Last Ship from Rangoon: A Tale of the Courageous Survivors of the Last British Merchant Ship to Flee Rangoon in 1942 and Their Adventurous Journey Back to England

By John Van Wyck Gould

On March 7, 1942, in the midst of WWII, a British merchant ship fled Burma (now Myanmar) only minutes ahead of the invading Japanese army. This vessel, the last ship from Rangoon, acts as the starting point for an engrossing account of escape, suspense, hope and courage.
In this period largely undocumented by American literature, fear and desperation invade the lives of British Merchant seamen as violence threatens their welfare, their ships, and their livelihoods. Last Ship from Rangoon recounts a harrowing tale of 132 seamens arduous efforts to return to England; imprisoned by the Senegalese, these men must flee from an inescapable French prison and hack their way through dense jungle toward the English colony of Gambia.
Based upon the story of a retired British Merchant Marine seaman, whom he met whilst traveling in South East Asia, John Van Wyck Gould has crafted a tale of adventure, courage, hardship, and survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504921312

John Van Wyck Gould

John Van Wyck Gould is a veteran of World War II, serving on a US Navy destroyer, and a graduate of Princeton University. He was a professional engineer managing research and development in the lumber industry. Mr. Gould retired to Bainbridge Island on Puget Sound to garden, tend bees, and write. He has written two other historical novels, The Last Dog in France and Escape to America.

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© 2015 John Van Wyck Gould. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/30/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2130-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2131-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015910932

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CONTENTS

Chapter One Rangoon

Chapter Two London

Chapter Three Portsmouth

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve Senegal

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen The Search

Chapter Fifteen Aboard the British Corvette H.M.S. Manchester

FOREWORD

Traveling in South East Asia recently, I met a retired British Merchant Marine seaman who told me a World War II tale of a British merchant ship fleeing from Rangoon, Burma (now Myanmar), only minutes ahead of the Japanese invaders on March 7, 1942. At age eighty, this man was returning as a tourist to the scene of his harrowing war-time experience. His story of trials at sea and on land made me wonder how he survived. I thought it was one of the most incredible stories of hardship, courage, and survival I had ever heard. Few Americans seem to be aware of this piece of World War II, fought in the Indian Ocean and on Madagascar against the Vichy French and the Japanese in 1942. It’s a story that needs to be told (although not in any depth in this book); I suggest the reader google battle of madagascar if interested in further information.

Unfortunately, I have lost the name of the seaman who told me this tale or even the name of the merchant ship, but I hope he or one of his shipmates will read this and contact me some day. I did not take notes, so I can only present this as a novel with made-up names and details, but the outline of the story checks with historical data. I, for one, am convinced it is true based on these historical events. I confess to creating fiction about the lives, loves, and characters of the crew to give human credibility to this tale – keeping in mind the fears, aspirations, and mores of the time. Perhaps it’s just as well none of them read this. All I can say is that one man’s account inspired this tale. Also, possibly my fascination with the story was motivated by my own years in the U.S. Navy during World War II.

One of four survivors of the events that followed, he was now back revisiting the site where he had been on that fateful day. After considerable prodding, finally told me the whole story— one that needs to be told because it deals with a largely undocumented part of World War ll.

Now that the war is behind us, we forget how close we came to losing it. After the rapid collapse of France in 1940, Britain (with help from Canada and Australia) fought alone against the Axis of Germany, Japan, and Italy. America was solidly isolationist. According to polls taken at the time, eighty percent of Americans believed the U.S. should stay out of the war. In 1940, the American military was pathetic, having the seventeenth largest army in the world, ranking behind Portugal, so Britain could hope for little help from us. After Germany invaded Russia in the summer of 1941, the outlook became totally bleak. Rommel had reached the doorstep of Egypt. German armies had raced through Belgium, Holland, France, Poland, Denmark, Norway, Greece, the Balkan states, and were knocking on the door of Moscow. Japan had captured Korea, Manchuria, a quarter of China, and had swept through the south Pacific islands, Indochina, Indonesia, Hong Kong, Singapore, and the Malay Peninsula virtually unopposed. One wonders what would have been the course of world events if Japan had not brought the US into the war by attacking Pearl Harbor. By December of 1941—about the time in which this novel is set—the US had begun to rebuild its armed forces and put its industrial might to work, building the Arsenal of Democracy, as Roosevelt called it.

Sixty-five years later, one cannot easily appreciate the feelings of fear and desperation that dominated the life of British Merchant seamen, as their ships were being torpedoed daily. To make matters worse, in 1941 and 1942, some of the most powerful English warships were going down in the China Sea.

Perhaps I owe an apology to modern Japanese for my use of pejoratives (such as Japs) to reflect the phraseology used at the time, and also to reflect the loathing American and British Allies felt for the Japanese at the time. These feelings followed from the Japanese military’s unnecessary and unprovoked slaughter of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians in China, Manchuria, Hong Kong, and Southeast Asia. As the years went by after the war, the world came to realize that the Emperor and most of the non-military Japanese were moral and honorable citizens of the world. Americans have apologized profusely for the internment of Japanese-Americans in camps, but that was an entirely different order of brutality compared to the slaughter in Nanjing and Manchuria—enough said.

And Americans have a special talent for forgiving and forgetting.

I want to acknowledge two valuable sources of my information about Burma; The Piano Tuner by Daniel Mason, an extraordinary novel set in Burma in the 1880s, and The Burma Road by Donovan Webster, which described the situation in Burma in 1941 and 1942.

This novel is a work of fiction, and does not make any pretext of historical textbook precision, but it is based on and built around factual events. Except for references to major historic figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental (even the sailor who told me this basic story since I have completely changed his persona).

John Gould

CHAPTER ONE

Rangoon

March 7, 1942

The radio crackled. All ships… Rangoon…evacuate… repeat… all… Rangoon… immediately… Japs advancing… Repeat… evac… The weak, intermittent radio transmissions coming from Calcutta, laced with blather about General Alexander’s heroic retreat to India, consisted mostly of static, but the message was clear enough—get out NOW.

Idiots, Captain Crooks growled. We know all that. The bloody idiots are a week late with their goddamn advice.

Frantically loading its shipment of critical war material (tin ore and teak), Her Majesty’s Merchant Ship, H.M.S. Stafford, rubbed gently against the pier in the suffocating heat—the last English ship in Rangoon. All the others had pulled out, including the last naval vessel, a corvette, the Shetland.

The day before, the Captain of the Shetland had scolded Crooks, "You’re on your own now, Stafford. We can’t give you any protection if you insist on sticking it out."

We have orders, Crooks had snapped, direct from The War Office, orders to bring back this bloody shipment of tin ore at all costs. It’s supposed to be a vital alloy for some damn thing. I hope they know what the hell they’re talking about, because the ‘all costs’ they’re yapping about may be our hides.

Well, good luck, old chap. I don’t envy you.

Now Crooks scanned the deserted pier and scowled at First Mate Griggs. Do you hear that? Sounds like rifle fire.

Before Griggs could answer, Petty Officer Carter tore open the wheelhouse door and shouted, Captain, the Japs are coming. I can see ’em on the far end of the pier.

Crooks ran out onto the wing. My God, you’re right. Sound the alarm.

He ran back into the cabin, grabbed the intercom mike and yelled into it, Abort loading. All hands on board—on the double!

The loading crew, which included Ensign Jeremy Wheatley and Second Mate Bradford, dropped the sling-load of cargo bins onto the pier. A bullet thunked into the side of the ship narrowly missing Jerry, and scattered shots began peppering the superstructure. The men ran up the gangplank like frightened mice and Carter immediately activated the winch to retract the plank even as the men were still on it.

Griggs, Wheatley, Captain shouted. Man the Bofors guns NOW.

Anticipating the order, Griggs had already started tearing off the canvas cover, while Ensign Wheatley grabbed a rack of ammo. In a matter of seconds, Wheatley had the twenty-millimeter Bofors bow gun loaded and cocked. He swung it around and fired a burst at a squad of Japanese troops advancing down the dock. A cloud of splinters from the wooden dock engulfed the men and the rifle fire stopped momentarily. When it started again, another burst from the Bofors put another temporary stop to the ship’s advance.

Crooks shouted, Cut the lines NOW.

The well-trained crew responded instantly while Crooks shoved the throttle to full power and shouted orders to the engine room. MAX POWER!

Keep on ’em, Wheatley, the Captain yelled into the mike. Carter, check on the crew. Tell ’em to keep their heads down.

The propellers thrashed the water, and Crooks turned the ship hard away from the dock though it seemed like an eternity before a few yards of water opened up.

Ensign Wheatley gave the Japs one last burst from the Bofors. Cap, he yelled up to the bridge, I can’t bear on ’em any more without putting a hole in our bulkhead.

Busy with a rifle, the Captain ignored Wheatley. Griggs, Bradford. Grab a rifle. We’ll do what we can.

The Japanese fire resumed, while the three officers lay flat on the deck and fired back with rifles, neither side doing any real damage. When the ship slowly picked up speed and pulled out of range, the firing gradually petered out. Crooks asked Griggs for a damage assessment, and then turned to Ensign Wheatley. With a scowl that would frighten a tiger, he bellowed, Now, Wheatley, what the hell is this I hear about you bringing a woman on board?

Sir, I can ex—

What in the goddamn blue blazes do you think you’re doing? I should have you court-martialed or better yet, have you thrown over the side.

Well, sir. If you’ll let me explain, sir, I… It’s a long story, sir.

A long story, indeed.

CHAPTER TWO

London

One Month Earlier - February 7, 1942

Jeremy Wheatley III slouched in an oversized leather chair, staring at Jeremy Wheatley II, his father. He restrained a yawn. "I’ve heard this lecture a hundred times, he muttered to himself. The family history is a terrible bore, and what the devil does it have to do with me, anyway? I’d rather make my own history."

In 1882, his grandfather, Major Jeremy Wheatley, had fought in the Third Anglo-Burmese War. His regiment had succeeded in capturing Mandalay, annihilating several hundred Burmese, who had put up a short fight with lances and a few rusty muskets against the British cannons and modern rifles. As a reward, he had been knighted, becoming Sir Jeremy Wheatley, and was granted rights to two thousand hectares of Burmese land by appointment to the Queen. It turned out that the land near Mandalay on the Irrawaddy River contained some of the finest teak timber in the world. Worth a fortune, the teak soon made the Wheatley family exceedingly wealthy.

At this moment, however, Jeremy III, who preferred to be called Jerry, was mistaken. His father had a different lecture in mind. The elder statesman of the family cleared his throat and paced the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. His flabby, florid features and neatly trimmed mustache twitched.

"Son, the time has come to discuss your future, time for you to assume certain family responsibilities. You will turn eighteen tomorrow, and you will be called up to fight. Of course, you are fully aware of that, but the question is: what kind of fighting?"

Standing in front of the fireplace, he cleared his throat again and fixed a stern gaze on his son. Jeremy III remained silent, and studied the stuffed tiger head over the fireplace and the leather-bound books lining the walls, which he suspected had never been read.

As our only son and heir, Jeremy II continued, you are, of course, the object of concern on our part—that you survive this damnable war to carry on the family name and tradition. You are no doubt aware that I have some powerful friends in the War Office and can arrange something suitable. In fact, I have—

Jerry interrupted, No, father, I don’t want any special favors. I plan to join the RAF where I’m really needed and—

Don’t interrupt me, son. I haven’t finished. If you want to get yourself killed, you can do it in a way that is more important than the RAF. Besides, they have far too many volunteers and not enough airplanes. You may request the RAF, but you’ll end up in the infantry where they are sending everyone your age now. So be quiet and listen."

Yes, father, Jerry answered in a slightly condescending voice.

This war is becoming a frightful bother. Making a bloody mess of London, isn’t it? Not much we can do about it, is there? But right now, son, I want to talk about Burma. As you know, the Wheatley business in Burma has been running like clockwork for sixty years. We haven’t had a thing to worry about on this end—just cash the checks and invest the money.

I have the feeling you’ve been doing that quite successfully, Jerry muttered. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have sent me to Harrow and on up to Oxford.

Jeremy II frowned. I asked you not to interrupt. Now, our manager out there, Alistair, he’s been a real brick, a fine fellow. But we haven’t heard a single word from him for two months—and no checks. Of course, the mail is all bollixed up—the war and all. Frankly, I’m worried. The Japanese have taken a third of China, all of Indo-China, and Hong Kong. They’re knocking at the door of Siam, Burma and India. The Burmese natives don’t like us one bit and are showing signs of teaming up with the Japs—hard to believe with all we’ve done for them. Frightfully, ungrateful. Frightfully. As you know, the Wheatley Enterprises are up north where we don’t have much control, or rather no proper protection at all. General Alexander is pulling the troops back to India. He seems to be frightfully good at retreating—like Dunkirk. But I digress.

Like you say, father, there’s not much we can do about it, is there?

Don’t interrupt, son. Now, let’s see, where was I? Yes, northern Burma. As you know, Alistair has cut down all the teak—made a tidy fortune for us. Can’t complain about that, can we? But, quite by accident, he discovered a fine tin mine when he uprooted all those trees—some of the richest tin deposits in Burma just sitting there, staring at us.

Thank God for Sir Jeremy, Jerry mumbled.

His father ignored him. It so happens that tin is a vital wartime metal, an alloy needed for certain metals used in armaments.

So we’re suddenly getting frightfully patriotic.

As a matter of fact, we are. I started to say, before you interrupted, that I have a powerful friend or two in the War Office—Admiral Badgely, to be specific. I have spoken to him about you, about tin, about Burma. He understands the vital contributions of Wheatley Enterprises to the war effort.

Jerry opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

His father continued, I have discussed with him the best way to approach the situation. He agrees that something must be done, but he says there is no way to divert troops to northern Burma. He says the army is not cooperative—not cooperative at all, in fact—and he does not have much influence there. As a matter of fact, I don’t either. Now, here’s what he’s offered to do. He will see to it that you are commissioned in the Royal Navy as an Ensign. I told him about your fine performance at Harrow—captain of the rugby team, cum laude, senior prefect, admitted to Oxford. I’m right about all of that, aren’t I?

Yes, but I—

Jeremy Wheatley II puffed out his chest and stood ramrod straight like a Swiss guard, looking a bit ridiculous. "There’s a war on, son. We have to take shortcuts. Can’t wait around. Have to take action. So, like it or not,