The 24th Mile: An Indian Doctor's Heroism in War-torn Burma

By Tehmton S. Mistry

Dr Jehangir Anklesaria has come up the hard way. Having graduated from medical college in Bombay in 1914, he launches his medical career in Rangoon. Life is good until December 1941, when the Burmese city is bombed by the Japanese, and everything changes overnight.

Duty-bound, he decides to stay back and join the war effort, working tirelessly to quell a cholera epidemic. Under relentless attack, the army falls back towards the Indian border, where Jehangir suffers an ambush, losing all he has to rogues at gunpoint. Now he is just one of thousands crawling their way up and down the 5,000-foot-high, jungle-clad mountains of Assam, his body ravaged by malaria, dysentery, blood-sucking leeches and starvation.

In The 24th Mile, Tehmton S. Mistry, part of the next generation of Jehangir's larger family, evocatively recreates the story of his grit and heroism in his death-defying journey to safety.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Aug 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9789354225345

Tehmton S. Mistry

Born and raised in Mumbai, Tehmton S. Mistry met his wife in St. Xavier's College. Her uncle, Dr Jehangir Anklesaria, was integral to the couple's early years. They moved to America for post graduate medical studies in the early 1970s, where Tehmton started practice as an obstetrician and gynaecologist. The couple settled in St. Louis, where they currently reside.

Book preview

Prologue

DR JEHANGIR ANKLESARIA WAS dead. An itinerant refugee from Burma brought Goola the news that she was now a widow. Goola had never met this man, Ramesh*. But he told her that he knew her husband, and that Jehangir had been very kind to his family, which was not unlike him. He had given them a ride when they very much needed one.

Ramesh’s voice quivered as he spoke. ‘Ammah,’ he said—he had lost his own mother in the recent hellish journey across the mountains between India and Burma, and now addressed Goola as if she were his parent—‘Ammah, I saw the car, your car, the Austin. There must have been over a thousand bullet holes. All four Japanese planes must have shot at it. The soldiers inside, their bodies were red pulp. And Doctor Sahib was driving, I am very sorry to say.’

When they discovered the car, Ramesh’s mother, even in her frail state, had implored him to find Jehangir’s family and let them know. Now he had completed his mission; he was simply repaying the kindness Jehangir had extended to them when he gave them a lift in the Austin.

For a few seconds—which felt much longer—all the occupants of ‘The Shelter’, where Goola lived, were rendered speechless. Then came the hail of questions: when, where, how …

It was the middle of May 1942. The monsoon had drenched north-west Burma, but was still a month away from their home in Bombay.

The table fan struggled to push the humid air around the second-floor veranda.

Goola sat down. Her daughter, Khorshed, remained standing with an arm firmly around her mother as tears welled in her eyes. She had inherited the steel in her character from her father.

Goola cleared her throat and wiped at the veil of tears coating her cheeks. ‘My Jehangir dead? Me a widow? Never!’ she declared. She was an educated woman, and in that instant remembered the statement attributed to Mark Twain: ‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’ Indeed, she thought.

When she spoke again, her tone was subdued. ‘Ramesh bhai,’ she said, with the trace of a smile, ‘I hear what you are saying. But you don’t know my husband. Jehangir would never allow those Japanese to kill him.’ And that was that, as far as she was concerned. ‘Now come, Ramesh bhai,’ she continued, ‘you all must be so tired.’

‘Yes, Ammah. We catch the train to Surat in the morning.’

‘You and your family will stay with us tonight. We have a spare room downstairs,’ Goola said. ‘And now, you must eat after your long journey from Calcutta. You know, my daughter and I—we also came from Calcutta by train. But we didn’t cross the mountains. We came by ship from Rangoon. That was two—no, four months ago.’

The hospitality honed by two decades of exposure to affluent society in Rangoon had kicked in, and Goola busied herself with the task of making her new guests comfortable. But Goola was not just putting on an act; she truly believed that Jehangir was alive.

Now the only thing to do was to wait.

The days were not so bad. The rhythms of life kept Goola occupied. But at night, fully rejecting the possibility of widowhood became increasingly difficult. The sultry air barely moved through the mosquito net shrouding the bed, but the space next to her felt cool to the touch. Would the vacancy beside her become a permanent absence?

As the days passed, her conviction didn’t flag, but the demons in her mind gained ground. What if Ramesh bhai was right, she would wonder before chastising herself for the thought. No, Jehangir was alive. He had to be.

It would be close to midnight before Goola finally lulled her brain into slumber by silently chanting her prayers. Every night stray dogs would bark, frogs would croak and crickets would screech in a nocturnal cacophony to which she would eventually become oblivious.

On the afternoon of Thursday, 23 May, Dr Adi Driver, Goola’s uncle, arrived at The Shelter with a crate full of mangoes. He had closed the dispensary early and stopped at the fruit stall on Station Road on his way home from work. Goola smiled at the gift—a bright spot in yet another day spent waiting.

As they sat enjoying the sweet orange fruit with their afternoon tea, Goola was grateful that she and Khorshed were not alone. In addition to being her uncle, Adi was her husband’s old friend from medical school. Jehangir had helped him buy The Shelter, a modest bungalow in suburban Bombay, years ago.

When the events of World War II forced them out of Rangoon, Goola and Khorshed moved in with her uncle and his family, and Jehangir stayed behind to wrap up his duties as port health officer.

While Goola was relishing the mangoes’ soft flesh and feeling fortified by the company, the phone rang. Most Indian homes did not have a telephone; owning one was a special privilege. The Shelter had one because it was a doctor’s residence. Adi excused himself.

‘It’s a trunk call from Calcutta,’ Adi announced, capturing everyone’s attention. Long distance calls—or ‘trunk calls’—were even more unusual, most being restricted to three minutes. To make or receive one was a notable event. ‘They want to speak to you, Goola,’ he said.

Goola’s heart sank. At that moment, the resolve that had sustained her over the past four days melted away. She became just another vulnerable wife, waiting to be told that her husband was dead.

She got up and slowly walked toward the phone.

‘Hello,’ she said softly.

‘Hello, Goola, this is Jamshed speaking,’ the voice said.

‘Jamshed?’

‘Yes, Jamshed Anklesaria from Calcutta,’ her brother-in-law replied. ‘I have news for you.’

‘Jamshed? News? What—’ Goola’s voice trailed off as she slipped into a daze. She handed the phone to her uncle.

This was the call she had been waiting for, the one that would inform her unequivocally of her husband’s fate, but now she felt too weak to hear it first-hand.

‘Yes, this is Adi—Adi Driver. And you are Jamshed? What is it, Jamshed?’

‘This is the operator. Your three minutes are over. Do you want to continue?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Jamshed answered from the other end, ‘three more minutes.’

1

The ‘Flying Tigers’ Show Their Teeth

CHRISTMAS DAY 1941 WAS a sombre affair in most parts of the world under the shadow of World War II. The gloom was most pronounced in the Far Eastern Theatre, where the Japanese invasion of Hong Kong was finally complete and the air onslaught on Rangoon was just beginning.

A phalanx of Japanese heavy bombers with fighter escorts had crossed the Thai border at 11.30 that morning, flying west. Their target lay nestled within the vast delta of the Irrawaddy River, and from the air at 20,000 feet, it glinted like a pearl earring in the noonday sun. Soon after, air-raid sirens began their sequential wailing on the ground around Rangoon. Some Japanese pilots would later describe the vision of exploding bombs as ‘blossoming flowers’.

The sight from the ground was far more gruesome. There had been a raid just two days prior, on 23rd December. Many had been killed, and since then, thousands of residents—predominantly Indians—had fled. The streets of downtown Rangoon were deserted, the debris from the bombing interspersed with rotting body parts being pecked at by scavenger birds. Smoke from smouldering fires contributed to the overwhelming stench of death and metal. Most of the damage was concentrated around the docks lining the Rangoon River and the Mingaladon Aerodrome about ten miles to the north.

The Anklesaria residence, a large two-storey, four-bedroom bungalow, was somewhere in between, in the suburbs, which were mostly spared in the destruction of the city.

It was a relatively upscale neighbourhood, but the raids did not distinguish by class. Nor did the corresponding Air-Raid Precaution (ARP) warnings.

The bomb shelter to which the Anklesaria family proceeded was simply a huge trench in the garden, sufficiently deep and long enough to accommodate ten to fifteen persons. The top was at ground level, covered with corrugated metal sheets cloaked in sod. Steps at each end led down to the bottom. The inside was lined with tarpaulin, with benches and cushions for weathering the raids in relative comfort. But as it lacked any proper ventilation, it was not an especially appealing place to linger, especially since Rangoon is perpetually humid due to its proximity to the ocean. Plus, thanks to the city’s shallow water table, there was always water at the bottom of the trench.

There were many people in the trench now, although Jehangir’s immediate family comprised only himself, Goola and Khorshed. The rest of the group was made up of the domestic help, of which there were many—butler, cook, chauffeur, gardener, sweeper and their families—all of whom lived in their compound.

The steady note of the ‘all clear’ signal served as a welcome release an hour or so later, releasing the group from its proximity to the earth. The whole Anklesaria clan had executed the air-raid exercise flawlessly, much in contrast to the confused state of affairs two days earlier. Back then, the family and the staff had paid scant attention to the siren. They had been shocked out of their complacency by Jehangir, who, knowing them well, and being an ARP warden himself, had left his office with a police escort to shepherd the residents out of the compound and into the shelter.

That evening of 25th December, the Anklesarias had a few families over for Christmas dinner, including some Anglo-Indian friends from Khorshed’s mission school. After what had happened, the mood was muted and tense, mirroring the blackout imposed on account of the impending Japanese invasion.

Japanese invasion? Really? There was going to be an invasion by the little Japanese men?

These were questions posed sceptically by true believers in Pax Britannica, Jehangir being one of them. His faith in the British sprang from his experiences at sea during World War I, when Britannia indeed ruled the waves.

This was in stark contrast to the views (defeatist, in Jehangir’s opinion) of his neighbour, Mr Haji, an Indian who managed the Rangoon office of the Scindia Steam Navigation Company. He had repeatedly urged Jehangir to ‘take your family and go back to India’, to which Jehangir always replied, ‘Let’s wait and see.’

He felt he could afford to wait and see, knowing that he would never have a problem procuring berths on a liner to India due to his many connections within the world of merchant shipping. And yet, for all his outward confidence, Jehangir was secretly alarmed by Mr Haji’s prediction that before too long, Scindia would cease passenger service to and from Burma.

After the guests departed, Jehangir sat down with his wife and daughter, put his arms around them and confessed that perhaps they should seriously consider leaving their beloved home soon. Goola did not speak, just cried softly and nodded.

Khorshed, patterned after her father, was less sentimental about abandoning the only home she had ever known. Though she was only fourteen, the prospect of leaving her ordered and comfortable life behind did not appear to faze her. She, who had never sat on a bus or a train in all her years in Rangoon, gamely discussed, well into the night, the details of how they would travel to Bombay by ship and train and start a new life there from scratch.

Goola’s tears were soon replaced with more immediate concerns. Questions bubbled up: what should they take with them? What could they take with them? Should they alert their extended family of their imminent arrival? And on and on. It helped that there were no more air-raid sirens that night.

It had been two years since the eruption of World War II, but until the simultaneous Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbour and Hong Kong in December 1941, the Indian expatriate community of Rangoon had continued to enjoy the traditional colonial way of life. And why not? Were they not sheltered in the shadow of India, the crown jewel of the mighty British Empire? Few realized that the very existence of the Empire could be in danger, and for most, the Anklesarias included, their placid life reflected their lack of awareness.

The Anklesaria home had a formal garden, tended by an Indian mali who, depending on the time of year, would grow a wide array of flowers, including cannas, zinnias, balsams, coxcombs, bougainvillea, marigolds, stocks and phlox—which he insisted on calling ‘stockus and flockus’. In the back was a large lawn on which the family would host garden parties, and in the front was a covered portico that led to a tennis court.

Jehangir was fond of tennis. On weekends, he would invite his tennis buddies for ‘tin and bottle’ matches. The grounds were large enough to support a friendly cricket match as well.

At the rear were garages, a vegetable garden and quarters for the domestic help. Behind the enclave of homes was a lake where the local Burmese lived in small, modest tenements. Goola was always afraid of being burglarized by them.

The Anklesaria home was one of seven built on an estate owned by a Chettyar family. The Chettyars were professional moneylenders hailing from south India—some of the cleverest bankers in the world. There were over a thousand Chettyar firms in Burma, with a heavy concentration in the Delta region. They were masters of their trade throughout south India and Ceylon as well.

In addition to the Chettyar landowner family, which also lived in a house on the estate, the Anklesarias’ neighbours included the Accountant General of Rangoon and Mr Haji. The remaining three residences housed various embassies. There was also a small cottage on the property, occupied by a group of young American pilots who were supporting the Royal Air Force (RAF) in the aerial defence of Rangoon.

As port health officer, Jehangir Anklesaria was a large cog in Rangoon’s wheel of commerce. He and his staff occupied a block of rooms in the stately white marble building of the Burma Port Authority on the corner of Strand Road and Phayre Street. His office was in the heart of downtown Rangoon, overlooking the jetty from where the river ferries started, and from where anywhere of importance was within walking distance.

He could, for instance, walk across Strand Road to the wharves whenever his work required. Two buildings down from his office was the iconic Strand Hotel. Jehangir was on first-name basis with the staff, since he frequently lunched there when a ship’s captain came visiting. Or he could head up the tree-shaded Phayre Street, cross Merchant Street, and the next block would bring him to Dalhousie Street and the lovely Fytche Square. Then came Town Hall, the very elegant High Court and the Sule Pagoda, which marked the exact centre of downtown Rangoon.

If he was inclined to buy a gift for his wife, Goola, or his daughter, Khorshed, he could stroll to the imposing building sitting across the square from the High Court. This was the Rowe & Co. department store, which published a 300-page catalogue several times a year. If Goola wanted him to bring home some tandoori chicken, all he had to do was walk three blocks down to Mughal Street, where spicy aromas from a plethora of Indian stores and restaurants perfumed the air.

If there was cargo that needed importing, no problem—Jehangir simply had to cross the street from his office to the beautiful Customs House and talk to one of his buddies. His finger was on the pulse of Rangoon. He led a good life, was at the top of his game, and had worked hard to get there.

As a specialist in public health, Jehangir worked to prevent the spread of communicable diseases from ship to shore. His office was responsible not only for maintaining health and sanitation within the labyrinthine alleys and passageways of the wharves that lined the Rangoon River, but also for inspecting and certifying the medical fitness of the crews docked there. This task required a blend of skills.

The officer cadre was mostly British, while the labourers hailed from the ports surrounding the Bay of Bengal: Madras, Calcutta and Chittagong. The men he worked with represented diverse cultures, but they had one common thread: they were all sailors, and with that came a stereotypical propensity for certain illicit activities while in port. Although it was frowned upon, prostitution was legal in Rangoon, and the city’s commercial sex industry had the dubious distinction of being one of the largest in the British Empire. Consequently, preventing and treating venereal disease formed a large part of Jehangir’s daily routine.

Sometimes entire crews had to be vaccinated. Medical knowledge itself was not adequate to manage the rough-and-tough sailors—one needed grit laced with diplomacy and, at times, humour. Jehangir had generous helpings of all three.

He had acquired street smarts—not to mention deck smarts—during his own days at sea. He could stare down a sailor with a look of chiselled granite on his face, and the very next instant burst into a guffaw that would put the man at ease.

Jehangir did not merely project an air of authority—he had real authority, the power to stop a ship from disembarkation, a process also known as quarantine, a practice that began in medieval times as a defence against the spread of the Black Death. Jehangir could remember only two instances when he had ordered the black and yellow flag to be hoisted above a ship, a signal that told others in the harbour to stay away.

The bombing of Rangoon at Christmas shattered the city’s complacency. The last days of 1941 brought death, destruction and chaos. Panic filled the air, and working Indian families who could not afford steamer tickets collected their belongings and walked. In short order, the docks, the railways and the municipal services shut down. The men and women who did the grunt work were on their way to Prome, the next major town north of Rangoon on the Irrawaddy River.

The new military commander of Burma, General Hutton, was ushered in on 27 December, just before the new year. While he was responsible for defending Burma, it was Governor Dorman-Smith who was tasked with running the country, starting with Rangoon.

The docks had come to a standstill. The roads were choked with Indians using every mode of transport available to go north. From there, they would cross to the west bank of the Irrawaddy River, then traverse the Arakan Mountains via the Taungup Pass and try to reach the coast. The Arakan Mountains, ‘Yomas’ to the Burmese, are not particularly tall, yet they form an almost impenetrable barrier between the Irrawaddy Valley and the west coast of Burma. The ridges seem to stretch out forever, like the teeth of a saw, the whole razor-backed landscape tightly cloaked by a mantle of thick, lush jungle. Only one road crossed these mountains from east to west, through the Taungup Pass.

From there, they would go by boat to Akyab, on to Chittagong—a 160-mile journey—and finally to Calcutta, another 350 miles away. It is estimated that 1,00,000 Indian refugees reached Prome, ready to attempt the rest of the journey after the December bombings.

Despite the mass exodus, the port of Rangoon, and indeed Rangoon itself, was too vital to be shut down. Through it flowed the lifeblood of Upper Burma and all the resources the British would need to counter the Japanese invasion.

Indians in high positions, including Jehangir, were induced to go out and reason with the refugees, to persuade and cajole them into returning. Some of these officials travelled back and forth along Prome Road, addressing the crowds through loudspeakers.

They told labourers they could stay in camps with free food in the suburbs. They warned that the road through the Taungup Pass was treacherous and that the labourers would likely perish from hunger and thirst. Many refugees took these bribes and admonitions to heart and returned, but some refused to budge. In desperation, the police blocked the crossing to the west bank over the Irrawaddy at Prome. This action, and the realization that their food would soon run out if they stayed on the road any longer, caused the exodus to subside.

By early January, the majority of workers had returned, and vital city services—including the docks—had resumed.

Jehangir now kept long hours at the Port Health Office. The nature of his work changed; officers and managers, Jehangir included, worked shoulder-to-shoulder with the labourers to clean the carnage from the bombings.

They were aided in a big way by a docks operating company from India. This specially trained military group included officers from the Royal Engineers, stevedores, crane and winch operators, and others with dockyard experience. It also included an infantry section for defence. The jawans, Indian soldiers, worked night and day to unload ocean-going steamers with four to six holds, bringing in mostly military cargo from America bound for China via the Burma Road. Some packing crates contained ‘completely knocked down’ or CKD, which referred to vehicles that had to be re-assembled before they were delivered to the recipient. Amidst this organized chaos, the docks kept functioning.

While many of the essential workers returned, few others did. The embassies had cleared out long ago. Khorshed’s school, which had closed for the holidays, never reopened. This was a great relief for Goola, because now she would not have to be concerned for Khorshed’s safety all day, and besides, she would have someone to talk to in these difficult times.

Goola’s daily decisions became more complex. Mundane ones, like setting the day’s menu, required a different set of considerations—groceries were starting to get scarce. Although Burma was the world’s largest exporter of rice, even this staple was becoming more and more expensive.

Most of the domestic staff asked if they could leave—many of them were Indian and wished to return home—and Goola became resigned to letting them go. The mali decided to go, followed by the sweeper. Finally, the cook went north with the refugees; later, they would learn that his entire family perished in the journey. Their Muslim bearer, whose name was Noor, stayed with them until the end, along with their chauffeur, a Burmese man.

For Goola, not having as many servants was a blessing in disguise, because she and Khorshed became so busy that they had little time to worry about their own plight. The question was no longer if they would leave Rangoon but when, and when the time came, they would be unable to take any substantial possessions.

Jehangir began discussing his family’s contingency plans with senior members of the Port Commission and the director of public health. They decided that it would be prudent for Jehangir’s family to leave by ship. Jehangir himself, being classified as an essential civil servant, would have to follow them at a later date.

But before they left, Jehangir’s household would grow.

Jehangir was one of five brothers. The oldest, Dhunjisha, was actually his half-brother, being the son of his father’s first wife. He was a lawyer, a partner in the law firm of Cawasji and Anklesaria. Dhunjisha also lived in Rangoon, but closer to the city proper, and was therefore more vulnerable to the attacks. The bombing had become intolerable and for the sake of their physical safety, Dhunjisha and his family moved in with Jehangir. For the same reasons, so did three other families, all of whom were good friends of the Anklesarias.

Suddenly, there was a hustle and bustle in the house. Overnight, the air of despondency was replaced by one of relative contentment. That everyone was in the same boat made the burden seem lighter. And, of course, the women vied with each other for the challenge of preparing meals with severely rationed resources. In later years, this brief interlude of hospitality and shared sacrifice would become one of their nicer memories of the war.

One night, after dinner, everyone, all twelve of them, sat around the spacious front porch overlooking the tennis court. The bombers had come and gone earlier, so it was a safe bet they would not return till the following evening.

The night was moonless, the tennis court almost invisible except for the white stripes marking the ground. Electric power was mostly turned off during the night in wartime Rangoon, but on the porch pools of amber pierced the darkness where Jehangir had allowed eucalyptus oil lamps.

Jehangir passed around his pack of Whitehorse cigarettes. When the men had all lit up, it was time for the brandy. Drinking brandy was not a regular occurrence for Jehangir, who, as a rule, allowed himself only one cigarette and a small whisky before dinner, but these were not regular times, and besides, he certainly would not be taking his liquor with him when he left. Better to share it with family and friends than leave it for the looters or, worse, for the Japanese, he reasoned.

‘Dhun, what are your lawyer friends saying?’ Jehangir asked his brother. ‘Is Reggie going to declare martial law?’

‘Reggie’ referred to Governor Dorman-Smith, whose first name was Reginald (although they were not admitted inside the exclusive ‘Europeans only’ Gymkhana Club, educated Indians felt sufficiently well-acquainted with the governor and his staff to refer to him by his first name). It was the general consensus within the Indian community that law and order had deteriorated so alarmingly in Rangoon that martial law was the only solution.

Dhunjisha took a sip of brandy and paused before replying, ‘He may have to do that soon. But for now, he is trying to preserve morale. He just issued a statement that the British Army will successfully defend Rangoon. If he declares martial law, that would be an admission of defeat. Besides, martial law is usually imposed during a rebellion; he would not want the local Burmese to think in those terms.’

‘What you say certainly makes sense,’ Jehangir said. ‘It looks more and more like we will have to leave by ship. The Japanese are about to enter Moulmein.’

‘This would be a good time to have a crystal ball or have someone who can see the future and tell us the right thing to do.’ In the minds of his listeners, Dhunjisha’s comment instantly conjured up visions of the bizarre events that had rocked the Parsi community of Rangoon many years ago.

Jehangir looked at his brother with a mix of puzzlement and sympathy, as did most of the group. With his words, Dhunjisha had invoked the memory of his own beloved daughter’s unwillingness to heed the warning of a fortune-teller.

Perhaps the pensive mood of the evening and the company of his near and dear ones had allowed him to reflect on what might have been if only she had listened. Silence engulfed the group, each person yielding to the memory of that fateful day many years ago.

The year was 1932, almost ten years ago to the day. A group of young Parsi college students had organized an outing to Kalaw, a hill station on the Shan Plateau to the east of Rangoon. One of Dhunjisha’s daughters was in the group. She was a medical student at the time—brilliant in her studies, loved by her family, and a special favourite of her uncle Jehangir.

The bus they were travelling on made a stop for refreshment. While the students were outside, an old man claiming to be a fortune-teller approached them. He selected Dhunjisha’s daughter to be his subject, offering to read her palm, and, just for kicks, she agreed. After a few minutes of concentration, he announced that she should not travel any further; if she did, he warned, she would die.

The group, being young and adventurous, brushed off the dire prediction as nonsense. Their journey continued. But a little farther down the road, the bus met with an accident. Dhunjisha’s daughter, seated at the rear of the vehicle, was the only one dead.

The tragic episode left a deep scar in the hearts and minds of the family and the greater community. Wherever Parsis congregated, the stunning accuracy of a humble