot's left hand and apart from a cut thumb,
he was otherwise uninjured. It could well have been a dreadful accident.
(Dad took a photo of the aftermath of this accident. It's not scanned yet. IIRC He's standing by the planes grinning, with his thumbs up. I vividly remember this photo as you can see Dad's ribcage poking through his skin quite clearly.)
We then moved to Kinmagan and by now the monsoon was at its height. The whole area was flooded to a depth of 18 inches, as far as the eye could see. It was like living in a large lake. We walked and lived in the water, up to our knees.
There was a mess-tent and the water was almost up to the top of the forms that we sat on. Our tent was also flooded, of course. I had a box, on end, on which I kept my boots. I put bricks under the legs of my bed and when I got in, I would look underneath and if there was 2" clearance between me and the flood water, then all was well. I also had my rifle and Sten gun
in bed with me! This lasted for about three weeks and as the
flood receded, life returned to nornal. (Surprised he didn't mention this was the second time he got a sting from a scorpion. He didn't shake his boots out one monring).
One day a Dakota wanted to land. People tried letting off red Verey flares, but they were all wet and would not fire. The aircraft landed and then ploughed two troughs, about one foot wide and one foot deep, right up the length of the runway.
Peasant women subsequently filled up the trenches with bakets of soil, carried on their heads. A few days later, the C.O. of 47 Squadron decided that they would fly the Mosqitoes off.
People were muttering that they thought it was too soon. Although it was still drizzling, they were started up and they taxied, one behind the other, down to the further end of the runway. The first one opened up and as he was just getting the tail up, the aircraft slid off off the strip and into the
bog-land where the undercarriage broke off.
The second aircraft started his run and exactly the same thing happened. After the third aircraft came to grief, the C.O. decided that, 'flying was scrubbed'. (You can imagine how happy the ground crew were that they had to put the Mossies back together.....)
One morning I was alone in the tent alongside the runway. I think that I was probably the Duty Crew! (I believe it was a Sunday). There was nothing happening, all was quiet. I had a little fire going and I was busy making drinking-glasses out of old hexagonal gin-bottles, I would partly fill the bottle with engine-oil, then I plunged a red-hot poker into it. The sudden change in temperature would cause the glass to fracture cleanly at the oil level. I undertook this service for the officers, free of charge!
Anyway, whilst so occupied, someone came up to me and told me that the war was over -- I did not believe him, but of course it was true. Soon after this, the whole unit was moved to Rangoon.
(This refers to VJ Day. Dad said VE Day meant nothing to him. He didn't even hear about for a couple of days. I was surprised (I still am) at his low key mention of the end of the war. Indeed, he had to rack his memory for exactly where he was on VJ Day. One theory I have about his lack of enthuiasm was he was still in some danger. Many Japanese refused to believe the war was over and fought on for some time. You'll see evidence of this later in his memoirs when his plane was shot at in Burma.)
A squadron of Dakotas arrived, they were duly loaded and off we went. I flew in one that was overloaded with tents and fire-extinguishers. There was just a space for me, lying on top of the tents, where I could see out of a window.
According to my log, the journey took 2½ hours. We landed at Hmawbe.