The Patrol

Clements lifted the field glasses to his eyes and panned across the tangled jungle basin below him. Somewhere down there, invisible beneath the suffocating canopy of green and mist, the Nyaurang river snaked westward until it choked out into malarial wetland in the bowl below. Far to the south and west, the jungle thinned into scratty brush and, eventually, into the sun-hardened plainlands that surrounded Meiktila. He tried to focus the glasses on the distant smudges of smoke which pointed to the city but it was lost in the sickly brown haze that hid the horizon. He turned back to the basin, peering across the ancient treetops for camp fire smoke amid the wisps of jungle steam, or any other signs of human activity.

He knew there'd be no one down there, bar maybe a few intrepid natives, and that the remnants of the Japanese company they'd been tracking for the past two days had followed the high ground the patrol now occupied. They'd passed by this very ridge not two hours previously. It gave him something to do though, other than go back to the clearing where his patrol was resting. They'd buried Watkins now and the previously fragile mood had turned sour. Sour and dangerous.

Clements heard someone moving through the bushes behind him and he lowered the field-glasses. Private Haynes emerged from the greenery.

"Private," Clements said. He was glad it was Haynes. Haynes was alright, he was new and his legs still hadn't got brown from the Burmese sun. He took everything in a matter-of-fact way, never questioning, always trusting Clements' judgement as CO.

"So what now, Corp?" Haynes asked.

"We press on. If we move quickly we should catch up with the Japs by morning."

Haynes nodded and looked out across the jungle below.

"They're not going to like it," he said at last.

"I know. But it's not about what they like, it's about what we've been ordered to do."

Haynes nodded again and walked back through the undergrowth. Clements stood and followed him.

Back in the clearing the other four members of the patrol sat in silence. At the edge of the clearing was Watkin's grave, his boltless rifle standing at its head, the only mark of his passing through the world.

Everyone turned to look at Clements as he entered the glade.

"Alright, men," Clements began, "get your things together, we're moving on in two minutes."

The men looked around at each other. McKenzie muttered something under his breath. Clements watched them and, one by one, they started gathering their kit. All except for Powell.

"Corp," Powell began.

"What is it Private?" Clements knew what was coming, he'd had Powell pegged as a troublemaker since they'd left Hlaindet. He was a big man from Yorkshire, a farm labourer by trade, and he had the dour, no-nonsense attitude of the people of that county. He was an experienced soldier, probably more experienced than all the others here. Under other circumstances he would've been a valuable member of the patrol, but here, today, his experience was a threat to Clements' tenuous command. And both men knew it.

"You're really going to take us up there?" Powell nodded in the direction the Japanese company had gone.

"Yes, Private. We have our orders."

"I'm not being funny or anything, but what are we supposed to do if we catch them up? There's only six of us, and the wireless is knackered."

"When," Clements emphasised the word, "we catch up with them, we will observe their numbers and disposition then estimate the best course of action from there."

"Well, Corp, there's probably about fifty of 'em, and judging from what happened to poor Watkins I'd estimate they're not best pleased."

Clements glanced at the other men. Most of them had stopped preparing to leave and were watching the developing situation between Powell and Clements with interest. Clements met Powell's gaze.

"Our orders aren't to think up 'probables', Private, they are to gather intelligence on the Japs' retreat from Meiktila. I am not prepared to go against those orders and endanger lives by making things up. And you shouldn't be either. Now pick up that Bren gun, get your pack and get ready to move." Clements weighed the effect of his words on the patrol, "And that goes for the rest of you too."

Powell turned his head and spat into the dust. After a few moments he rose, slung his pack over one shoulder and heaved up the machine gun. Not once did he take his eyes of Clements'. The rest of the men got themselves ready to move.

"He's going to get us all killed," MacKenzie muttered to Faulkner.

"Right, let's get moving," Clements ordered, "MacKenzie, you're up front. Haynes, Bryson, watch the flanks. Powell, you're with me."

The men organised themselves for the march and they set off eastwards along the narrow trail.

The truth of the matter was that Clements didn't like this mission any more than Powell did. He'd returned from a week's leave to find that the advance on Meiktila had gone from a steady push into a full blown charge, and the old battalion HQ was skeleton staffed. The others in the patrol were at  the HQ too, having returned from hospitals and leave to find themselves similarly left behind and awaiting orders. None of them knew each other, they weren't from the same company and Bryson wasn't even from the same regiment.

After a few hours of waiting around Sergeant-Major Jefferson drove up in a Bedford four-tonner.

"Right then, you lot," he'd said to them, "I hope you're ready for a little walk in the woods. There's a depleted company of Japanesies gone on the retreat past Hlaindet. You're going to follow them up into the hills and find out where they're going."

Clements was the highest ranked soldier among them, a mere corporal, and responsibility for the patrol and the mission laid with him. He didn't know the other men at all and had no idea of how to lead them. He'd only been made corporal a month before and had still to lead a patrol on his own. Nevertheless, orders were orders and after getting dropped off at Hlaindet he'd led them on, doing the best he could to remember everything Sergeant Bottomley did during his patrols.

A native farmer had pointed them in the direction the Japs had gone and they set off through the jungle into the mountains. They weren't hard to follow, the trail was narrow and their numbers substantial, and every now and then they'd come across pieces of abandoned equipment. A water bottle here, a piece of tattered bandage there, the litter of a mauled infantry company in full flight.

There had been complaints, the terrain was hard going and the air was hot and humid, but soldiers always complain. As they'd gone further into the hills, however, the complaints had become darker. They were probably the first Allied soldiers in this area and possibly the first white men on this trail for decades, if ever. None of them had ever heard of Japanese soldiers retreating and as the days wore on there became a growing sense that they were walking into a trap.

And then, this morning, Watkins had been killed.

It had happened all too quickly. As they'd walked on along the trail, they were suddenly shot at from somewhere close by. They had scattered into cover as best they could and tried to spot whoever was shooting. Before they saw anyone there was the distinctive crump of an exploding grenade twenty yards ahead and the shooting stopped. Once they were sure it was safe to come out of their hiding places, they found the ragged, bisected remains of a Japanese soldier by a tree. Next to his torso was a pistol, its body locked back out of ammunition.

The soldier had blown himself up when he'd run out of ammunition. From what was left of him it was obvious that he'd been badly wounded and left behind to attack anybody following his company. It was a few minutes after making the gruesome discovery that Clements had realised Watkins wasn't with them. They had found him slumped by a boulder with a single bullet hole in his chest. The memory of it bothered Clements, he knew it wasn't his fault but he was responsible for Watkins and now he was dead.

"Corp!" MacKenzie's hiss snapped Clements out of his thoughts. The patrol stopped and Clements made his way up to the front.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Look, over there." MacKenzie pointed ahead. About thirty yards, just on the edge of the trail lay a Japanese soldier, crudely concealed.

"Spread out," Clements whispered to the men, "and stay down." The men did as they were told and Clements crouched down in the bole of a tree. Eyes and rifles were trained on the enemy soldier.

Minutes passed and nothing happened. Clements picked up a small rock and looked over at Powell who lay prone behind his machine gun.

"Powell," he whispered. Powell looked round. "I'm going to throw this at him. If he moves give him what for." Powell nodded and set his eye down the sights of his Bren gun.

Clements took a deep breath and tossed the stone. It arced over and bounced off the Jap's shoulder. He didn't move. Clements wiped the sweat from his eyes and slowly stood up. Half crouching and with his rifle pointing ahead of him, he moved up to the soldier. He poked him with his rifle, but he already knew the man was dead. Satisfied that the body wasn't booby-trapped, he turned to the men and waved them to come forward.

The men stood up and walked forward, their eyes wide and darting about, looking for concealed ambushers. Powell came up last with his Bren cradled in his arms. He looked at Clements and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Clements took out his map and folded it to where he estimated their position to be. Since looking out over the Nyaurang basin earlier he'd had a nagging concern about where the Japs were heading. Back at the British lines the worry had been that they had withdrawn to regroup with other forces at a rallying point, where they may organise for a counter-attack. He couldn't tell the rest of the men this, he should have but he didn't know them well enough to anticipate their reaction. He could only hope they'd find the Japs before they regrouped. He couldn't think about what would happen if the Japs found them first.

The trail wasn't marked on the map but he traced the mountain ridge they'd followed and continued along the only reasonable route ahead. About three miles further the Nyaurang river cut across the ridge through a deep gorge. There was no bridge marked but that didn't necessarily mean there wasn't one, or that there wasn't some other kind of crossing. It was difficult to tell which direction the Japanese might have gone once they'd reached the Nyaurang gorge, but Clements expected that their trail would be easy enough to follow.

He folded the map and put it back in the pocket in his shorts. The men were standing around ready to move out, except for Faulkner and Bryson who were tentatively pushing into the bushes by the dead Jap.

Bryson saw that Clements had finished map reading and beckoned him over.

"What is it Bryson?"

"It looks like there's more dead Japs down there, Corp."

Clements manoeuvred himself next to Faulkner. Beyond the undergrowth was a narrow gully, barely visible at all even from where they stood. At the bottom, through the leaves and vines, Clements saw four or five more Japanese soldiers unceremoniously piled where they'd been thrown.

"I saw some broken stems on these plant," Faulkner said, "so I had a look. The Jap's must've chucked 'em in there. I reckon they were slowing 'em down. Look, that one's still alive."

Clements looked where he pointed. Among the twisted limbs and bloodstained uniforms a bruise-blackened face stared upwards. His eyes were flat and distant but they blinked. Clements stepped away from the edge; he didn't want to be the last thing the man saw before his soul abandoned him.

"Alright," he said to the men, "lets get moving. I want to reach the river by nightfall."

They fell back into the same marching order they'd been in before and set off along the train once again.

They made good time, the ridge had widened and the trail with it, and the footing had gone from soggy, uneven forest floor to hard baked dust. The trees had also thinned and sunshine burnt down through the open canopy. The air was fresher too, the breeze no longer stifled by the thick vegetation that had choked the trail further back.

Although the march had become easier, Clements had a growing sense of trepidation about what lay ahead. Now that the environment wasn't against them, it was easier to worry about the enemy who were. From what Sergeant-Major Jefferson had said, the company they were following had suffered heavy casualties in the battle ahead of Meiktila and when they retreated they had done at a panicked sprint. From the bodies Clements' patrol had found and the carelessly abandoned debris they'd come across on the trail, it was obvious they were in a poor state but many were clearly able bodied enough to make it through this terrain.

It also worried him that they had fled at all. In every other battle he knew of the Japanese had never retreated, choosing instead to throw themselves at their enemy in a last ditch attempt at death or glory. He wondered how their spirits must be now that the panic had had chance to wear off and their dishonour on the battlefield had caught up with them. By now their lost honour may well have turned into a ferocious vengefulness, the likes of which only the Japanese seemed capable. The thought of the six of them caught in front of a banzai charge made Clements' guts knot.

He glanced back around the men and saw that none of them shared the same concerns, at least not to the extent that they showed them outwardly. In fact, now the trail had eased it seemed their overall mood had improved considerably. Even Powell had lost the scowl he'd worn since Watkins' death.

There was about an hour of daylight left when the patrol reached the Nyaurang gorge. There was no bridge and the thick flowing waters below suggested that a ford further upstream would be unlikely. The question Clement's had had regarding the direction they should take was answered by the trail. To the left the hillside fell away, impossibly steep, through choking trees and vegetation into the Nyaurang basin, and the trail veered off to the right, zig-zagging down through slightly less fearsome jungle.

He gave the men five minutes to water themselves and rest, while Clements surveyed the gorge. He hoped he'd be able to see far enough up the river to see where the trail joined it, and that however unlikely it seemed there would be some means of crossing. His map showed there was little down the trail that could be designated as a rally point, and even a quick look across the valley proved that the terrain on this side of the river would be impassable. A river crossing was the only way forward.

Just as he stepped back from the edge of the gorge he noticed something far below. He took out his field-glasses and looked down. At the bottom, sprawled on the rocks along the river side, there were more bodies. He counted nine, all in Japanese uniforms. There was no telling if any others had been washed downstream. He turned away from the gorge and returned to the patrol where they sat.

"What now, Corp?" Haynes asked. Clements glanced over the men, looking for any sign of the previous rebellious feeling. There seemed to be none.

"Well, there's no bridge that I can see. The trail leads down to the south-east, it's steep but I think it cuts back on itself so it shouldn't be too bad. It looks like it comes down to a small floodplain by the river but we'll have to see where we go from there. We should be able to make the plain by nightfall if we set off now, so we'll make camp there and see what's what in the morning."

The men nodded.

"Any sign of the Japs?" MacKenzie asked.

"Nothing yet. There's some dead ones at the bottom of the cliff there. I am guessing they were too badly wounded to take down the trail."

"Bloody heathens," Powell muttered.

"I should think they're trying to conceal their losses," Clements said, "but so far I count about fifteen dead along the way, including the one who shot Watkins. We may have missed more. Either way it's a big dent in their strength."

"Corp," Bryson began, "what if the Japs have set an ambush in that floodplain? Sounds like a good spot for one."

"Well, we'll have to see. When we get far enough down the trail to see it we'll stop and have a good look."

"Might be worth us camping on the trail," said Powell, "there won't too much light left to spot an ambush once we get down there."

Clements nodded, pleased that he could agree with him, "That might be a good idea, Private. We'll see when we get closer."

The men stood and began preparing themselves to move out.

"There is one other thing," Clements said, "we don't know if the the Japs are meeting up with other units for a counter attack, so we do need to exercise caution from here on. It's also likely that they'll be spoiling for a fight after dishonouring themselves near Meiktila."

"Aye," Powell agreed.

"So keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you," Clements continued, "and for God's sake move quietly. If we do this right no one else will die and then we can get back to Meiktila for a proper night's sleep."

The men nodded and, as one, they set off for the descent.

The path down was tricky going. At points it was barely wide enough to place a foot securely and it was only the thin-trunked trees either side of it that enabled them to pass. At other times those same trees snagged rifles and packs and almost pulled men over. Each time it happened the whole patrol stopped, nervous that the disturbance in the foliage would attract unwanted attention.

The footing was rocky and uneven all the way, and the patrol picked its way along taking care not to slip or make any loose stones come away to roll down through the forest. The trail zig-zagged down the mountainside and the men cursed it under their breath every step of the way.

As the sun began to slide behind the mountain on the other side of the valley, the trail widened out onto a thin terrace. Clements led the patrol to the edge, as close to the trees as they could get, and they continued along their way. Just as they came to another switchback, Clements heard something. He held up a hand and the patrol stopped, the men looking around each other, their battle nerves clearly rising within each of them.

The sound was a voice shouting orders in Japanese. The men crouched and moved into the trees, weapons at the ready. As Clements got into the tree line he saw the floodplain below, and a row of twenty or so Japanese soldiers with their officer walking up and down the line screaming at them. Carefully, he slid his field-glasses out of his pack and raised them to his eyes.

The soldiers were stood to attention but even from here Clements saw them trembling. He moved the glasses onto the officer. He was young, no more than twenty-five and was shouting and gesticulating with great vehemence. Every now and then he'd wipe a hand across his face. Clements zoomed in and refocused. The officer's face was wet with sweat... no, tears. His chin was set tight but when he stopped shouting to take breath Clements could see it wobbling. He was crying. He was crying hysterically.

"What now, Corp?" Haynes whispered. Clements looked at him and down the line the patrol had taken. Everyone could see what was going on down there.

"Wait. Let's see what happens." Clements turned back to the view below. The officer was shouting again, his high-pitched squealing carried easily to their position. He walked to the end of the row and then looked up to the dusky sky. It looked like he was consulting with God.

The officer drew his sword and, with a single flashing movement, cut the head off the soldier nearest to him. The soldier's head dropped on the ground and rolled to a standstill by a rock. His body twitched a couple of times then fell sideways.

"Jesus Christ...!" MacKenzie whispered. Clements heard his men muttering in shock.

The officer moved to the second man in the row and, again, with one motion sliced off his head. He moved to the next man. Even without the field-glasses Clements could see the Japanese soldiers shaking with mortal dread but not one of them moved out of line.

Another head rolled across the ground.

"Oh, bollocks to this! It's not right, not right at all," Powell said.

As the officer decapitated another man, Powell's Bren gun burst into life. Within a heartbeat the rest of the men started shooting too. Clements lifted his rifle and joined in.

He looked down his sights and got the officer centred in them. The officer was confused and surprised, he looked up toward the trees where the shooting was coming from and raised his sword. Clements fired and the officer stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Clements shot him again. Bullets tore into the Japanese soldiers and ripped up the ground around them. Even when they had all fallen Clements' patrol still fired. He didn't stop them.

Soon, the men had expended their magazines and begun reloading, but the moment was over.

"Cease fire," Clements commanded, "cease fire."

He looked through the field-glasses again and saw that all the men on the floodplain were dead, all shot several times but for the headless ones. He put the glasses down and took a deep breath.

Nobody said anything. Ten  minutes passed while they remained in position watching and waiting.

Eventually, Clements raised himself onto one knee.

"I'm going down there," he said, "They may have some useful intelligence."

He stood up. "Stay here."

"I'll come with you, Corp," Powell said, "no point going on your own."

"Me too," said Faulkner.

"Aye, and me," MacKenzie said.

One by one the men stood up, and Clements felt something like pride.

Together they set off down the trail, it was wider than before and the steepness shallowed out as it opened up onto the plain below. The sky was darkening and the men kept a good pace, racing the onset of night.

By the time they got to the Japanese dead, flies were already buzzing around. They crawled into open mouths and eyes, and into gaping wounds, laying their eggs and seeking out soft tissue to consume. The sand and rocks around the bodies were soaked in blackening blood, and even in the cooling evening it was beginning to congeal and stink.

"Search their pockets," Clements said and indicated to a patch of moss between two stones, "anything you find put it down here. We'll sort through it later."

The men began to go through the dead men's pockets, trying to ignore the blood and mutilation, and the guts and brains that lay about them. None of them could read Japanese so they gathered anything with writing on and left it on the mossy bed. Wallets and anything personal stayed with the bodies, none of the men wanted to see pictures of children and wives, and it seemed wrong to deprive the dead of what they had lived for.

Clements saw that no one was going near the beheaded corpses, so he searched them himself. Like most of the others he'd seen plenty of bullet wounds before, for all their mess and gore they were familiar, but the headless bodies were something different. They held another kind of horror.

Haynes didn't help with the search, he just stood apart with his eyes wide, staring at the carnage he'd helped create. Powell looked up at him.

"Are you alright, son?" he asked.

Haynes shook his head.

"First time, eh?" Powell said, "You'll get used to it. It was the same for all of us."

"Are we just going to leave them like this?" Haynes said.

"We can't bury them, if that's what you mean," said Clements.

"But... but we just murdered them."

"No, Private, we saved them." Clements heard the absurdity of his words as they left his mouth. He tried not to think about it and moved over to the dead officer. He found a bloodstained map and a collection of what may have been orders. He put the documents on the pile and started going through what they'd gathered. Anything that looked official went into his pack, everything else he left.

"Haynes is right, Corp," Bryson said, "we can't just leave them like this." Faulkner nodded in agreement while Powell looked at Clements, waiting for a decision.

Clements stood, he glanced at the men and looked over the bodies. It was murder, really, but what is war if not authorised murder? This was different though, the Japs were unarmed and not expecting to be attacked. They had no chance to defend themselves; but if his patrol hadn't killed them when they did, they would only have to fight them afterwards, outnumbered and possibly in the dark. Their ambush had prevented that.

He couldn't convince himself though. It was different but he couldn't reason out how. Perhaps he was too used to war to see the difference, perhaps it took Haynes' relative innocence to understand it better. What was it Powell had said when he opened fire? It's not right. And it wasn't. But how was what he and his men had done any different to what the Jap officer was doing? And how did that make them better men than he?

"Alright," Clements said at last, "We'll put them in the river. It'll take them downstream and they'll bury themselves in the swampland." he said. The men nodded and grunted in approval.

Haynes went to one of the decapitated corpses, hooked his arms under its armpits and began dragging it to the river. MacKenzie went to lift the dead officer but Clements stopped him.

"No, not him," he said, "Leave him there. The jungle rats can have him."

The men went back and forth, dragging the rest of the dead soldiers to the river. Each of them waded into the shoals, lay the dead in the waters and watched as the currents carried them westward toward the setting sun.

By the time the last Japanese soldier was sent on his final journey, night had settled over the hills and a bright, half-moon hung overhead. Beneath it, the Nyaurang river seemed milky and luminescent. The patrol stood for a while, each man in his own thoughts, and then they turned back toward the trail.

They didn't sleep that night. Instead they headed back up the trail toward Hlaindet. It took them two days to get back to the village and another day to arrive at Meiktila. Clements reported to the HQ and the men were returned to their units. Afterwards, they would pass each other occasionally, on the way to the latrines, or in the mess, or on parade, but they never spoke to each other again.

For years after Clements dreamt about those soldiers, standing there to attention, quaking with terror but staying in line. When he woke he felt a sense of relief that maybe, in that whole mess of war, they had done at least one decent thing.