George MacDonald Fraser - Quartered Safe Out Here

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First published in Great Britain by Harvill 1993

Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1993

George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBN: 9780008334581

Ebook Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780007325764

Version: 2019-04-08

FOR JACK, ANDREW, HARRY, AND TOM,

SOME DAY,

THE TALE OF A GRANDFATHER

You may talk o’ gin and beer

When you’re quartered safe out here,

An’ you’re sent to penny fights an’ Aldershot it,

But when it comes to slaughter

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.

RUDYARD KIPLING, Gunga Din

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Introduction

Author’s Note

Quartered Safe Out Here

The first time …

Back in Blighty, …

Because I dislike …

“Aye-aye, Jock lad, …

The battle of …

Winston Churchill has …

“’Ey, Jock, are …

The fight to …

A few miles …

Apart from being …

17th Division closed …

Pyawbwe fell next …

When I was …

With only 140 …

Polling in the …

Calcutta is still …

I parted company …

“’Ey, Grandarse, ’ear …

Epilogue: Fifty Years On

Footnotes

Glossary

About the Author

Also by George MacDonald Fraser

About the Publisher

It is satisfying, and at the same time slightly eerie, to read in an official military history of an action in which you took part, even as a very minor and bewildered participant. A coloured picture of men and guns and violent movement comes between the eye and the printed page; smells return to the nostrils, of dusty heat and oil and cordite smoke, and you hear again the rattle of small arms and crash of explosions, the startled oaths and the yells of command. And if the comparison is a humbling one, it is worth making if only to show how dehumanised military history has to be.

By rights each official work should have a companion volume in which the lowliest actor gives his version (like Sydenham Poyntz for the Thirty Years’ War or Rifleman Harris in the Peninsula); it would at least give posterity a sense of perspective.

For example, on page 287 of The War Against Japan: volume IV (The Reconquest of Burma) , it is briefly stated that “a second series of raids began … and – Regiment suffered 141 casualties and lost one of its supporting tanks …”

That tank burned for hours, and when night came down it attracted Japanese in numbers. We lay off in the darkness with our safety catches on and grenades to hand, watching and keeping desperately quiet. The Japs milled around in the firelight like small clockwork dolls, but our mixed group of British, Gurkhas, and Probyn’s Horse remained undetected, although how the enemy failed to overhear the fight that broke out between a Sikh and a man from Carlisle (someone alleged that a water chaggle had been stolen, and the night was briefly disturbed by oaths in Punjabi and a snarl of “Give ower, ye bearded booger!”) remains a mystery. It was a long night; perhaps memory makes it longer.

Or there is Appendix 20, an account of Deception Plan “Cloak”, whereby General Slim deceived the Japanese by a fake crossing of the Irrawaddy. He confused Nine Section, too; we dug in at no fewer than three different positions in as many hours, Grandarse lost his upper dentures on a sandbank, little Nixon disturbed a nest of black scorpions in the dark, we dug in hurriedly in a fourth position, and the general feeling was that the blame for the whole operation lay at the door of, first, Winston Churchill, secondly, the royal family, and thirdly (for some unimaginable reason), Vera Lynn. It should be understood that we did not know that “Cloak” had worked brilliantly; we were footsore, hungry, forbidden to light fires, and on hundred per cent stand-to – even although, as Grandarse, articulating with difficulty, pointed out, there wasn’t a Jap within miles.

It is not facetious to recall these undertones of war. With all military histories it is necessary to remember that war is not a matter of maps with red and blue arrows and oblongs, but of weary, thirsty men with sore feet and aching shoulders wondering where they are, and when the historian writes: