Night Train To CHITTAGONG

Two young men from opposing sides come face to face during the highly charged days of the struggle for Indian Independence and World War II

- D. W. DAVID

IT WAS BENGAL, 1942, a dark time for India. At our regimental forward base depot in Dacca, the adjutant handed Captain N. and me a set of identical papers, sealed and top secret. We were on our way to join the regiment at Chittagong and we had a dangerous railway journey ahead of us. “I can’t offer you any escort,” the adjutant said. “I haven’t a man to spare. But these dispatches must reach our commanding officer as soon as possible. We aren’t in wireless contact, so I must depend on you two.”

By this time Singapore had fallen, Malaya was overrun and Japanese columns, driving through Burma, were poised to attack Assam, the gateway to India. Added to this threat from the east, the country harboured another menace within itself— militant activists who demanded immediate independence for India. The vast majority of Indians were loyal to the British government, but a small, articulate group of political extremists detested the British even more than the Japanese aggressors. Long years of patronizing rebuffs had bred hatred of British rule, and pro-Axis riots were beginning to hamstring the desperate efforts of the military.

Our journey to Chittagong involved a night on the train and a crossing of the great Brahmaputra river—in ordinary circumstances, just a tiring ride of some 320 kms. But now there was the hazard of encountering goondas—bands of hooligans, revolutionaries and thieves—carrying long cane-cutting machetes. They often waylaid trains to rob and murder white occupants.

The adjutant was nervous. “These dispatches contain the names of known Japanese sympathizers in Chittagong, who, in the event of a Jap breakthrough, would be a readymade fifth column,” he said. “I’ve made two identical copies so that ...”

His meaning was plain. If one of us fell afoul of the goondas, the other might, with luck, get through.