No 409953 RAAF No. 615 “County of Surrey” R.A.F. Squadron - Spitfires
During the siege of Imphal 29th March/July 1944
The Imphal Valley is a plain, roughly 70kms long north to south by 35kms wide, set in high mountains midway along the border between India and Burma. Apart from the coastal strip some 48Okms to the S.S.E. along. the Bay of Bengal, the only useable road across the mountains from Burma into India passed through this valley, which was vital to the defence of India. The garrison comprised 3 full Indian Army divisions, 2 Spitfire squadrons (615 and 607), plus 2 or 3 Hurricane squadrons and a Vengeance squadron. It had been under siege for more than two and a half months and was entirely dependant on air supply.
There were only two all-weather, metal-clad airstrips and both had been subject to intermittent shelling and occasional infiltration at night. 615 Squadron was based at “Palel” at the south end of the Valley and the other Spitfire Squadron on the main strip near the town of Imphal, at the north end.
It was now the 17th of June and, although the monsoon had broken, the morning was bright and cloudless. Warned of an impending large-scale attack, 615 Squadron was on patrol guarding the eastern and South Eastern approaches to the Valley Experience told us to expect 40 plus aircraft; the main force coming in at 12,000 feet, whilst others would attempt to slip in unseen by flying low beneath them, up the narrow valleys between the folds of the mountain ridges, following the line of the border in a north /south direction.
Flying in pairs, spaced out on 3 levels at 8,000, 10,000 and 12,000 feet, the Squadron had been airborne for nearly an hour. At l0am the sun was already high in the sky as we neared the end of our South-bound leg over enemy-held territory, beyond the southern end of the Imphal plain.
On the lowest level, at 8,000 feet, I was flying No. 2 to Joe Bush, a Londoner and veteran from the defence of Malta. About 1,000 feet above the crests, we were searching the jungle-clad valleys between. Radio silence was suddenly broken by one of our leaders: “About to engage enemy fighters 12,000 feet dead ahead.” I looked up but could see nothing — not even another “Spit”. All must have been hidden in the brilliant sunshine. But I had no time to speculate - Joe was waving frantically to catch my attention, then rapidly pointing almost vertically down to port (left). As I looked, from under the inboard trailing edge of my port wing, there emerged a lighter shade of mottled green, moving against the jungle beneath. It quickly took on the unmistakeable shape of a Zero, as it sped past in the opposite direction.
As we rolled and dived to port my eye caught sight of another Zero about 1,000 yards further back. Leaving Joe to take care of the first, I rolled back and plunged down after the second, who, having seen us first, had pulled up into a very smart 180 degree stall turn and was now gathering speed, diving deeper into the valley back on his track. Travelling fast with throttle wide, he was in my sights as I closed the gap, but, with his slower speed and greater manoeuvrability, I knew that as soon as I got within range, he would flick into another sharp turn, which I couldn’t possibly follow. Allowing for a long shot, I aimed slightly high and pressed the firing button at about 450 yards.
With my thumb still on the button and above the noise and shuddering recoil of the guns, another noise shook the aircraft. It took the full impact of a hail of bullets exploding as they struck in rapid succession. The smell of burnt cordite filled the cockpit, With a mountain side flashing past on my left, I instantly banked to the right and pulled back with all my strength into the tightest of steep turns; totally blacked out and barely conscious.
Under such conditions there is no time to think, one acts instinctively, almost robotically. The mind clamps down and blots out all forms of emotion completely.
Easing off the “stick” and throttle, I levelled out as my Vision returned. I was deep down near the floor of the valley, heading west across it into a wall of trees! It was not the trees, but that which lay between, that surprised me. There, not more than 200 yards ahead, slap bang in the middle of my gun-sight, was a Zero ! Pointing skywards, poised, helpless, at the top of what I expected to be a stall turn. His starboard wing pointed directly at me. I pressed the firing button and opened the throttle ... there was no response from either! Accepting that this was the end, I continued straight on to take him with me. Then, at the last moment it seemed I might miss. Instead of falling over into a stall turn, the Zero was moving backwards in a tail-slide! So close to the ground? In a Spitfire that was suicide! I slammed my port wing down in a desperate bid to hit him, and I had a clear view of the pilot. Our eyes locked, barely 20 feet apart as I passed across his bow, my wing tip shaving his propeller boss.
His canopy was wide open and his goggles were pushed back onto his helmet above his forehead. I’ll never forget the expression of both horror and amazement on his young and very white oriental face as he stared, transfixed, eyes wide open and mouth slightly agape. Unable to look back, I will never know; but I often wonder if he managed to survive that tail slide... I hope he did.
Not able to continue the battle and faced with that wall of trees, self-preservation took control. I swung the aircraft over from port to starboard into a climbing turn to the north. I could see no top to that wall which followed me round as my speed washed off. A crescent of blue appeared, above a saddle between two mountains towering on either side. I steepened the climb to mount it.
Squashing, on the point of stall, my aircraft brushed the top of the trees as it cleared that saddle. In dropping the long nose of the spitfire to gather some speed and prevent a stall, the view ahead told me I must jump - now! Holding the control column back with my left hand to maintain height, with my right I pulled off my helmet, withdrew the cockpit harness quick-release pin, flipped the canopy open and grasped the rear vision mirror mounted outside above the windscreen. As soon as I let go of the control column . . .before I knew it... I was out... still in the sitting position. By sheer good luck and dint of circumstance, I had made the perfect exit.
A brilliant flash of flame on the ground between my knees brought me to my senses. My aircraft had exploded as it struck the ground, probably less than 400 feet below me. I pulled the ripcord as I tumbled forward, head down. With the main parachute still in the seat type pack, I saw the small white drogue (pilot) chute emerge, and in the same instant I fell head first into a large tree. Fortunately, the drogue snagged firmly in the upper branches and I was jerked upright. I found myself suspended, with my feet about 6 feet above the shallow waters of a small fast flowing stream, apparently unhurt!
There was no time to consider the situation. I was in enemy-held territory - with my presence being loudly advertised by exploding 20 mm cannon shells and .303 ammunition in my burning aircraft, on the west bank, less than 75 yards downstream.
Without looking up, I turned and punched the quick-release buckle of my parachute harness then dropped into the stream below. The east bank was almost vertical so I waded to the west, which offered an easier climb. Stepping onto the bank, I noticed some deep impressions in the smooth surface of the mud. I hesitated, and for the first time since that hail of bullets I did feel a wave of emotion. Fear!
Those deep impressions were the very recent pug-marks of a very large tiger. Not a comforting sight! But there was no option, I had to press on, and get away as quickly as I could. That wasn’t easy. I had to follow animal pads, which in places became virtual tunnels; where I had to crawl through the vine entangled undergrowth. As well as tigers, I soon discovered that there were ticks and leeches to contend with. The leeches were particularly loathsome and I learned to watch for them as they hung writhing in glistening black clusters bigger than my fists, from overhanging vines and branches. Able to sense an animal - or human - approaching, they would let go and form a spray as their potential host creature passed beneath.
Fortunately, the undergrowth thinned the higher I climbed away from the stream. After 30 or 40 minutes I came upon a well-defined path. Occasional blasts of exploding ammunition were still shattering the silence for miles around, so I stopped, to check it was safe, before crossing. It was then that I realised that my right flying boot was still sodden, although the left one seemed to have dried out since leaving the stream. The path, which may have come down from the saddle, appeared from around a bend a little higher up on my left. As it descended gradually across the face of the mountain, heading north, and converging toward the stream, it would pass not far above the burning remains of my aircraft.
To the left of my crossing, a large clump of bamboo bulged out into the path. Turning to look back, I noticed that the bamboo grew outwards in a circle around a smooth green carpet of moss, open at the rear. It looked inviting and safe to stop for a moment. I stepped in, sat down and removed the offending calf-length flying boot. The lamb’s wool-lined boot was soaked in blood. Shrapnel had sliced a 7cm gash down the inside of my right calf I was lucky; it was only a flesh wound, which I hadn’t even felt. Sitting there examining the wound, I became aware of a strange pulse-like beat emanating from the ground beneath me. It grew stronger, then audible and increasingly loud - coming from further up the track.
I was straining forward, peering up the track through a small gap in the bamboo, when suddenly, a party of 8 or 10 Japanese soldiers appeared. They were chattering excitedly, jogging in single file around the bend, heading towards me on their way down the track to my aircraft. I pulled back quickly and froze. Had I reached out, I could have touched them.
I wasted no time in replacing my boot and getting out of there as fast as I could, well aware of the ghastly fate that awaited me if caught. For the present, the only way to go was further up.
Although beneath an uninterrupted canopy of trees, I knew I was located somewhere between the two main supply lines sustaining the Japanese forces around the southern perimeter of the Imphal Valley. One of these supply routes approached from the South-East across the mountains, emerging near the end of our airstrip at Palel. The other came up from Tiddim, 190 kms to the south, following the course of the Manipur River, which flowed out of the Valley about 20 kms west of Palel. Reinforced by shape of the landscape I had seen immediately before “leaving” my aircraft, I believed I was nearer the Tiddim route and that those soldiers were patrolling the area east of it.
North of the saddle, the west side of the canyon which I now climbed did not continue as a high steep sided mountain, but fell away, sharply at first, then more gradually for 5 or 6 kms, to become a long, low descending ridge, ending abruptly as a bluff overlooking a gorge. Discernable by the very dense darker green jungle that hid it, the stream into which I had fallen flowed into the gorge, which cut across the mouth of the canyon from east to west. Beyond, to the north and to the east, the land rose up to the mountain tops, which, to the east, circled back to the canyon, forming an amphitheatre, gouged by ravines and gullies leading into the gorge and ultimately draining westwards into the Manipur river valley.
The slope had become an easy climb, but after 2 or 3 hours I decided I’d gone far enough and turned north to follow a level contour line, which eventually brought me to the crest of the descending ridge. It was easy going, downhill over fallen debris and dry leaf litter with a sparse smattering of bushy undergrowth. However it was becoming dark; so I thought I’d better find a more suitable place to spend the night.
As I was probably within a km of the gorge, I decided to move down off the crest of the ridge onto the now gentle downward slope towards the stream. Night falls quickly in these latitudes; faster still on the dark side of a ridge. I hadn’t gone far, but could barely see, when a space lighter than the surrounding darkness opened up in front of me. I had come across an area cleared for cultivation a few years earlier, now neglected and regenerating as forest. Close by, I could make out the outlines of a small structure with a thatched roof; most of which had rotted and fallen down.
Mosquitoes had begun their attack as dusk fell. They were now in a mad frenzy, biting my face and hands. I stepped through the open framework, under a bit of thatch, and found myself up to the waist in what felt like the husks of a once-grown grain crop. It was God-sent. I pulled out my handkerchief, put it over my nose, crouched down and buried my head into the stuff. It worked. Every time I lifted my head the mosquitoes were back, so I stayed completely buried most of the time.
Soon it was more than dark; it was pitch black. I’d been crouching there no more than 20 minutes, when suddenly, from just behind me, there came a terrible deep-throated roar. The tiger! With the other diversions, I’d completely forgotten about those huge pugmarks beside the stream. Only yards away now, the tiger must have followed me. Hidden and able to see them, my encounter with the Japs was nothing compared to this. I was paralysed with fear. My heart pounding, hardly able to breathe, I waited for that final pounce.
The revolver in its holster on the belt around my waist was useless in this total blackness. I drew it, but it was of little comfort. After what seemed an eternity, the tiger roared again and followed up with a long, protracted growl. But it was no longer behind me. It had moved around to my left. Roaring and growling, with increasing time intervals between, that tiger continued to circle me in a clockwise direction. It would not go away and it kept on circling Time seemed to stand still.
While nothing could take my mind from the tiger, strange movements around my boots and backside told me I had other company among the husks. There was a long, slow, drawn-out movement, pushing lightly against me. Certainly not rats or mice, it felt like a rather large snake - probably a well-fed python that I had disturbed. No matter what my company, I was staying put!
And so the night wore on. The tiger eventually moved off; but I could still hear him in the distance well into the small hours of the next morning. Though I didn’t think I’d slept at all, I must have dozed off. All of a sudden, it was dawn.
I did not hesitate. Cramped and aching, I could not get away from that awful place fast enough. I headed back up to the top of the ridge and turned north wondering where to go. The undergrowth down in the gorge would be impossible to cross, and I would not consider going west, closer to the Tiddim supply route. My only option was to cross the stream, climb to higher ground and circle east and north around the gorge.
I’d been going nearly an hour, moving down to the stream, when I realised I was not wearing my broad webbing belt which carried the revolver. In the early hours I’d unclipped it, because it was digging in painfully under my rib cage in that crouched position. It must have slipped off into the husks as I stood up to leave. But the thought of the tiger waiting for me to come back was too much - nothing would get me back there!
Down here there were more open areas, once cleared but now overgrown. Lacking the canopy of large trees, I had a clear view of the terrain on the other side of the stream. No longer high and precipitous, the upper part of the mountain had fallen back away from the stream and was curving further away to the northeast, whilst the lower portion sprawled forward down into the gorge to the north. Here, opposite, steep cliffs about 100 feet high, formed the eastern bank of the stream, eroded here and there with gullies and small ravines.
The sound of voices came from the distance, higher up and further back on the mountain. Watching closely, I could see some movement among the trees. Even fainter sounds were coming from lower down, and it seemed there was movement along a track. Probably the same path I had crossed yesterday, further down, where it crossed the stream. If I was careful and quiet, I thought I would be safe, as long as I kept off the track.
I was very thirsty, having had nothing to drink for a full 24 hours, and I had to make my way down to the stream. I chose a spot where a gully broke through the cliffs on the opposite side, through which it would be easier to climb away. The local wildlife thought likewise, so I followed their pad down and drank my t1i of the cool, clear flowing water.
I didn’t know when I’d get my next drink, having seen no water away from the stream all the day before. I had no water bottle with me and the only nourishment was a small packet of special brick- like, no-melt chocolate and half a dozen soup cubes encased in a square tobacco tin. This emergency issue permanently occupied a breast pocket of my khaki cotton jacket. Not hungry at the time, I sampled a cube of each later and discovered that neither was designed to stimulate the appetite.
I soon found that this was not the only gully I would have to climb. No sooner had I emerged from one, there was another to cross. It was very hard going and the place was also infested with horrible leeches. Being heavily eroded, the surface was often very gravelled and the gullies full of loose rocks. Nor was there a canopy cover, for the trees were more stunted, and it was hot in the afternoon sun. At least there was water in some of the gullies.
Climbing steadily, I travelled across the face of the mountain, but the terrain did not get any easier. Sometime after midday I realised it had been a long time since I had heard voices, or any sound at all, coming from the track. I hoped they had given up looking for me and had turned back; but much as I would have liked to, I was not going to risk climbing up to that track. Not then, anyway.
By late afternoon I was very weary and conscious of the wound in my leg. Wiser now, I decided I had better find a place to sleep my second night before it became too dark. As yet there were no mosquitoes about and I was praying that no tiger would come hunting in such an inhospitable place.
There was a light breeze blowing, which I thought kept the mosquitoes away. I decided not to go down into the gully but to remain in the more exposed position, where I could feel the breeze. I found a grassy spot beside a fairly large tree, made a bed of leaves covered with soft green foliage from some bushes growing near by and put a heap of the same foliage beside it as cover for my head and face, should the mosquitoes find me. I was so tired I fell asleep before it was totally dark. Mosquito-free, I did not wake until it was quite light the next morning. I got moving as soon as I had removed the discoloured cellophane wrapping from a crumbling soup cube. The flavour of whatever concentrated nourishment these cubes may have contained could only be described as revolting, and, if nothing else, this kept the hunger pains at bay.
The terrain did not improve, my leg was sore, the wound was becoming inflamed and I had to stop frequently to check for leeches, not only around my head, neck and hands, but also in my flying boots, which were open at the top around the calf. Fortunately I had a cigarette lighter, which effectively encouraged any stubborn ones to let go.
By late morning I’d had enough and decided to climb up and risk travelling on the track. It was a fair way up, where the timber was tall and thick, but the path itself was a very welcome sight. Almost level, but still climbing gently, it followed the contours and the smooth well-worn surface indicated it was in frequent use. I would have to be careful.
I had been on the track no more than 15 minutes and was looking ahead, across a gully, seeking signs of the track on the other side, when something white, moving between the tree trunks, caught my eye. There were two of them, apparently moving back and forth in the one place, looking for something below them down the mountainside. At least they were not Japanese soldiers; they seemed to be local natives. Regardless, I was not tempted to meet them, as they would probably hand me over to the Japanese anyway.
I don’t know why, but it did not occur to me that they may have heard me stumbling along down below them and that they were probably looking for me. I went back a short distance, then reluctantly left the track to continue to push eastwards across the mountain’s rugged northern face.
It was now about 4 o’clock in the afternoon and I had just clambered up out of a ravine to find I had to cross a rather wide-open gravelled area, devoid of cover. In the centre, opposite me, was a circular clump of scrub. I had an odd feeling that I was being watched so I made a dash for it across the gravel. I had hardly reached the scrub when white-clad brown bodies seem to come from everywhere. I was surrounded. Far too weary to run, I just sat down on the ground and waited for them to make the next move.
They were a fierce looking bunch. Nothing like the local Manipuri people of the Imphal Valley, their facial features were more prominent and angular. These were Naga tribesmen; rugged mountain people of whom I knew little apart from their reputation for proud independence and as head-hunters until very recent times.
None appeared to be armed and they seemed curious rather than aggressive, so I stood up, sort of shrugged and opened my empty hands, hoping to convey: “here I am, unarmed, what happens flow?” In response, an older man, obviously their leader, addressed me in his own language and gestured that I should go with them. Totally surrounded, I had no choice. Although I had no idea of what they would do with me, it was not without a sense of relief that I complied; by now I knew I could not continue to travel off-track in this type of country.
I had been ambushed on the northeast side of the mountain and the natives were taking me back up to the main track. I was very tired and slow, my right leg sore and inflamed. On reaching the track they stopped to give me a rest and a youth of 16 to 18 years old, came up to me. Pointing to himself, he said: “Christian!” Then with an enquiring look on his face, pointed at me, and again said: “Christian?” This was certainly a pleasant surprise and I nodded my head vigorously, pointing to myself, repeating several times: “Yes, Christian.” Apart from a very few words, he did not speak English, but he did seem to understand a little and with the aid of gestures we were able to communicate surprisingly well. I gathered that the tribes people had recently been converted by missionaries, a married couple, who were forced to leave when the Japanese came.
None of the others attempted to communicate with me. We made our way to their village, in a very sheltered position well back on the eastern side of the mountain. Their huts were large structures, high off the ground on stilts and rectangular, with thick, thatched roofs. They took me to the largest hut, which must have been 50 or 60 feet long by about 20 feet wide. Apart from the wide, central entrance on the long side, I don’t recall any windows and it was quite dark but for the fire, burning on a bed of large flat stones in the centre, towards the right-hand end.
The headman indicated I should sit on the floor beside the fire. Most of the others did likewise on the other side, watching me and talking among themselves. Someone brought me a hot drink in a tin container. Though it didn’t taste much like it, I guess it was their version of a cup of tea. Then came some boiled rice and two hard-boiled eggs, which I ate with my fingers and thoroughly enjoyed after my meagre and disagreeable diet.
There were no women about, and the men were getting quite loud; gesturing wildly and looking at me as they argued among themselves. It was clear they were trying to decide what to do with me. There was nothing I could do to influence their decision and I was much too tired to care. I just wanted to lie down and sleep. Before doing so, however, I removed the calico money belt we pilots always wore. 20 or 30 silver rupees were sewn into mine - Indian currency, worth about two shillings Australian each at the time. For a local native in those days, it represented a tidy sum. The money was not visible, but I laid it out beside me just in case. In spite of their actions so far, I was still very suspicious of their true intentions. Even so, I think I was asleep the moment my head touched the floor.
I didn’t want to wake up, but something was shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes. It was the youth who had spoken to me on the track. It was morning and I was to get up. The money belt was still there beside me, untouched. I rolled it up and put it in a side pocket of my jacket. I have no recollection of any breakfast, but I’m sure they gave me something.
There was a lot of activity outside; the headman, with a number of others, entered and came up to me. He stood looking at me for a moment or two, then with one hand half extended and pointing at me, he raised his other arm, pointed to the north and said: “British”. His message was crystal clear and a profound feeling of great relief swept over me. Smiling, I nodded my head eagerly, saying: “British; good! Good!” He turned around and beckoned me to follow him outside.
It was very early. The total male population of the village seemed to be gathered around outside, but still there were no women in sight. The same youth started to explain something, as several others carried up a bundle of white cloth, which I quickly recognised as my parachute. By making noises and pointing upwards, he told me they had heard and seen the aerial battle several days ago and that a villager was on the track near by as my aircraft crashed. There was no mention of the Japanese and there were no white-clad bodies among those soldiers I saw on the track the next morning. The youth said it was yesterday when they had gone to the crash-site and found my parachute in the tree. I indicated that I wanted the small, spring-loaded pilot chute. The headman came up, rather agitated. He was in a hurry to get moving and led me to a group of men standing around two long parallel poles about two feet apart, lashed together in the centre with cross members and short upright pieces to resemble a very crude type of sedan chair or litter; which it proved to be. He indicated that I should step into the centre section, between the two poles.
I was taken by surprise. I had not expected these fierce looking and unsmiling men to be so considerate, particularly towards a total stranger. I was greatly indebted to those unknown missionaries.
I shook my head and protested that I was quite capable of walking but he would have none of it. Reluctantly, I did as he insisted. Straight away, the four bearers, one on each corner, lifted the contraption and we were off at a brisk pace, half walk, half run. I could sit with my feet either dangling or with my knees up, feet resting on the front cross bar.
In all, there were about 25-30 men, half in front, the other half behind the litter. On rejoining the path, which did not pass through the village, we turned right and I noticed that the two leading men took off and ran ahead until they were out of sight. Every now and then during the entire journey, one of these two would be sitting beside the track waiting for us to come along. Another would replace him and run ahead to join the forward scout. The litter bearers also made regular changes, but in places it was extremely hard going and I insisted on walking in the many places where it was particularly steep.
After a couple of hours they produced what looked like an old sauce bottle containing a clouded white liquid, suggesting, by signs, that I should take a swig. It didn’t look too wholesome and I probably looked doubtful, because they were all nodding their heads and making encouraging noises with expressions which said it was “pretty good stuff’. I pulled the “cork” — a bound bundle of reed-like stems folded back — and took a sip. It didn’t taste too bad, so, to satisfy their expectations and to show my appreciation, I pretended it was much better than it really was and took a longer pull.
I was amazed by the stamina of these men. It was now well into the morning and apart from the very steep inclines, the pace had not slackened. The litter bearers still refused my attempts to continue walking, beyond the really steep slopes. With the increasing heat of the day, I had also partaken more frequently of the bottle. On dismounting, I found my legs were somewhat rubbery and realised that it was more than lolly water I had been drinking! Apart from the legs I did not feel drunk, but had no wish to become so - no more sips from that bottle for me!
We had left the village before 7am; it was now approaching noon and I had not seen one stranger on the track. By my estimation, we were averaging a good 3 miles per hour and must have passed one or two villages, but none were visible, probably hidden in a nearby, secluded spot.
At about midday, our progress was stopped by a group of men standing across the path where it forked. The track continued to the right, but to the left it led to a village, where, through the trees, I could see a hut on stilts. These men were arguing quite violently with our leading group and, when we came close, I asked the bearers to put me down and stepped off the litter.
There was one man, an older, authoritative figure in the centre front of the group, who was far more vocal and agitated than the rest. He carried a solid walking stick or cudgel of some sort and was waving it about, dancing up and down in an absolute rage. There was no doubt I was the cause of that anger. Ignoring the pleas of our headman and others trying to pacify him, he pointed his stick at me, screamed and shook his fist. Then, hopping on one foot, he raised the other and pointed at it, yelling: “British! British!”
He was pointing at what was only half a foot. The British were apparently responsible; but, being completely healed, the wound could not have been recent. All I could do was shake my head and try to indicate that I didn’t approve of what the British had done to him. Later, I learned that these people had been “subdued” by the British as recently as 1928, just 16 years earlier.
Undoubtedly the headman of this village, he was certainly no friend of the British, nor, I’m sure, would he have allowed any of his people to befriend any hopeful Christian missionaries. I am convinced I would not be recalling this episode, had I initially fallen into the hands of this fellow. At the time, I thought my luck had run out. However, having made his point, “Half-Foot” calmed down a little and eventually allowed our headman to talk with him. Even so, it was almost half an hour before we were allowed to proceed.
As it turned out, this village was roughly half way to our final destination. The enforced stop provided the only decent rest for my helpers during the journey, the remainder of which fortunately proved uneventful. My bearers pace did not slacken, their stamina was simply incredible, and, as the daylight began to fade, I realised they had a deadline to beat.
It was dusk when we finally arrived. Our leading scouts were waiting with a group of Ghurkha soldiers who led us to their outpost, a heavily defended hilltop nearby. They were well dug in on all sides and the approaches had been cleared of timber.
The C.O. and a young subaltern, both English, greeted me. The C.O. gave instructions for the care of the Naga tribesmen and took me to his main H.Q.: a very deep and large bunker, roofed with solid tree trunks covered with a thick layer of earth. Although I can’t recall his name or rank, he was a tall, fine looking man of 28 or 30 years and he spoke with the cultured voice of an English aristocrat.
While the Indian Medical Officer cleaned and dressed my wound, the C.O. enquired about my recent experiences and noted my name, rank, number and Squadron details. I was given a meal of stewed bully beef and was joined by the younger officer, about my age, 21 years old. Of English parents, he had been born and raised in India.
I spent the night in the bunker and after an early breakfast was taken to say goodbye to my wonderful helpers, the Naga Tribesmen. Standing, waiting in line led by the Headman, they no longer looked as fierce and unfriendly. I felt completely inadequate to thank them; I owed so much and had nothing to give. Then I remembered the money belt still rolled up in my pocket, pulled it out and ripped it open. As I walked down the line I could have hugged each one of them. Instead, I shook their hand and mumbled my sincere thanks as I handed each a silver coin. I could only hope that someone in authority would ensure they were recognised and properly rewarded in due course.
After a handshake and good wishes from the C.O., the young Subaltern and four Ghurkha soldiers escorted me the five or six miles back to the Imphal Valley. One of the soldiers was carrying a familiar bundle - my parachute rolled up inside the harness. Unbeknown to me, my Naga helpers had brought it along and handed it over as well.
We entered the Imphal Valley, as I expected, near a place called Shuganu, half way between Palel and the Manipur River. We were almost back, when, for the first time, it began to rain and we were drenched in no time. I’d certainly had my share of luck these past few days; the first two days and nights could have been a lot worse had it rained!
I was expected, a vehicle was waiting, so I said another goodbye to my young officer friend and was taken off to a field hospital. “Under observation”, I spent the next 4 or 5 days in a tent in the rain.
It was during this time that I was re-united with my identical twin brother. Alf and I had already been together in the Air Force for two years; training in Australia and Canada, then on to England and out to India - only then separated when we were posted to different squadrons. Alf had been sent to 136 Sqdn. on the southern “Arakan” front. Since half the pilots and the C.O. on my squadron were all Australian, as entitled, I had recently applied through the C.O. to “claim” my brother.
On his way to join 615, Alf was waiting at an aerodrome in Assam, hoping to hitch a ride in a transport flying supplies into the Imphal Valley. He saw a Spitfire with 615 Sqdn. markings come in and land, so he walked over to the tarmac to speak to the pilot. To Al? s amazement, the pilot, Bert Chandler, almost flipped Sand gasped: “How did you get here?? I thought you were dead! !“ That was bow Alf learned I was missing. “Chan”, a New Zealander, had been on patrol with me and had seen my aircraft crash and explode.
I was sent on two weeks of leave in Calcutta and returned to 615 to complete my tour, in company with my brother. From then, Alf and I shared the same plane, flying different shifts. Now aged 82, we raised our families and still live a few doors apart in Melbourne.