I inherited my mother’s old letters. Amongst them I discovered to my amazement a 12-page illustrated letter from my Uncle Ernest (who was an artist) relating his experiences, of how he trekked out on the famous Burma trail to the safety of India during the Second World War with the advance of the Japanese.
When the family left earlier Uncle Ernest had stayed back to safeguard the properties and run the business, as their home was Burma.
Rangoon experienced its first bombings by the Japanese in December, 1941. His letter carried the date line ‘By the Grace of God - 27th May, 1942’ and has been written to my mother who was living in Delhi at the time (her mother and she had left by ship earlier, as war clouds loomed), whom he addresses as ‘My dear Mamselle’. I have condensed the contents.
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| Ernest Joseph:
Intrepid artist |
Uncle Ernest left Rangoon, the capital via Mamyo, a provincial town and finally Mandalay, (where the last King of Burma resided). Mandalay had been badly bombed and was burning. He seems to have travelled as far as Mandalay by car which then had to be abandoned. Prior to leaving Rangoon, a friend and he dug a neighbour from under her house wall that had collapsed on her with the aerial bombing.
A friend and he then rescued some young ladies in dire need of assistance, who required a lift part of the way and were eventually left with one of the girls as they journeyed further to Mandalay! However, an influential Burmese friend was able to assist with that problem in Mandalay.
When the Japanese planes circled around Mandalay he knew it was time to set-off as he had narrowly escaped four bombings in Maymyo, which was then taken by the Japanese a few days later. He carried with him a brass bucket and some bundles with certain essential and valuable items.
The trek
To begin his hike he had hoped to obtain a lift and had six litres of petrol to barter. He even offered to drive a lorry and take the streaming refugees to safety, but the Civil Authority seemed to be not helpful and panic stricken. He walked barefoot day and night, as he knew the situation was serious with military fleeing in their cars. He barely slept between sunset (when absolutely dark) and moon. The distance as he embarked on the trail narrowed down every day until he was only two days ahead of the Japs, which as he remarked was nothing much, as they moved so fast.
His letter indicates that the refugees never started their long walk to the next camp eighteen miles away (where rations were being distributed) in the evening. They normally walked in the morning rested for a while and thereafter continued in the afternoon. However, Uncle Ernest began his walk at 3 p.m. alone not fearing the dark and reconciled to sleep on the road if need be. He recounts that every hundred yards the bucket had to change from one hand to the other, his feet were sore, and his shoulders were cut by the bundles he carried. He rued the day that he had chosen his newest pair of shoes instead of settling for a more comfortable pair. He continued painfully over a distance of four miles by 5.30 p.m. with his eyes red with the heat, his body a mass of sweat.
The trail followed a river formed by a mountain stream. This was inviting for two reasons as it gave him the luxury of a bath as well as to replenish his thirst. Since there was still light he ventured over the steep bank many times to ensure that his packages were secure near the spot at which he swam. Just then a canoe approached and in full faith of his proverbial good luck he called out to the Burman. The Burman was a rice merchant and so after some bargaining it was agreed that my uncle would be rowed a distance of 18 miles for the fee of Rs 10.
Promises were also made that the rice merchant’s relatives, who were cart owners could assist from thereon. The journey was not without adventure as they rowed their way past rapids where my uncle had to get out of the boat and walk at times. They eventually arrived at a village where the rice merchant had business!
The villagers were intrigued by the Indian passenger and were amazed that he could speak Burmese. My Uncle won their hearts with his palm reading and he relates in his letter “the keenest were the village bad hats”. Food was offered and as my uncle recounts to swallow the dhal one had to move into three gears before it would go down!
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| Sketches from Ceylon: How uncle Ernest saw Ceylonese damsels |
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Winning over the ‘bad hats’ of the village with his palm reading |
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As night fell amidst the twinkling stars, my uncle slept on a mat on a pebbly beach with his wrist wrapped around the straps from the sack he carried containing documents, his evacuation certificate and money (with the balance wrapped in a cloth round his waist). A prayer was on his lips and gratitude in his heart that he was sleeping amongst safe company in a village of Burmese.
The next day the rice merchant dilly dallied and in the meantime it began to rain. Knowing that his ferryman would not move he thus took it philosophically. At 3 p.m. the journey began, but an hour later the man stopped for tea! The news reached my uncle that he could not proceed until he saw the head man, which meant a tip. Having settled that problem he ventured out alone, since there were some dangerous rapids for the canoe to get through; my uncle thought it best to once again to stick to the trail. The military lorries were on the move and seeing some of the refugees in them he managed with his charm to persuade one of the drivers to take him to Tanimu. He was now only six miles away from Kalewa.
As the lorry proceeded at a slow pace, they got to a bridge where a PWD lorry had broken down hampering the journey. The afternoon and night was spent there on wet ground, as it rained heavily. My uncle managed to get into the back of the lorry with a leaky tarpaulin, which dribbled drops down his neck. The next day began with the task of removing the obstacle on the bridge to enable their lorry to commence the journey. My uncle true to form supervised the operation. The letter makes mention of the callousness of the fleeing military and the state of the roads and bridges with each individual convoy thinking only of its safety.
Internal battles
The lorry whilst travelling stopped to pick up other fleeing refugees and soon there was a lot of discomfort at the back of the lorry with an insolent Sikh with his women folk and a Bengali fighting for more room and thus beginning a private war. The driver got fed up of the noise, their infighting and threw every one out of the vehicle. The driver had forewarned my uncle and he stuck to his most important and heavy bundle, but lost the others, as the driver suddenly drove away. Kalewa was now 32 miles behind.
Uncle Ernest proceeded to the nearest village, hired a cart and set off at 10 p.m. to get to the next camp three miles away. The letter mentions that this was a stroke of luck as villages were now being burnt, as a result of the scorched earth policy by the British. At this juncture to readers I relate that the family properties in Rangoon were also scorched, as part of this policy! A procession of seven carts and then an additional nine carts wended their way through the forest with my Uncle now the appointed leader of the cart convoy. A pace was set for the walkers with the carts carrying the goods and 21 miles were covered that day. Food on the trek was confined to chapatti and dhal with the added treat of green mangoes and salt. Soon the pace was too much and nine carts fell behind.
Morning starts were made around 3.30 a.m. with a pace of seven miles to the next village. Avenues for food were explored, whilst some of the cart men began loosening the bulls and cooked their food. The carters seemed to be in no hurry to move and were angling for more money.
The situation looked grim with more military officers from the 22nd and 30th mile post passing by in their cars.
The men were obviously retreating to a pre-arranged plan. The news was conveyed that Monywa had fallen, the Japanese were at Gangaw and ten miles from Kalenjonyo (name not decipherable).
My Uncle tried to impress upon the carters and refugees that the situation was serious, but his fellow mates refused to discard their bundles with one man insistent on carrying engine tools to India! My Uncle with his one heavy bundle commenced his journey alone. He did two miles without a stop in an hour; rested for five minutes and did 4 miles in another hour.
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| Sketching his hard trek to freedom |
He mentions that whilst the others rested he was ahead by six miles and by 6 p.m that evening he had covered twelve miles. The next morning he chanced upon a tea shop and a stream. In his words, “I stripped and swam in my trunks.
Sat in the ice cold water let my feet have a good massage by the strong current and drank eight cups of tea and “sada” in between each cup, which the obliging Burmese Tea Shop owner brought to the stream, very much amused.”
I will not bore readers with details of his adventures at other villages and his means of survival along the way. By now he dubbed his walking gait the dhobi trot.
He continued his walk of another 64 miles waking at 4.30 a.m. – cheerful at times, fed up at other times, bursting into song as he sallied forth with others wondering what the gaiety was about. He had no mug or glass and he drank from every stream or trickle of water that he could find.
He finally caught up with the first lorry that gave him a lift and for the princely sum of Rs 2 was transported to Taminu.
He did eventually manage to reach Calcutta and meet up with his Burmese friends and wrote to his anxious mother that he had somehow survived the dangerous trail with no other means of leaving Burma with the war raging.
At all times Uncle Ernest gave thanks to God who guided him and turned him away from the hazards that could befall a lone traveller. |
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