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4

Destiny Obscure

MAESOD may not be on the map. It is a mean little village on the bank of a shallow creek that forms the boundary between Thailand and Burma in the mountainous hinterland east of the Dawna Ranges. It is less than 100 air miles from the port of Moulmein, where the Salween drains itself into the sea. But you must also reckon with the mountains, jungles, and rivers in between.

Maesod is the frontier post on the Thai side, a desolate little spot on the fringes of the jungle, with two rows of thatched huts along the main street and a few dilapidated buildings which house the government offices. It was in Maesod that my hurried trip from Bangkok came to an abrupt end. It was there that I spent the best part of the winter of 1941-42. And it was at this dreary jungle location that I witnessed one of the quaintest military campaigns of the century—Japan's bullock-cart invasion of Burma.

It was a slow train, packed to capacity. Most of the passengers were women and children, fleeing to the safety of their countryside homes, immediately after the Japanese forces began their occupation of the capital. A few Europeans, who tried to board the train, were promptly taken away by the Japanese military police at the Bangkok railway terminus. There were three of us in a corner of one of the compartments. And every time the train stopped at a wayside station, we feared that the end of our homeward journey was at hand.

The train was running behind time. We reached a place called Pitsanuloke, about 250 miles north of Bangkok, by midday. The next local train northward was a couple of hours later. We whiled away the time at a nearby Buddhist shrine. We thought it was safer than the waiting room at the station or the restaurant across the street. The idea was to get to the frontier and cross into Burma, without getting caught by the Japanese. We did not have the faintest idea that the Japanese were not treating Indians as enemy subjects. And it just did not occur to us that the frontier might be closed.

My companion on this fateful jaunt was Mr. S. A. Ayer, a veteran journalist, who had been in Bangkok for about a year as Reuters correspondent. He had waited, in vain, for instructions from his head office in London, without knowing that Thailand's communications with the outside world had been cut off, and finally decided on the flight to freedom. We were intimate friends, our personal problems were fairly identical, and each regarded the other as a source of strength and confidence. The third man on this race to the frontier was a native of Gorakhpur, in Northern India, who used to work as head watchman at one of the British banks in Bangkok. He decided to quit, after the Japanese sealed the bank and took away the British officers.

A few hours journey by train to Sawangaloke, followed by a hectic bus ride, took us to the tiny town of Raheng on the edge of the jungles and mountains. On the way, we passed the ancient city of Sukhothai, named after the birth place of the Lord Buddha in India, where everybody at the market place and the bus stand seemed excited over the outbreak of the war and yellow-robed Buddhist monks solemnly chanted hymns and prayed for the safety of Thailand and the Thai people.

Raheng, on the east bank of the Maeping River, was considered those days as the last outpost of civilization in central Thailand. The town was fast asleep by the time we staggered out of the rickety bus. The local Chinese hotel keeper, whom we woke up, refused to let us in until a Thai policeman on his beat intervened with the towkay (proprietor) on our behalf. But, once we were comfortably settled in the only room he kept for hire, readily accepting his terms, the towkay turned out to be one of the most helpful men in Raheng.

We explained our plans to him and insisted that we must start for Maesod early next morning. The towkay tried to discourage us, pointing out that we required at least two days to prepare for the five-day trek across the jungles and mountains. Guides, porters, and ponies had to be procured; and foodstuff for the party had to be acquired and packed. Besides, he asked whether we carried with us some sort of first-aid kit and the ointment to keep off the leeches in the streams and all along the jungle track.

We assured him that we were not bothered about the leeches, or even the food, but we needed a guide and a couple of ponies to carry the two small suitcases which were all the luggage with us. And we implored him to get these lined up immediately.

I sat sipping tepid beer, which was the only beverage readily available at the place, while my companions waited for the black coffee they had ordered. In less than an hour, the towkay turned up with two young men who offered to take us across to Maesod. They had also brought two aged ponies to carry our luggage, foodstuff, and other things. They warned us, however, that the trek would be arduous and take a minimum of four days.

We readily agreed to the terms they stipulated and the expedition was on it way before dawn. The ferry was not available, so we waded across the Maeping, and then the jungle enveloped us. First came the low-lying hills, covered by lush green, and then the steep barren mountain ranges. The narrow, winding tracks through the dense forests and the perilous ascents and descents, traversing the mountains, held no terror for us. In our anxiety to get to the border as quickly as possible, we waded through muddy streams and swamps, without noticing the leeches until they climbed up the thighs and blood blotches daubed the trousers. On the first day, we did not even stop for lunch and our guides had a hard time keeping pace with us. We spent the night in the open, sharing the rice cooked by the guides—and thinking of the vast changes since our joy ride on the river in Bangkok just 72 hours ago.

It was an awful trip. By the end of the second day, we were exhausted. We even began to doubt whether we would complete the journey to Maesod. But the march continued, painfully but vigorously, as we neared our destination.

From the third day, however, we were no more the lonely travelers in the jungle. Units of the Japanese infantry and cavalry forces were also on the march, presumably bound for the frontier. They came up in batches of 50 or 100—silent, grim-faced, well-disciplined men, in shabby mud-stained uniform. Every three or four hours, they halted for their meal. This seemed to come from nowhere to the jungle track—a large pot of steaming rice and a roasted pig hanging from a pole. Each soldier helped himself to a bowl of rice and a slice of pork, and washed it down with the water from the stream. And, then, they continued the march.

Finally, after a trek lasting three and a half days, we hit Maesod and made straight for the district office. We produced our passports, the aliens registration books, and other documents and asked for permission to cross the frontier into Burma. The officials eyed us suspiciously and told us we should have known that the frontier was closed, after the enemy across the river made an attempted aggression and was repulsed by the Thai frontier police. We gathered that there was a minor shooting incident across the creek between the Thai policemen and the dozen or so Sikh policemen on the Burmese side. The incident was just over and the Thai frontier officials were on the lookout for spies and fifth columnists when we staggered into the district office after that strenuous journey.

The officials kept our papers, turning the pages carefully, while we waited at the counter. Then, I overheard the whispered conversation between them in the Thai language, and realized the peril in which we had landed ourselves. Their discussion centered on the vital question of keeping us in custody, as we were strangers in the place and our mission looked extremely suspicious.

I thought fast and brought out from my pocket a small token of my standing with Thai officialdom—the Thai Home Defense Medal (corresponding to Britain's George Cross) which had been "graciously awarded by His Majesty the King, for meritorious service rendered to the country and the nation" just a couple of months ago, for my part in the frontier war between Phibun Songkhram's Thailand and Indochina under the Vichy regime. I hastily pinned the medal to my shirt and held out the citation to the senior officer. In a flash, the frontier officials were changed men. Their hands went up in salute and they became all goodwill and hospitality. They offered the most profuse apologies for any misunderstanding their attitude might have caused, sent for a couple of Indians in the locality and ordered them to find us some accommodation and help us in every possible way. As for the exit permit, they were helpless. The frontier was closed and, any way, it would be unsafe to attempt the crossing. Where was the guarantee that we would not be shot by the frontier guards on the other side? The logic was irresistible.

In a dirty little hut on Maesod's main street, we established ourselves and spent a month and a half of what my friend, Mr. Ayer, called "clean living and high thinking." Seated on a torn straw mat, which was the only item of furniture in our new abode, and sipping the coffee ordered from a nearby shop, we discussed war strategy and speculated on a British advance into Thailand via Maesod. The only radio in the village was at the district office and, though we were always welcome there, we did not wish to bother the officials too often, with our hunger for news.

In a few days, Maesod became a busy place. The Japanese troops started arriving in large numbers, walking across the jungles and mountains we had covered. They brought with them a few hundred horses and then went about requisitioning all the ponies and bullock carts. They also collected all the bullocks belonging to the villagers for the transport of ammunition and supplies. British aircraft came over occasionally and observed these Japanese preparations and we thought we were destined to cover another border war. Then, one fine morning, the Japanese troops walked across the creek, followed by a colorful assortment of pony carts, bullock carts and pairs of bullocks tied together, carrying ammunition cases and stores on wooden planks perched across their back. The bullock cart invasion of Burma was under way.

We did not see any fighting—did not even hear any shooting. In three days, we were told, the Japanese had reached Cockerill, a town about forty miles from the frontier, on the road to Moulmein. And, then, we decided to return to Bangkok, instead of dying of malaria and dysentery in Maesod.

The task, however, was not easy. Thailand was at war and there were restrictions on the movement of foreigners. According to wartime regulations, Indians had to apply for and secure an official permit from the Indian National Council in Bangkok and we had to conform to these formalities. When the permit was finally granted, they gave us a police escort up to Bangkok, though we never knew why that distinction was conferred on us.

This time, we were familiar with the jungle route. As the Japanese had requisitioned all the ponies in Maesod for war purposes, we hired an elephant to carry our luggage. It was an unexciting retreat and we did the trek by easy stages—five days to Raheng and four days by road and rail to Bangkok. And we found the Thai capital thoroughly changed in the brief period we were away.

Bangkok was all agog under the new order. The hastily-concluded agreement for the transit of Japanese troops had matured into a formal declaration of war by Thailand on Britain and the United States. The Thai-Japanese alliance was considered sacred and the Thais looked on helplessly, as Japanese officers and civilians occupied every available building in the city and the Japanese military police often took the law into their own hands. Mr. Ayer, found his house comfortably occupied by a Japanese army officer and a new tenant had taken over my house with all my belongings. The result was that we had to establish ourselves elsewhere. But there was no paucity of accommodation, as quite a large number of people had moved out of the city because of the occasional air raids.

Life under the new order, however, was a trifle different from what it was before the flare-up. The Japanese left me alone, mainly because of my close association with the leaders of Thailand. But the record was there with the kempeitai (Japanese military police). I had been working for the Associated Press and my friend, Ayer, was a correspondent of Reuters, Besides, the Bangkok Chronicle, which I edited for nearly six years, had maintained Thailand's policy of absolute neutrality in a manner that was not exactly to the liking of the German Legation or the Japanese Embassy. We were exhausted, physically and mentally, and wanted to lie low for the time being. But, amid the new-fangled politics of the new order, we knew it would be difficult.

Looking back at those embarrasing days and weeks of suspense and anxiety, the most unbearable factor was the gnawing feeling of "not belonging"—to the society in which one existed, or any society, for that matter. It was shocking to realize how unpopular, how helpless I had suddenly become—and, that in Bangkok where, I imagined, I was somebody. And then, one day, equally suddenly, I found myself swimming in Indian Independence League politics!

The first phase of the war was almost over by that time. Life was fairly normal in Thailand but reports from Malaya and other parts of Southeast Asia were hardly reassuring. The Japanese military administration in these former colonial territories was a quaint combination of absurd reforms and ruthless tyranny. Probably, the exigencies of the war were partly responsible for it. But millions of people had already become disillusioned with the new order and the promised haven of Asia for Asians. The military regime was so stern, however, that everybody soon learned to value his head and became a loyal subject of the Tenno heika (Emperor) and an obedient servant of the Japanese war machine.

If someone suddenly set up a small wooden board, with something written in Japanese on it, at the gate of your house, you realized immediately that the place was needed for the use of the army, either for the residence of some officer or for operating a consolation camp, and you quit promptly, bag and baggage, and thus contributed your share to the victory campaign. If you happened to be taking a stroll and saw some Japanese soldiers unloading cases of ammunition from a fleet of lorries, you just rolled up your sleeves and helped the war effort. If you tried to walk away, you would not get far; you would be lying on the road with a bleeding bayonet wound in your back.

The Japanese military administration had introduced a series of reforms. All the clocks in Southeast Asia showed nothing but Tokyo time, which meant that the people got up at 4:00 in the morning, got to their place of work at 6:00, took their dinner at 4 p.m., and went to bed before 6:30 in the evening. Many people began to complain that meeting Nippon-jin always gave them a pain in the neck, as they had to bow before every one of them, and there were special orders specifying just how many degrees one should bend his back, to comply with the proper standard of the new order etiquette.

The new order, however, brought its crop of small mercies. Most of the people who formerly worked in British Government offices were able to get back to their jobs, though under a system of reduced pay. Those who picked up a smattering of Japanese went high up, while those who acted as agents and informers fared even better. The military administration tried to out-British the British in the tactics of "divide and rule," handling all matters on a communal basis—Malays, Chinese, Indians, Eurasians, and others, each under a leader chosen by the military chiefs. Those who spoke English in the streets were looked upon with distinct disfavor, suspected of being enemy agents and accused of undermining the morale of the public. Down went most of the signboards in English and those in Japanese took their place. Bars, restaurants, hotels, and dance halls were named Tokyo, Osaka, Kobe, and Sakura. Those who were unemployed, or suspected of being troublesome, were promptly rounded up and carted off to work on the strategic highways and railways which the Japanese had started building between Thailand and Burma.

Throughout Southeast Asia, the Indian Independence League was recognized by the Japanese military authorities as a branch of essential war service. League membership was supposed to assure your identity as a non-enemy subject, while active work for the League ensured some safety from the prying eyes of the Japanese military police.

Malaya was the nerve center of the Indian independence movement. League branches were established in most of the towns and many prominent Indians had joined the movement. While the civilian side of the organization grew fast, Mohan Singh and his followers were busy with the task of organizing the Indian National Army. In three months, about 12,000 Indian prisoners of war, out of nearly 80,000 who surrendered to the Japanese in Malaya, had joined the Indian National Army. The rest seemed undecided and stayed on in the prison camps.

The League organization was gaining popular acceptance in Thailand, too. After the death of Swami Satyananda Puri, in the air crash before the Tokyo conference of Indian leaders, the Indian National Council was taken over by one Mr. Debnath Das. He had arrived in Bangkok a few months before the outbreak of the war from Kobe where he was an employee of an Indian firm. He had been associated with Satyananda Puri in the work of the Thai-Bharat Cultural Lodge and was popular with the Japanese authorities.

The Indian independence movement in Burma had not made any significant progress. Rangoon had set up a League branch but the task of pacification had not yet been concluded in the interior. Besides, many of the more prominent Indians had left Burma and the Japanese found it difficult to locate acceptable leaders. In other occupied territories, Java, Borneo, Sumatra, the Philippines, and Hongkong, the Japanese military authorities were busy picking up suitable leaders of the Indian communities.

Indian leaders in Malaya were persistent in the demand that the Independence League, with its unorthodox origin, should be placed on a legal and constitutional basis, before it could command the respect and confidence of the people. This, they urged, was also important in the context of the struggle for independence inside India and overseas Indians wished to ensure that any movement they launched with Japanese assistance would not conflict with the policy and program of the Indian National Congress. The Japanese military authorities discussed the problem with Rash Behari Bose in Tokyo and it was decided to set up the headquarters of the Indian Independence League in Bangkok and to organize a conference of Indian representatives from all the territories in eastern and southeastern Asia.

Rash Behari landed in Bangkok early in June (1942) with A. M. Nair and a few other Indians from Japan. Among them was A. M. Sahay, a long-time resident of Kobe, who styled himself President of the Indian National Congress of Japan. Rash Behari held a press conference, to which I was invited. He had known me before and I happened to know the journalist crowd in the city. One of the decisions, announced at the press conference, was to set up a "preparatory committee" to organize the big conference of Indians in East Asia. The next day, I received an official letter from Rash Behari, appointing me as Secretary of this preparatory committee. And Debnath Das followed up the move by selecting me as a member of the Thailand delegation to the proposed conference.

The uneasy period of hibernation had ended, as suddenly as it began. I joined the movement, with my eyes wide open, and after a sober assessment of the prospects. There was adventure aplenty ahead of me, a trifle dangerous no doubt, but if all went well, there was a chance that I might be serving my country. Or, for all my excitement and craze for adventure, I was probably a coward at heart. I hated the peculiar penance I was going through. I was tired of the self-condemned role of the unwanted character. And I feared the painless operation of the samurai sword. The result was that I steeled my heart to see the game through, in spite of the risks involved, and to strive hard for survival.

Rash Behari Bose was no professional politician but he was gifted with a great deal of political common sense. Thirty years of exile from India had mellowed the fiery terrorist that Rash Behari had been. But the energy and pluck of the old war horse were remarkable.