Tank Tracks to Rangoon (26 page)

The object of a lifetime’s training and active mounted sport was to produce quick thought and instant reaction to quickly changing situations, and these are the very qualities which are essential to the prosecution of a successful
blitzkrieg.
Because the cavalryman changed his charger for an armoured vehicle did not mean that the role of the mounted arm had changed as well; it had merely been extended.

The two Sherman regiments of Brigadier Pert’s 255 Tank Brigade, Probyn’s and the Royal Deccan Horse, which would lead 17th Division’s advance on Meiktila from 7th Division’s bridgehead, would most definitely ‘go’, and simply wanted the first available chance to prove it in the open country ahead.

So too did B Squadron PAVO under Major N. Chaplin, whose Daimlers had accompanied 4 Corps on their long approach march, and the newly arrived 16th Light Cavalry, the first armoured regiment to be commanded by an Indian officer, Lt-Colonel J. N. Chaudhuri,
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whose Humber armoured cars had made a remarkable journey of 3,500 miles from Quetta by rail and road, covering the last 850 miles through difficult country in twenty days.
^†

During the breakout, the Royal Deccan Horse worked with 48 Brigade and Probyn’s Horse with 63 Brigade. The short period spent in 7th Division’s bridgehead was spent marrying up, each arm putting the final touch to their intercommunication arrangements with the other, reminding each other in informal get-togethers at all levels for the last time of their respective capabilities and limitations, so that mutual confidence and understanding existed from the outset.

The first troops to leave the bridgehead were, very properly, the reconnaissance troops of the two Sherman regiments, and B Squadron PAVO, formed into a composite force known as Tomcol, under the command of Major D. H. Mudie of the Deccan Horse. After some preliminary skirmishing, Tomcol captured the village of Seywa on 20th February, and the dash for Meiktila was on.

The advance began on two parallel axes, 63 Brigade on the right, and 48 Brigade on the left, with the armoured cars patrolling ahead and to the flanks, whilst the heavier Shermans spearheaded the infantry’s drive. Overhead circled a large ‘cab-rank’ of Thunderbolts, under the control of an RAF air liaison officer, who travelled with the leading cars, and who could bring the aircraft screaming down on any pocket of resistance at very short notice: ‘A very effective gentleman,’ as one PAVO officer puts it. ‘At times almost
too
effective for the leading troop of armoured cars!’

The pace of the advance was maintained, and even accelerated, by the Corps Commander, Lt-General Messervy, who flew ahead of the leading troops in his Auster, often landing alongside the armoured cars to tell the troop leader. Tress on! There’s nothing in front of you!’

To stem this title of armour the Japanese had very few first line troops available, since most of their best divisions were deployed around Mandalay, and 4 Corps’ arrival deep in their rear areas had taken them completely by surprise.
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However, their
administrative troops, whilst not as skilful, were equally capable of fighting to the death, as Probyn’s Horse found when they were forced to fight their way inch by inch through the village of Oyin on 22nd February.

We knew what the infantry wanted us to do—to go ahead and clean up the mess so that they could advance with the least danger—but they didn’t always understand, in this very close fighting amongst smoke and trees and burning huts, how blind, ungainly and vulnerable the tanks themselves could feel, in spite of their power, when too far ahead or separated from the infantry. Eventually we worked out a system of very simple signals, and became much more adept in recognizing the direction of fire and spotting the enemy foxholes and bunkers. Like all forms of shooting, it was a question of learning where to look and what to look for.

It was still necessary for a tank commander to put his head out of the turret from time to time and to remove his earphones, in order to get a better sensory impression of the battle than the one he could get through his periscope. When he did this he was apt to become the chosen target of every enemy marksman near enough to see him, and he had to be very circumspect about it. On this day, the young and debonair Bahadur Singh, in a very short time to become the Maharajah of Bundi, who commanded a troop of tanks, had all his periscopes smashed and over forty hits from rifle bullets on his turret. Looking out in this sort of action was no exaggerated danger.

With the infantry temporarily held up by the enemy fire, the leading tanks moved slowly on through the burning village, and as they were approaching the far end a Japanese soldier came suddenly rushing in, threw himself under the squadron commander’s tank, and detonated a box of explosives that he was carrying, killing himself and the Sikh driver, and disabling the tank.

As the tanks moved forward, we were able to discover that the fire that was punishing and perplexing the infantry was coming from the hedgerows on the other side of the road that ran up the right edge of the village. A troop from the second squadron was called up to move down the road. As the three tanks came line ahead down the lane, another Japanese soldier sprang out of a foxhole in the middle of the hedge and scrambled up on to the second tank, giving the surprised tank commander just sufficient time to duck his head in and pull the hatch shut. The leading tank then traversed his turret and shot the Japanese off while he was struggling with the hatch. During this excitement, another Japanese bounced
suddenly from the hedge, and with his face twisted in frantic determination, hurled himself under the same tank. Before he could detonate his charge, the tank backed off quickly, like a horse shying, and one could imagine that the crew felt the soles of their feet tingling. It left the soldier lying on the ground, curled round his box of explosives, where he was killed. It may have been that he was already mortally wounded when he threw himself under the tank, and only his determination carried him so far.

A moment later another Japanese came leaping through the hedge, swerved through a file of infantry with his box in his arms, as if he were a football player, and climbed onto the front of the third tank. As he did so his charge detonated, blowing his body over the turret and onto the back of the tank, without damaging the tank in any way.

If at harvest-time I had seen a rabbit, shaken out of a corn stook, turn suddenly on its pursuers, the men with sticks, the dogs, and the farmer with his gun, I couldn’t have been more surprised than I was at the sudden appearance of these Japanese soldiers, with their anguished look of determination and despair, pitting their puny strength against such tremendous force. This desperate form of courage was something that we knew little of and saw with amazement, admiration, and pity, too.

At last we were through the village, but the banks of the pond were still occupied, where the trees made it so difficult to see. Bernard took his squadron, with a company of infantry, round by the left flank, in order to clean it up. The infantry came under a hot fire as they approached the pond, and began to have casualties from snipers and automatic fire. The company commander was killed, Bernard was hit with a ringing crack on the steel helmet while on the ground trying to discover the positions that were holding the infantry up, and it was here that the Maharajah’s turret got its tattooing.

The infantry, disorganized at this critical moment by the loss of their company commander, were unwilling to withdraw and yet reluctant to advance, and so continued to suffer on the ground, without being able to spot the enemy positions. The tanks moved on slowly, fearing that they were deserting their companions, but seeing no other way of helping them. They pushed their way through the trees and eventually climbed the banks of the pond and destroyed all the positions that they found. Without their eyes in this close fighting—the infantrymen who usually managed to stay so close—they must have missed some.

As they rumbled slowly out on the far side of the trees one tank commander was killed, shot through the head, and another tank was attacked by tank hunters with explosives, but was undamaged. At the same time they saw three Japanese followed by a white dog, crawling down a ditch that led from the village. It seemed that what was left of the defenders was leaving.

‘A white dog?’

‘Yes. A white dog. He was following close behind them.’’

How extraordinary. Was he all right?’

‘Yes. He was all right when we last saw him.’

Before dark I walked back through the village. Only the tank hunters had been killed outside their foxholes. All the others were full. There they still sat. Some pocked and smashed with bullets, some with their clothes still smouldering from the tracer, some, after the brutal propaganda cartoons, surprisingly good-looking, sturdy and young. If a British regiment had fought against such odds as they had fought, the story would live forever in their history, but it was not unusual for the Japanese to fight like this, and it may be that in Japanese eyes it was just considered that they had done their duty and that no further comment was needed.

That night, after all the heat and noise of the afternoon, the big tanks stood silent in the moonlight, wet with dew and cool to touch, in a grove of palm trees. About them the Rajputs watched, and within the square the men of both regiments worked and rested, slept and fed, close together. We had nothing but admiration for the infantry, who fought at such close range without the protection of two or three inches of armour, and they were grateful enough to us who saved them so many casualties.
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On 24th February, Probyn’s C Squadron, under Major W. M. Arkinstall, bounced a crossing of the Sindewa Chaung in an advance guard action which went like clockwork, and as well as killing some forty of the enemy, cleared him away from what could have been a serious tank obstacle.

The same day, the Royal Deccan Horse had taken Taungtha, the maintenance depot of the Japanese 33rd Division, in a converging attack, and that night both columns joined up close to the town.

On the 25th, the advance on Meiktila continued, and further villages were captured. The major event of the day, however, was the despatch of a composite force, commanded by Colonel Ralph Younger and consisting of B Squadron 16th Light Cavalry and B Squadron Royal Deccan Horse, to beat up a suspected Japanese Army Headquarters at Natogi, twenty-six miles to the north-east of Taungtha.

Before the column had gone very far, it was diverted to more urgent duties, namely the rescue of a company of 1/10th Gurkha Rifles which was surrounded and in difficulties.

First to arrive on the scene were the 16th’s Humbers, who found their progress barred by a burning lorry placed across the road. The officer commanding the squadron’s leading assault troopers was killed almost at once, and the rifle section sustained
further casualties, but the heavy return fire from the armoured cars destroyed the enemy’s machine guns covering the block. The arrival of the Deccan’s Shermans decided the issue, one troop swinging wide to the left to shoot up a village, whilst two further troops drove in line through the scrub, killing a number of Japanese. The Gurkhas having been relieved, the force returned to Taungtha that evening, and rejoined its parent units the following day.

During the 26th, the Deccan continued the advance with the object of capturing the airfield of Thabutkon, fifteen miles north of Meiktila. The move was made across open country, which presented difficult going for wheeled vehicles, being traversed by numerous sandy chaungs, but the tanks towed them across. Opposition was slight, consisting of ubiquitous sniping, which imposed delays but not a check, and by 1400 hours the undefended airfield had been taken.

Sappers at once began to make the airstrip operational, and the following day 17th Division’s third brigade, the 99th, began to arrive by air from Palel.

Whilst the transports were landing at Thabutkon, Lts Smit and Kundal Singh Hundal of 16th Light Cavalry were probing with their troops along the Meiktila road. Smit’s troop were fired on from a position near a chaung bridge at Egyo, so found an alternative crossing some one and a half miles to the north. Their return to their centre line took them across an airfield, and here Smit’s car was penetrated by a solid anti-tank shot which entered and left the vehicle without touching the crew, who evacuated safely. Whilst running to the next car, Smit was killed by a burst of automatic fire.

Meanwhile, Hundal’s troop had closed up to the bridge, and were engaging the defenders at point blank range. Withdrawing a little, Hundal asked for an air strike, which arrived promptly, and he was delighted to see his opponents running like a nest of disturbed ants.

The Japanese responded by shelling Hundal’s cars, and he withdrew, as they were obviously making a point of holding the Egyo bridge, and would take some moving.

It was decided to play the enemy at his own game, and whilst Probyn’s C Squadron attacked the block frontally with infantry support, Major B. L. Loraine-Smith’s A Squadron of the same regiment would carry out a wide left hook, and establish a block of their own two miles beyond the bridge.

By 1345 hours A Squadron were in position, and C Squadron, deployed on both sides of the road, advanced. The bridge and the banks of the nullah on either side were extensively mined, whilst the bushes lining the banks contained numerous snipers. Eventually crossings were found on either flank, and Captain Riazul Karim Khan drove down the far bank towards the bridge, shooting up the defenders from the rear.

With C Squadron pouring across the nullah, the enemy now took to their heels, and several smaller positions were overrun by the Shermans as they continued their advance astride the road. Eventually, the crowd of fugitives were caught in the open against the anvil of A Squadron, who shot them down. Several guns were taken during the advance.

This minor action at Egyo bridge marked the beginning of the Japanese defence of Meiktila. Once the axis of the advance had become clear, the garrison commander, Major-General Kasuya, had done everything humanly possible to put his defences into some kind of order, but he was critically short of time, men and materials. A regiment
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on a forced march through the town on its way to the Mandalay front was halted, and every available man was put into the firing line, including administrative personnel and hospital patients who were roused from their beds and issued with weapons. Strong points were dug under houses and into embankments, with interlocking arcs of fire, and every conceivable obstacle erected to deny access to the town, which was in any event difficult to approach, since it was bounded to the north and south by two lakes, and the country immediately to the west was broken by water courses.