Warfare Makes Strange Bedfellows

By Anthony A Roberts

Imagine a dusty airfield as American C47s fly in to move an entire Indian Division to stem a Japanese attack.
Eight nurses, lost during the debacle, fly out with the troops. Picture, Emma, the American Puritan from New England, Georgina, the English Aristocrat and their British Empire colleagues. There is a master sergeant from Harlem and a Jewish pilot from Yonkers to add to the mix. Each experience life in all its deadly facets. We learn their histories, share their dreams, and witness attitudes change by the day. The survivors, with the monsoon imminent, seek shelter in an abandoned mine. The girls experience the thrill of living away from the constraints of normality, with the added realization that tomorrow might never come for them. Primeval instincts come to the fore. The monsoon over `the pride' face the hazards of the war torn jungle, the Japanese and each their destiny. Few expected to come out of the jungle alive and for many they are right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony A Roberts
• Release date: Oct 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465941091

Anthony A Roberts

I was English born at Chester the City of the Legions. My mother died when I was 5. I was brought up by my maternal grandparents.My grandfather was a well respected Cheshire farmer.My fascination is history and I support the 49ers.These books are adult holiday reads.I enjoy most sports and traveling.My favorite trip was San Fran down the the West coast a cut across to Phoenix, Sedona, Vegas, Yosemite and back to San Fran.Have a good day.

Book preview

Introduction.

In a crazy world when it is kill or be killed

Do you take a walk down the dark side?

Or play it safe

for a future that might not happen for you?

In 1944, a world was at war. Any battle zone can be an awful place. The jungles of Burma are unforgiving regions at the best of times. There is the unrelenting heat, the humidity, the diseases and the rugged terrain of high mountains between these inhospitable valley floors.

No army commanders fancied fighting in such hostile conditions and both the Japanese and the Allies were no exceptions though fight they did.

More troops died of disease than in battle. It was the doctors and nurses of the medical services that picked up the pieces.

This is a story about dedication, the hand of fate, the struggle to win through at any cost and the mix of emotions that close comradeship engenders.

My characters are normal people placed in a harrowing environment; not of their choosing. This mix of identities attempt to make the best out of a very lousy job.

Together they succeeded though at a terrible cost for some. For those that survived the experience nothing would ever be the same again.

Map of South East Asia.

Glossary.

Biggles. World War One fictitious fighter ace.

Brengun. Larger British light machine gun.

Browning. M1919A6. American light machine gun.

Brooklands. British pre war motor racing circuit.

Carbolic. Hard soap.

Countess. Wife of an Earl.

Croydon Aerodrome.Main pre war airfield for London.

District Officer. Colonial civil service administrator.

Gooney Bird. American C47 Dakota transport aircraft.

Edwin Lutyens. Early 20c architect of New Delhi.India.

Ghurka. Indian Army soldier from the high Himalayas.

Havildar.Indian Army rank Sergeant.

Mangolds.Large turnips.

Mecaprine. Anti-malarial drug.

M &B tablets: Sulphonamide antibiotic.

Nip. slang term for a Japanese.

Queen Alexandra’s imperial nursing service. Military nursing service founded in 1902.

SBO.Senior British officer.

Sepoy. Indian Army- private.

Subedar Major. Indian Army- a native officer.

Stengun. British small automatic machine gun

Thunderbox: portable toilet.

Viceroy. Regal official leader of a major Empire country.

Webley.

Zero. Japanese fighter plane.

Chapter I. Wrong place, Wrong time.

Eastern India. March 1944.

The Japanese were making another push somewhere. Some idiot man decided the allies needed theatre nurses closer to the front and got the paperwork wrong.

Sandy McCulloch, a redheaded Australian correspondent, marooned in Chittagong decided to hitch a ride. It was not her wisest move.

A bossy transport officer shooed the females into a truck. A misspelt name and a smudge of ink completed the shambles.

Good day I'm Sandy.

Crikey an Ava Gardner look alike, Sister Bertha Briggs replied.

Not quite darlin, too tall and my butt is bigger. Shove over a little will you?

A dusty ride and a succession of extra bruises found them in the wrong place eleven hours later.

A colonel from the Indian medical Service welcomed the Nursing Sisters and their Australian cuckoo as he might a plague of mosquitoes. Goodness gracious, what are you doing here?

Sir, this chitty reads Arakan. Sister Emma Walker, the eldest sister, pointed to the smudged writing. At the Chittagong railhead, the transport officer put us on a lorry and well here we all are.

Can’t you see it is a mistake? The chitty clearly means Assam.

I’m sorry Sir, we are obeying orders. You seem to be stuck with us.

Not damned likely sister.

Sir, does swearing ever solve anything?

The Anglo-Indian’ nose became a darker shade of purple. White women in the forward areas are the very devil. It unsettles the soldiers.

We are nurses. We are not easily shocked.

That’s not the point, Sister. I shall have to allocate a tent and where do you expect to err, you know?

Emma glanced towards the latrines. It was poor timing. An Indian sepoy dropped his trousers then lathered his behind. The Colonel stifled another groan. See what we’re up against, Sister.

The wall?

The Colonel ignored her attempt at levity. The Fifth Indian Division is on the move. You’ll leave first thing in the morning.

Emma decided this was not the time to mention Military Nurses travelled first class.

The orders were clear and made out for eight. The resident officer had transferred Sandy, the Australian correspondent, to the Indian Military Nursing Service with the imprint of a rubber stamp.

Sandy was not amused. Bugger Em, that's what comes of cadging a lift from ruddy Poms.

Well don't blame me, I'm a Yank remember.

Imphael and Kohima, the linchpins of allied aggression in the Burmese theatre of operations, were under attack. The 5th Indian division was to fly out to reinforce the beleaguered garrisons.

The same three-ton truck that they had endured for mile after mile welcomed them back with a puff of dark smoke from the exhaust.

Not that again; do you think if I say I have the curse they’ll let me go into sickbay?

I don’t think so Bee. You tried that in Calcutta and all you got was an enema from matron.

The eight females endured another hundred miles, crossed two rivers, to find themselves marooned on a dust bowl of an airstrip.

Dohazari Airfield, Eastern India was a makeshift landing ground growing in importance as the high command learnt the value of air transport.

A cough and whirl of a propeller, followed by a second sequence as the other engine roared into life, highlighted another day’s action.

Georgina Goulding pointed towards the airplane and dust cloud. Croydon aerodrome was never like this though there is a certain rustic splendor; don't you think?

I ain’t got a clue? You are the one that ate with the silver spoon. The nearest I came to an airplane, before the war, was at the pictures. Her birth certificate read, Bertha Briggs. Bee wanted no reminding of a World War One German Gun, so preferred her nickname.

A transport officer, stymied by the sheer volume of traffic, allotted them a store’s tent alongside a cookhouse. One day had become a torrid three.

A consuming whiff of aviation fuel mingled with the dust. It dried out the back of the throat to make a cough almost dangerous.

It was not hard to think the worst; not hard to let your spirits drop in such an awful environment. The waft from the latrines pervaded the nostrils with every hint of a welcoming breeze even if the aroma of sweat stained bodies had desensitized their sense buds.

To keep any modicum of female allure should have been impossible. Outnumbered a thousand to one focused the mind. It had to be a hormonal thing that brought out the worst and the best. A whistle or a joke allowed sexual awareness to blossom. The need to mother them was part of their calling, the desire to mate a primeval instinct.

Anyone got any lotion? I swear this elastic is cutting me in half. Bee undid her slacks and pulled down her underwear to expose a nasty red blotch around a very slim waist.

Oh you poor dear that looks painful, Emma said.

What we need is a bath. I’m itching all over. Sandy added then scratched her stomach. This action inspired the others to imagine, or feel, the reality of another creepy crawly. Bugger, I swear I’ve got prickly heat. This ruddy country will be the death of me.

Shush Sandy, behave all of you. Bee, pull up your draws this minute, do you want the entire division gawping? Emma shouted while extracting a jar from her kitbag.

Tell em to form an orderly line. Blimey Em that feels better than any boy, Bee replied.

The giggles from the other girls eased the tension.

The sepoys’ fascination with white girls and the smell of curry and hot tea was enough to test the patience of a saint.

I’m sick of being ogled if I hear the rattle of another mess tin I’ll go berserk. Emma waylaid a Subedar-Major on his way to supervise the chow line. A guilty smile confirmed the medical officer that provided the tent had flown.

Sandy’s exclamation, bollocks, confirmed exactly what the others felt.

Emma gritted her teeth. That settles it. We’ll go to Imphael, even If I have to give an officer a blowjob to find us a berth.

This outburst brought a shocked silence. Mary thought she had misheard. Bee was surprised Em even knew the word, Georgina giggled.

What? Oh that. Well I have heard the word and the answer is no. At least we would be in the system. I will not stay and boil another day. This is hotter than New York in July.

I'll come along if you'll let me? An interview with some of the boys on the Front Line will go down well in Aus.

What are you doing here anyway? Mary Macmillan asked Sandy.

Jimmy, he's my cameraman and I send articles back to the Ministry of Information in Canberra. The idiot is in hospital, for a few days, so I went walkabout. Jimmy said it was Malaria. I suspect it was a dose of the clap.

Mary gasped at the revelation, wiped her brow, and stared. She knew about such problems but was never so open about boys’ ailments. Nurses never alluded to sexual behavior above a whisper.

An American C47 transport plane, diverted from flying the hump of the Himalayas into China, took off. The plane became a distant speck on the horizon as another transport aircraft taxied into position.

Look she’s crossing their precious ruddy runway. The flyboys will be cross. Mary pointed at the distant figure in a cloud of dust.

Emma can do it, if anyone can. Those East Coast Americans are awfully pushy, Georgina, replied.

Major Robert Eastlake had arrived with four soldiers, so heavily armed they looked like bandits rather than regulars. The three officers and two non-coms wore the faded Royal Engineers insignia. The Major was the typical Public school type that swept opposition aside with a superior demeanor. For a nursing sister life was different.

Emma did not enjoy pleading her case to a stranger, especially a guy but needs must. She marched across the dust-baked ground then saluted. Permission to speak, Sir?

Perspiration glistened on the sister’s forehead. The sweat stains on a sodden blouse allowed the indentation of the nipples to stir the imagination. The cold stare could not hide the female vulnerability. Well what is it, Sister? It is a dangerous crossing a busy runway.

Emma ignored the condescending male attitude and tried her best to be polite. Our posting was wrong Sir, some idiot guy as usual. A medical officer dispatched us into this hellhole and another placed us alongside a bread oven. We've been simmering for days. The transport officer blathers about priorities and has done nothing. Surely nurses will be required if there is a battle?

Robert smiled at the sister’s feeble attempt to keep a blossoming temper in check. The battle has started madam; yes nurses are essential. How many are with you?

Eight including myself, Sir.

I’ll see what can be done; wait here.

Emma forced herself to remain silent. It was not an easy option a nursing sister enjoyed having the last word.

Robert marched towards the air traffic controller. The controller glanced at the dust-encrusted body then gave a knowing stare. Emma suspected the guys had shared a disparaging sexual remark. Sometimes pretending to be the weaker sex brought rewards. A girl in a man’s world must play their silly games. The lean forward was pure provocation. Her newly exposed whiter cleavage glistened with perspiration as she blew the flyboy a kiss.

The Flying Officer smiled back. Emma groaned at the ease of manipulation. It was easy-peasy men were such simple creatures.

Robert returned and spoilt Emma's feeling of superiority. He pointed as a teacher might to a dolt of a student. The Dakota with the cartoon of the Wicked Witch painted on its side; can you see it?

I’ve seen a Gooney Bird before; we make them.

Make them do you? Robert answered, not having a clue what the sister was talking about. You did that artistic impression on the side?

Emma gave a less than amused frown. It had to be the airplane displaying the sauciest cartoon that was impossible to miss at the best of times. Georgina had made a subtle reference about the half-clothed body of a well-endowed female wearing a coned hat. There was a broom stuck suggestively between her thighs. It was a disgrace to allow such a thing on the fuselage of a flying machine. Emma blamed that weak liberal, President Roosevelt.

Robert Eastlake, in spite of misgivings, gave Emma a charming smile that had bowled over most of the eligible ladies from Poona to New Delhi.

It was a pleasant smile. There was a tell-tale glint in the eyes. The bloke might be almost human if he had bothered to shave. More than a hint of stubble lined his chin.

Take off at eleven hundred. Arrive late and they will leave without you. Do you understand sister?

Emma did not approve of his bossy attitude so made a final act of defiance by not saluting. The rude, kind, man was about to call her bluff. Instead thinking better of it the major turned and marched away.

Another battlewagon roared past as Emma cast a wary eye down the dusty airstrip before sprinting across. Bee was chatting up a havildar in broad daylight. She threatened Bee with death and destruction if the others were not on parade in minutes. She was the eldest someone had to take charge.

They all arrived except Sandy and Vanya. Well, where are they?

Sandy has a bad case of the tummy rumbles. Vanya is keeping watch. They’ll come at the last moment, Bee replied.

Oh the poor dear, Delhi belly is bad enough alone. Guarding our rears without the privacy of our Thunderbox takes on an entirely new meaning.

The other girls nodded in understanding.

Fall in on Georgina; by the left quick march. The Major’s section loaded box crates and rations into the airplane. Oh shucks, the Limey soldiers are coming.

Cheer up Em they’re only boys. Wouldn't mind an injection from that one; doesn't that tall officer remind you of Rudolf Valentino? Bee whispered far too loudly.

The other girls sneaked a peek. The tall Anglo-Indian captain waved.

Squad halt; behave yourselves and no flirting, remember we're meant to behave like ladies. Dismiss.

Em stop worrying, you’re worse than matron. Have a little fun you're a long time dead, Bee urged.

Never give them an inch and you'll not be disappoint—.

I'm rarely disappointed with my gentlemen, Georgina whispered. The trick is to manipulate the little dears properly.

I do try, Mary said. They are just not interested.

Can we forget our love lives, for just one minute, and get on the thing. Emma ordered.

All aboard that are coming aboard. The American co-pilot exclaimed as his curly head emerged from the side hatch. A murmur followed. Don’t waste time guys. Get the dames aboard smartish. The Witch is behaving. Let’s not upset her by making those engines overheat.

The girls clambered inside as more willing hands helped the pretty cargo aboard. More than one giggle carried above the background noise.

Idiot girls, she had told them not to give encouragement. Men were after one thing and that meant trouble if her experience was the norm. Would they listen, hell no.

Emma remained outside hoping the last two girls would arrive on time. Sandy and Vanya came in sight, running at a fast trot. The Major beat them by a short head.

That’s all I needed, a bout of the squirts, to complete a perfect day. Sandy more than whispered as she climbed aboard.

Emma tried to pass off the Aussie outburst as though the Major was either deaf or senile. Alas a little stomach upset Sir.

Emma had enough practice looking at disapproving males to last a lifetime or thought she had. The major was rather dishy in that unshaved sort of Clarke Gable mode.

The last things I need are sick women. If anyone is going to be poorly, I’ll have her pushed out without a parachute. See that Jeep? She's been left behind because of you.

A spoilt child deprived of a toy. It was pathetic. Major Eastlake was a weak, opinionated, English public school boy who thought everyone mere minions beneath him. Emma hated men like those, that she had married one provided a very mixed message.

Robert Eastlake almost gave Emma a friendly hand to help her inside then remembered her demeanor and refrained instantly. He preferred women who knew their place in the scheme of things. Females with too much responsibility became bossy like his nanny.

Emma took a welcoming hand to enter the world of aviation. She had over stretched. The top button of her blouse came undone. What could she do? Hands were essential to get inside the thing.

Welcome Ma’am; great to have a lady aboard. The American co-pilot remarked as he helped her inside.

It came as a pleasant change hearing a friendly accent. Hi there Captain. Yonkers I shouldn’t wonder?

Right first time Sis; why have you been there?

Yep might say so; lived in the Village during my student days.

And you a Limey?

Jeez not for real; stateside lass me, adopted by the Brits for the duration. I married one of their little boy wonders hence the wrong uniform.

Can we get a move on please sister? There is a war on, Robert ordered. The Yank had to be from an Eastern state possibly Vermont, where they almost spoke the King’s English.

Emma silenced moved deeper into the hold. It was like an Aladdin’s cave. There were crates, ammo boxes, and kitbags stacked high to the roof secured by a myriad of ropes and strapping resembling a spider's web. The small clutch of humans, jammed in between this other cargo, resembled sardines packed tight into a tin. Vanya waved and pointed to the few inches of vacant box seating along the side of the fuselage.

Robert squeezed in beside a blond nurse. The feeling of elation was heaven sent. His cadre had endured the unthinkable and the prospect of proper leave loomed large. Somebody else could accept the bloody responsibility. It was time for some light relief. He winked at Bee and held her astonished stare by glancing at her beautiful blue eyes. Each thought the other was drop dead gorgeous.

There was a look of trepidation, tempered with anticipation, on many of the female faces. This was the first time in a flying machine. Emma refused to let her apprehension show. The index finger and thumb closed the top button of the sodden garment. There was no point giving the little darlings fresh ideas. Does it have to be this noisy?

Who cares? Vanya shouted. The look on her beautiful oriental features said different.

The Witch moved forward with the speed of a greyhound released from a trap. The momentum forced Emma against the fuselage. The cotton holding the button gave up the strain. The projectile shot upwards, hit a crate then landed limply on the crotch of the Eurasian.

Damn and blast. Emma said as Laurel and Hardy’s `another fine mess’ came to mind. This buffeting reminded her of a camel at a fast trot. The last painful incident when sampling a mode of transport was hard to forget. Everyone said flying was dangerous. This might not be a good idea.

Georgina Iscoyd glanced across the packed hold. The memories of flying with Imperial Airways before the war made a vivid contrast. Daddy had been on the board of the company; making it VIP travels with a large V. Today it was third class travel with a small three. Georgina’s blouse was sodden with perspiration to match the sweat stained shirts of the soldiers. The smell was awful for those used to Carbolic.

In spite of everything, Lady Georgina Iscoyd, the Countess of Over, forced a wry smile. Matron would have a fit if she knew they were in an airplane over a warzone.

Chapter 2. The Days before Yesterday.

Emma Walker closed her eyes, unused to throbbing engines, sleep refused to come. Her mind drifted back to thoughts of yesteryear.

The fascination for the majesty of the Raj had been a childhood obsession. On qualifying as a nurse, her paternal grandparents provided a ticket to India and turned the dream into reality.

The poverty, the heat, and the crowds could be awful. The vistas, the grandeur, and vitality of the subcontinent swept aside negative vibes. She reveled in