War Graves

                   The War Graves

                
               Photographic Project 

There will be very few readers who are not familiar with the work of the Commonwealth

War Graves Commission (CWGC). It is not so well known that working in association

with them is The War Graves Photographic Project (TWGPP), a voluntary group whose

aim is to extend the work of the CWGC by photographing every war grave and memorial

worldwide. This joint venture was formally announced in November 2007 with the

TWGPP website going live in February 2008

The ethos of TWGPP is very simple: to enable families and researchers to obtain, via

its website, a photograph of a grave or memorial which many cannot personally visit.
    

Initially the project’s brief was confined to Commonwealth graves or memorials for

WWI and WWII but the scope has now widened to include all nationalities and all

conflicts providing the casualty died in service.

Currently the website contains well over a 1.79 million images from 23,000 cemeteries

or memorials in over 150 countries. Photographing the beautifully maintained CWGC

cemeteries is one thing. Tramping through the undergrowth of often neglected

churchyards or vast corporation cemeteries looking for a single - or scattered

headstones - is another story altogether as volunteers can testify with many a

frustrating or amusing story.

The project has over 1000 volunteers worldwide from all walks of life. All that was

required was motivation, a digital camera and the CWGC location data supplied

by the project’s coordinators. It is probably a fair assessment to say that this is a

project which owes its ultimate true worth to modern technology: the facility to

download from camera to computer to website with comparative ease and speed.

Requests are dealt with on a  daily basis by Project Request Co-ordinator Sandra

Rogers; the success rate is high given the numbers in the archive and the

numerous letters of thanks are both poignant, heartwarming and in many instances

heartbreaking. These can be viewed on the sites ‘Thanks’ Tab
http://twgpp.org/thanks.php

With the 100^th Anniversary of WWI commencing this year many local societies and

schools are utilising the facility to prepare exhibitions and local publications to

remember the men and women that are commemorated on local memorials. It is

hoped that many families will discover this vast archive and find relatives who may

have faded into obscurity.

Adding images to the website is an ongoing task and revisits to many cemeteries

are being conducted by new volunteers to update the archive. Ultimately, when

complete, the archive will form a lasting record of all those who paid the ultimate

sacrifice.

Further information about the project, can be viewed at www.twgpp.org

 We had flown out from a very quiet London Heathrow on a Jumbo with plenty of empty
seats - space was plentiful, just sleep was lacking. We hit the ground running - just
hours after landing we had checked into our home for the next 2 days - the YMCA - and
I was standing in St. Thomas Cathedral, grateful for the respite from Bombay's heat
and full-on humidity, thinking I was in a mini St. Pauls as I marvelled at how the British
had left such an indelible impression on another country. A five minute visit to find one
memorial to 5 sailors lost at sea in WW1 extended considerably as I found a church
seemingly where every bit of wall space - ground level to ceiling - was covered by
memorials to the British who hadn't made it home; and as most were military - albeit
mostly nineteenth century - I knew I was off to a good start.

  Then onto the Indian Sailors Home, which contained more than a thousand merchant
seamen between contracts and also two impressive memorials - to the missing of the
Indian Navy and Merchant Navy of the two Wars. A warm welcome preceded, and the
ubiquitous cup of tea concluded, a hot, humid but successful visit, with some 8,500
additional names completed for the Project. My signature in their visitors' book follows
many of the great and good of the Commission.

Visits to 2 little churches, one successful, one tba on Thursday, concluded the day's
work. An excellent selection of curries on buffet at the YMCA was most welcome; how
one feels about curry after 3 weeks remains to be seen.

The purpose of today's early morning train to Pune is to visit the CWGC Cemetery at
Kirkee (the similarity of this town's name to that of the colour of British military is,
I believe, no coincidence), and explore any of the old British cemeteries in Kirkee and
Pune that I can locate in the hours I have.

After the War Cemetery I was lent one of the staff to guide us to the 'New' Cemetery
where there are a number of WW1 graves (not yet listed as being in that Cemetery),
as well as some nineteenth century casualties. (Ironically, we had already visited the
'Old' Cemetery, where they were just refilling the grave for a burial earlier that day.)
We were also directed to St. Sepulcher Cemetery, one not on my itinerary but a vast
site, much of which was overgrown and impenetrable, which also contained 3 separate
plots of WW1 graves (listed elsewhere, and many marked as removed for CWGC
renovation), as well as the by now usual proliferation of late 19th Century Regimental
Monuments (did they each have to erect one at the conclusion of their tour of duty?)
and the gravestones recording the losses of family members and Civil Service
employees. The site was vast, probably 95% inaccessible with grave tops just poking
through the undergrowth in places, and took well over a baking hot hour to cover 3
tiny portions which the CWGC keep cleared. Abortive visits to other potential sites
concluded the day, and then it was back to the station for the 4 hour ride back to
Mumbai. The catering excelled -a constant stream of vendors with hot snacks and
drinks, sweets and even English paperbacks.

Day 2

An eventful and successful day. First traffic accident (motor bike drove into the rear
of our taxi, but no harm done except to our bumper), and first vehicle breakdown
(car battery failed halfway through the day's itinerary, so required bump starting
after each subsequent stop).

Kirkee War Cemetery, as always, a haven of peaceful lawns and colourful plants,
and as I only had the 2 Memorials to do (Catherine having already taken all the
graves) it felt slightly fraudulent - such an easy visit. A warm welcome and kind
hospitality from the CWGC Manager as always. How do they always manage to
appoint such gentle folk?

After the War Cemetery I was lent one of the staff to guide us to the
'New' Cemetery where there are a number of WW1 graves (not yet
listed as being in that Cemetery), as well as some nineteenth century
casualties.
(Ironically, we had already visited the 'Old' Cemetery, where they were
just refilling the grave for a burial earlier that day.) We were also directed
to St. Sepulcher Cemetery, one not on my itinerary but a vast site, much
of which was overgrown and impenetrable, which also contained 3 separate
plots of WW1 graves (listed elsewhere, and many marked as removed for
CWGC renovation), as well athe by now usual proliferation of late 19th
Century Regimental Monuments (did they each have to erect one at the
conclusion of their tour of duty?) and the gravestones recording the losses
of family members and Civil Service employees. The site was vast, probably
95% inaccessible with grave tops just poking through the undergrowth in
places, and took well over a baking hot hour to cover 3 tiny portions which
the CWGC keep cleared. Abortive visits to other potential sites concluded
the day, and then it was back to the station for the 4 hour ride back to
Mumbai. The catering excelled -a constant stream of vendors with hot
snacks and drinks, sweets and even English paperbacks.

Day 3

 Curry flavoured everything for breakfast? Different, but we are in
India. And I did understand the cautions I received before travelling –
this is India, do not expect everything to go according to plan. And of
course it doesn’t. Travelling for the second time to Emmanuel Church
(‘come any day between 10 and 12 because the workers are here then)
we find that the sexton is out of the city and he is the only one with
the key – really?? Next to Christ Church, Byculla, except that the driver
takes me to a nearby R C church. Finally I convince the driver of his
error, and we arrive at another church stuffed with 19th century
military memorials. Then to Sewri, the Christian burial ground for
the European population of Bombay for many decades. Within 10
minutes I’m being threatened that my camera will be confiscated
because I haven’t permission to take photographs, which being interpreted
means I haven’t gone to the office and negotiated the amount of the bribe
needed to keep the other four men sitting around the table (excluding the
cemetery manager, of course, who issued the threat in the first place) from reporting to the Burial Ground Committee of my activities. But I still have
my pictures of the only CWGC grave here, which no-one could prevent me photographing. Thelma was a WACI who died in 1945, and was for some
reason the only grave left there when all the other WW2 graves were
moved in the 50’s to Kirkee War Cemetery. When my daughter joined
me at Sewri later in the day we visited Thelma again, just 21 when she
died.

Much searching produced P & O seamen who fell into the holds of their
ships, or overboard into Bombay Harbour, and Civil Servants aplenty, but
just only a few military graves. The search for an MOD listed burial from
1948 revealed that the grave had been reused in 1973 – no memorial
for this British army signaller remains.

However the peace and goodwill previously purchased in the Cemetery
Office produced offers of the unlimited use of the ‘cloakroom’ facilities –
‘if you have a towel’ – was a welcome relief after a warm 34 degree
afternoon in a dusty cemetery – especially as a 23 hour train journey
was the next item on the itinerary.

The evening became a long wait on the station platform for the 20.30
train to Chennai (Madras), and an extensive series of sellers of
snacks, evening meal, and liquid refreshments meant we were fully
sustained for the night.

  Day 4

To state the possibly obvious, a 23 hour train journey is pretty long. The
facilities are all reasonable, and the service constant. It’s a little strange
settling down in bed to sleep in a semi-open compartment with two perfect strangers, but it’s all no more than expected. The railway track can be
seen through the hole in the bathroom floor, but enough said there! Each
of the main stops en route give us some minutes to leave the train, walk
the platform, and watch the hawkers offer their wares to our fellow
passengers. Eventually the journey ends in Chennai, and we are disgorged
into a darkened city.

 Day 5

An early departure is needed for the flight to New Delhi, the timing of which
had changed three times, and the airline once, during the past 24 hours.
Saturday was a whirl of sites, starting with Madras War Cemetery. The dew
was thick on the grass, strange birds were squawking in the trees, behind
me the traffic roared and hooted. The gardeners hosed down the shady side
of the 1914-18 Memorial for me – Steve must judge if it’s an improvement!
After breakfast (curried vegetable sandwich) with the Cemetery Manager
we diced with death to cross the dual carriageway and go several stories
up the steeply narrow steps of an overlooking building to take some great
views of the Cemetery.

 After a couple of abortive cemetery visits, seeing the Chennai War Memorial
(the military using the conveniently placed stones to dry their washing) and a highly successful Garrison church stuffed full of military memorial plaques,
we arrived at a group of several cemeteries – Armenian, Catholic, Anglican
etc. Access to them was down a street where each pavement had been
converted into homes served by the occasional water standpipe at which
children were showered, teeth cleaned, washing up done and water jugs filled. Lunch was being prepared at the kerbsides; people spilled everywhere, yet
waves and happy smiles greeted this stranger taking photos of their domestic activities. 

 

Taking off down differentalleyways lead to separate little cemeteries. Many
of the larger stones had been pressed into use as clothes dryers,
and the children playing around the stones seemed to have kept the undergrowth down. It was here that the Commission gardener was
invaluable; the graves cared for by the Commission were marked by
unfamiliar stones, and which cemetery we were in at any time was
otherwise a mystery. A group of graves of Boer pow’s was unusual; a
chapel attached had been extended into the cemetery area and was in
use as a Saturday school and canteen serving lunch to many.

The largest of the cemeteries –St Mary’s – was full of anomalies. The rear
entrance, which we had to use, and the nearby plots, was apparently used
for as a ‘cloakroom’ by all the neighbourhood dogs – their numbers are
obviously considerable. The cemetery was rambling and extensive, with
rubbish piles and spoil heaps from neighbouring developments encroaching
at the edges. But it was the all-pervading creeper which prevented access
to the vast majority of graves. Small areas had been burnt back, but this
hadn’t improved the condition of the adjacent Commission stones, which
were dotted about down winding paths through the undergrow 

Here again my friend from the Commission proved his worth. This cemetery
was under his personal care; it is unlikely I would have found all these
single and pairs of stones (of various styles) without his help. Then we
arrived at two larger and recognisably Commission plots, securely fenced
off, gated and locked. As far as I understood, it was only within the past
8 years that the Commission had begun to rescue the WW1 graves, maybe
including the WW1 plot and replacing the stones there with Commission
style ones; my friend was pleased to tell me that he had built the 2 little
buildings on the larger plot, and that the plumbed water was clean.
Fighting back the undergrowth from the paths and single stones, and
cleaning away what the dogs had left, must be a constant battle. A few
older graves were visible through the undergrowth, and so a small
collection of pre WW1 stones was made, including a splendid edifice to
a surgeon serving the 34th Regiment of Foot who died in 1805

 The remainder of the day was spent in the Scottish Kirk – more revs than lieutenants there – and St. George’s Cathedral, again full of nineteenth
military memorials. Somewhere I found just one memorial plaque and one
memorial on a gravestone to a WW1 casualty on the Western front; they
seemed a little out of place so far away here.

And today’s in-flight breakfast? A sandwich somewhere between yesterday’s
curried veg and the ‘sandwich spread’ of one’s childhood.

Day 6

A leisurely 9am start given the success of yesterday’s visits. Hit the ground running (once
the plane had landed) and went straight out to Delhi War Cemetery – one of those
accumulated sites where graves were concentrated in the years following Indian
Independence. At 28 degrees or so it felt very comfortable after Chennai. As it was a
Sunday there were no Commission staff apart from the guard/watchman. 1,100 graves,
a small WW1 memorial and my other ‘target’ locked away. Eventually my driver
managed to persuade the guard to unlock the pavilion containing the WW2 memorial –
no names, but in memory of over 25,000 Indian dead, missing in WW2. A small
structure for so many casualties. Then the local ‘Delboy’ appeared. Pete claimed to
be ex CWGC, and in charge of the older cantonment cemetery, situated at the rear of
the War Cemetery. He took me to the Old Cantonment Cemetery, but was then told
by the resident caretaker that photos were not allowed. Once again local intervention
had a wholly negative effect, since the caretaker spoke no English, and I would not
have understood his sign language!

But a phone call to the man in charge, requiring (a) each of us to speak to him twice
and (b) a long, formal letter from me to the Chairman grovellingly either requesting
permission or thanking him – I’m not sure which, probably because Pete didn’t know
- did the trick. And there were a number of pre and post WW1 graves there, and also
a few dated 1917 and 1918, in the course of being recovered by the CWGC. And
the caretaker came in useful – many of the stones I wanted were too encrusted with
splashed mud to be legible, and he willingly brushed them off. I say willingly – he was
attentively close by when I left; he had his tip, but poor Pete did not!

Then onto the Jewish Cemetery – the caretaker of the synagogue next door took me
to the ‘war grave’, except it was from the 1968 Indo-Pakistan War; I pointed out to him
‘my’ grave, and came away with both. Prithvi Raj Cemetery ended the day. Just the
occasional military grave, and then I figured out the blackened shape of an MOD stone
. It was on my list as being in York Road Cemetery, until I realised that York Road,
where we were going next, was the alternative name for this site, so 2 in 1 here.

The YMCA where we are staying is very basic indeed, but the food is home cooking
– almost the best so far. Even cold milk for the cornflakes, porridge, fried eggs,
croissants – such a welcome change for breakfast from curry! Then on to some
great sites – first the high tower which is the 1857 Indian Mutiny Memorial; lots of
statistics about the Mutiny’s history and the casualties, but only about 50 names
listed on the tower. Why? More work needed!

Then onto the Nicholson Cemetery – in wonderful condition having been fairly recently
restored, and with several hundred military casualties, mainly 1870 onwards; again
not a CWGC site, yet with a few of the stones – some upright, and a little area with
around 10 lying flat, being World War.

Lastly, Skinner’s Church, otherwise St. James, the building erected by Col. Skinner in
gratitude for surviving a battle in 1805. At some time he formed the Skinner’s Horse,
which appears to be still in existence, but one for the military historian to explain.
Apparently erecting this edifice, and it is beautiful (as well as being full of memorials),
entitled his family to a private, railed off, cemetery. I noted ashes being interred here
from a cremation in Scotland less than a century ago.

Day 7

An amazing day, and one where I’m told I saw the biggest grave in the world (See
Front page header). A 5am start for the train – packed solid given our destination -
on which the complimentary breakfast was, not surprisingly, deep-fried curry croquettes
and tea. Free newspaper. Detrained to a shouting mass of taxi-driver/touts at Agra.
With no CWGC sites, we started with some fairly abortive visits, including one cemetery
which had been taken over due to boundary problems, now full of shacks, cows and
rubbish, with the odd stone visible through the undergrowth. However, the Roman
Catholic Cemetery, a stunning mixture of traditional graves and monuments in an Indian
style, included the Red Taj, a massive edifice and the grave of John Hessing, modelled
on the Taj Mahal. Also there is the grave of John Mildenhall (1614), an envoy of
Elizabeth the First who arrived here in 1603 and met the Mogul Emperor. The courage
of such men beggars belief.

 Then on to the Cantonment Cemetery – within the Indian Army base which was
effectively reusing one of the largest British military bases in the country. Excessive
bureaucracy meant a number of trips between the barrier on the cemetery road and
Military HQ in attempts to persuade the Brigadier to give us a letter which he didn’t
need to give, for the guard at the road barrier who said he did! An hour later, during
which both guide and driver wanted us to abandon the attempt and take coffee, we
finally squeezed the appointed soldier into our car and took him to the barrier to sort
out the guard. These are situations which Milborrow thrives on, and will not be beaten;
in fact, gaining actual access was almost better than the cemetery, almost half of
which was given over to graves of members of the military and their dependents from
about 1850 to around 1930

The

Again a number of WW1 graves, being renovated by the CWGC. Much of the rest of the
cemetery contained even older military graves, but the undergrowth was too thick, the
heat too great, and the time too short. Energy was flagging, too, after capturing some
300 plus graves and memorial inscriptions. The cemetery keeper would assist by
clearing away the undergrowth from in front of 2 or 3 graves, and then disappear for
10 minutes, leaving yours truly to clear away dead scrub amid choking clouds of dust.
But a most worthwhile visit – let’s hope Steve will think so too!

The Havelock Memorial Church produced a few monumental plaques, and , since
it was only mid afternoon, and our train didn’t leave until 23.30, the obligatory visit
to the Taj Mahal was inevitable – and one of the trip’s highlights, being as spectacular
as its reputation, if not more so. Unlike many famous sites, this one exceeded all
descriptions, and is indeed magnificently spectacular and beautiful. Refuge in a hotel
was a relief for the hours after dark and before the train....

 Off to the Residency, scene of carnage as 2,000 British were besieged and mostly
killed by ‘rebels’ (now martyrs

Tipping out around 8 am was a great relief, and our guide took us to the best hotel in
town for breakfast. Unwashed, and having slept in our clothes, we felt very scruffy,
but the plan to abstain from curry for a day for the sake of our digestion was facilitated
by the offer of freshly squeezed juice, muesli and eggs on toast.

Then out to the Cantonment Cemetery; not a CWGC site, but reputed to contain
military graves. One never knows beforehand if there will be 10 or 100, but in the
end 500 pictures, including some of Regimental memorials with up to maybe 50
names, should satisfy Steve’s request for me to keep my eyes open! The caretaker
was an essential part of this procedure, stamping down mint plants which had
become bushes, if not trees. At least the mint provided a fragrant smell – for a
change. In the heat of the noon sun and the dust of arid ground and hacking
away dead vegetation, it was a relief to finish.

Day 8

...which did begin as something of a fiasco! Piled into a crowded carriage; found our
bunks – sadly in the corridor rather than a compartment. Then a party of 20 French
ladies arrived, with loads of luggage and no idea where their bunks were. The corridor
is not wide enough for a suitcase sideways on. As they nearly all spoke English, my
Western Front patois was redundant, and the conversation soon turned as to whether
they or we had the vin rouge; sadly neither; they were quite interested in the purpose
of the trip, but maybe didn’t understand. But they really did have great senses of
humour – ‘incredible India’, they said, as they realised they had not received their
allocations of bedding. Since it was now past midnight, and we were due to leave
the train before 6am, we went to our beds and dozed off to the sound of assorted
snores – no compartment doors, only curtains. The loos contained small cockroaches,
and there were very impressively sized ants crawling out from under my bed, which
had to contain small pieces of luggage as well as me. But it had been a tiring day.
We ‘arrived’ 10 minutes early, and then found this stop wasn’t our destination and
we were nearly 2 hours late – bliss, back to bed for a while.

Off to the Residency, scene of carnage as 2,000 British were besieged and mostly
killed by ‘rebels’ (now martyrs), the remaining defendants ‘rescued’ by Havelock’s
force who were then themselves surrounded, needing rescuing by a further force
some weeks later. Now a most attractive set of ruins, which with artillery damage and
cannon shot holes still visible from inside one or two of the buildings, surrounded
in a grassy park, it’s a worthwhile visit, and I found a number of tombs and memorials
from that period in what had been a churchyard until the church was destroyed in
the siege.

A further cemetery visit – fruitless; then en route to a Pizza Hut to stock up for the
evening train ride to Allahabad, we passed a once-Anglican church fortuitously open.
As it had a couple of dozen memorials inside, including one from the siege with
100 or so names, as well as a VC, it became a highly successful end to the day’s work.

Perhaps the Indian hotel grading system refers to the bathroom design. They attempt
to replicate wet-rooms, but unfortunately no-one seems to have told the builders. So
the floors slope away from the shower drain, and all the water washes across the floor,
past the loo and ending up in the far corner of the room. Next time one uses the bathroom ...remember to remove socks first. A few hours in a hotel bed worked wonders
before another day searching out mainly non World War graves in a number of Allahabad cemeteries. Their quality varied immensely. One had a couple of hundred clearly
marked graves, another had 6, and was approached through a small farmyard, as
locals gradually effected a land grab. A third kept bees as well as cows, calves, cow
dung drying compounds (less than fragrant fuel?) and the last a massive collection
of over-restored obelisks and other massive structures, most with the inscriptions
removed. The highlights – the grave of Major G Bromhead VC (Michael Caine to most
of us) and that of Gunner James Cavanagh, who ‘departed this life 24th March 1798’,
and whose stone is as clearly marked as the day it was engraved.

Then another

Tipping out around 8 am was a great relief, and our guide took us to the best hotel in
town for breakfast. Unwashed, and having slept in our clothes, we felt very scruffy, but
the plan to abstain from curry for a day for the sake of our digestion was facilitated by
the offer of freshly squeezed juice, muesli and eggs on toast.

Then out to the Cantonment Cemetery; not a CWGC site, but reputed to contain
military graves. One never knows beforehand if there will be 10 or 100, but in the end
500 pictures, including some of Regimental memorials with up to maybe 50 names,
should satisfy Steve’s request for me to keep my eyes open! The caretaker was an
essential part of this procedure, stamping down mint plants which had become bushes,
if not trees. At least the mint provided a fragrant smell – for a change. In the heat of
the noon sun and the dust of arid ground and hacking away dead vegetation, it was
a relief to finish.

 Off to the Residency, scene of carnage as 2,000 British were besieged and mostly
killed by ‘rebels’ (now martyrs), the remaining defendants ‘rescued’ by Havelock’s force
who were then themselves surrounded, needing rescuing by a further force some
weeks later. Now a most attractive set of ruins, which with artillery damage and cannon
shot holes still visible from inside one or two of the buildings, surrounded in a grassy
park, it’s a worthwhile visit, and I found a number of tombs and memorials from that
period in what had been a churchyard until the church was destroyed in the siege.

A further cemetery visit – fruitless; then en route to a Pizza Hut to stock up for the
evening train ride to Allahabad, we passed a once-Anglican church fortuitously open.
As it had a couple of dozen memorials inside, including one from the siege with 100
or so names, as well as a VC, it became a highly successful end to the day’s work.

 Day 9

Perhaps the Indian hotel grading system refers to the bathroom design. They attempt
to replicate wet-rooms, but unfortunately no-one seems to have told the builders. So
the floors slope away from the shower drain, and all the water washes across the floor,
past the loo and ending up in the far corner of the room. Next time one uses the bathroom ...remember to remove socks first. A few hours in a hotel bed worked wonders
before another day searching out mainly non World War graves in a number of Allahabad cemeteries. Their quality varied immensely. One had a couple of hundred clearly
marked graves, another had 6, and was approached through a small farmyard, as locals
gradually effected a land grab. A third kept bees as well as cows, calves, cow dung drying compounds (less than fragrant fuel?) and the last a massive collection of over-restored
obelisks and other massive structures, most with the inscriptions removed. The
highlights – the grave of Major G Bromhead VC (Michael Caine to most of us) and that
of Gunner James Cavanagh, who ‘departed this life 24th March 1798’, and whose
stone is as clearly marked as the day it was engraved. Then another overnight train,
armed again with pizza and beer,to Calcutta, and our halfway point.

 Day 10

Thankfully the downpour of rain and hail did not arrive until the afternoon, slightly relieving
the 35 degree heat with maximum humidity. The hustle and dirt of Calcutta came as a
surprise, but not as a shock after previous travels. It’s always the spilling out of a main
station into what appears to be a complete chaos of buses, taxis, market stalls, touts and
beggars which confuses the system after minimal sleep on the train.

The War Cemetery was mainly completed in cloud, so hopefully the images are OK.
The CWGC Manager’s brief extends to our next destination – Darjeeling, and he was
happy to tell me he hadn’t been there for more than 2 years, because the unstable
political situation meant that he might be turned back half way, or, even worse, might
get there and then the routes blockaded, so that he could not leave. Given our tight
timetable, I wondered why on earth we were going there; obstinacy I suppose, or
‘because it’s there.

 A variety of churches and cemeteries during the rest of the shortened day produced
a satisfying couple of hundred non war military graves and memorials. As our stay
here, sadly only one night, is in a ‘hark back to the Raj’ hotel, with traditional
furnishings and impeccable service – breakfast and afternoon tea included in the
tariff, rest and refreshment is assured. 

Day 11

An early start is required, which is a shame given the accumulated shortage of sleep
and the peace and quiet of this little hotel. Checkout of the hotel at 7am, minus
breakfast. An hour’s drive – how do Indian drivers keep missing each other? –
takes us to Barrackpore, past the beginning of people’s days – washing
themselves and their children, cleaning teeth, shaking the mats, washing up,
all done on the pavement where they reside. No words can describe the fumes,
noise, smells, traffic noise and incessant hooting of car horns. Much redigging
of the ditches alongside the road would indicate blockages and floods after last
night’s storms. The cemetery is once again in the military area, which assures
greenery, less rubbish, and little noise.

Back to the hotel to squat with our luggage in the reception area until our
10pm train  Refuge in a hotel was a relief for the hours after dark and before the
train....

Day 12

Our wild, slightly wacky day. A night spent with 4 Indian gentlemen, all the way on
the Darjeeling Mail to the end of the line – New Jalpaijuri, of course, not Darjeeling.
In theory we then catch the 2 foot gauge tiny train which climbs around 6,000
feet to Darjeeling. But this is India, and a landslide wrecked the track and one of
the access roads some months ago. So we need to get ourselves to Kurseong,
only 50 kilometres away, but 5 hours by train or 2 by road. We are quoted R1200
for a taxi, then R900 (same taxi), so we opt for a shared car – R150. This involves
10 peoples’ luggage being roped on the roof, and 4 squeezed onto the middle of
3 rows of seats of a very old 4x4. Cosy, I suppose. And very satisfying when we
arrive at Kurseong well ahead of the pair of our sleeping companions, making the
same journey in a more exclusive taxi. England 1, India 0; unlike the cricket, we hear.

Brunch with as much coffee as we can drink costs us £3.50 for two; then a couple
of entertaining hours watching the down train arrive from Darjeeling, disgorge its few
passengers, and then shunt carriages around in an apparently random manner until
we find our carriage awaits us. We dispute with an Indian family who has taken our
reserved seats – to the apparent embarrassment of the other English in the carriage.
The conductor offers us a choice of any seats in the faded splendour of the upmarket
carriage behind – we accept.

The journey took more than 2½ hours for 30 kilometres; it was a slow and noisy journey as the (very loud) hooter was sounded the whole way.

Possibly partly justifiable, as the train track is effectively the pavement on one or other
side of the street, criss-crossing at will and causing many little traffic jams as up vehicles
face down vehicles bumper to bumper; hideously noisy. There is so little space between
track and buildings that leaning out for photographs can lead to decapitation, or at least
the loss of a hand and the camera. Of course this means one is virtually inside the shops
– self-service could take on a new meaning. The poor people of the villages through
which we pass hold their hands over their ears as we pass, yet are still patient enough to
smile and wave. Many of the hoardings proclaim their wish for an independent Gorkahland, indicating how close we are to Nepal. The distant views are blotted out - today is very hazy, tomorrow is another day.

Eventually we arrive in Darjeeling, a rambling place sprawling down hillsides and with
a vaguely hippy air. Our hotel reception is 66 steps above street level, our rooms 32
more above that. Bad enough after our evening meal (partaken at street level, and
under £3 for 2), but on first arriving with a full compliment of luggage, rather challenging.
We blame the altitude. Being up a mountain should mean spectacular views, however.
Rushed out straightway for warm clothing – the chilly hills are freezing after the Indian
plains; £3 for a warm fleece 

The hotel is Chinese run, and a little chaotic – men rushing hither and thither, and
speaking very fast, so all a bit odd. Hot water bottles distributed in lieu of central heating.
A challenge to discover how yet another variety of hot water heater will deliver the goods.
I bring a cold with me, and find everyone else sneezing and spluttering too. Free wifi for
the first time, but after so little sleep am too tired to care. First day without a single grave,
but we did pass a Gurkha Memorial on the way up in the train....

Day 13

 Single digit temperatures after the mid thirties do come as a shock to the system! But
porridge and eggs – no curry in sight – is going to help. Set off after breakfast for the Old Cemetery; the distance is a little farther than I realised, but reach it eventually, only to find
a series of steep terraces and I’m below the bottom one! Slowly make my way to the top,
but even then the graves have only reached about 1900, and I need 1941! ‘There’s
another cemetery up the road.’, but this one’s the Old Cemetery. Then discover there
are more graves spilling down the hillside the other side of the road, and there, sure
enough, poorly whitewashed and relatively surrounded by rubbish, is the object of my
mission. Since I can hardly tell Steve on my return that I only managed one grave all
day, after the obligatory visit to the zoo I take a taxi back to the Gurkha Memorial.
Entrance fee 7p, and I then find the Memorial is roped off with prominent No Entry
signs displayed. A visiting group realise my plight and chat the gardener into allowing
me a couple of minutes ‘very quick, very quick.’ Sorry if some of the images are
below par, but it’s another 150 or so names in the bag.

a real border type of town; there’s a Tibetan monastery, shops – and presumably
nationalities – selling wares from Tibet, Nepal, Bhutan and of course India, and we
met a couple yesterday who were taking a taxi from here to Kathmandu – visa to be
purchased at the border. Has Nepal been completed for the Project yet? We shall
be sorry to leave this ethnic ragbag and descend to the pressure, dust and heat
which represent most of India.

Day 14

A full night’s sleep (8pm bed) saw us ready to leave this memorable and unique place
. The town of many gods and religions still tried to bless us in different ways. Tibetan
monks came down from the monastery during breakfast, installed themselves in one
of the bedrooms, and started to sing, drum and blow.

‘Don’t worry, madam’ the proprietress told the guests in the next door room, ‘they will
be finished by 4pm.’ Apparently we had caught their one of their 6 monthly visits to bless
the hotel and its guests. The proprietress presented us both with a Tibetan silk scarf,
|to bring us good luck on our journey. Most of her guests went west on leaving her;
she was impressed that we were hoping to go east.

Waiting on the station platform for the train, we then had the amazing sight of the clouds
lifting and seeing the Himalayas. Our taxi driver told us they had been hidden for 10
days; yet there they were – the snow-covered twin peaks of Kanchendzonga, India’s
highest mountain at 8,598m, less than 300 metres lower than Everest, deep in the
Himalayan range. It was an amazing sight.

We boarded the train, but then something broke in the engine, and we had to wait
while running repairs were carried out and the engine tested.

Our good fortune dwindled further some half hour into our train journey – a road tarring
machine was parked on the road but too close to the track on a curve, and we got
ourselves well and truly wedged against it. Much shouting; in the end two little men
with crowbars, watched by 20 spectators who knew better, freed us and off we went.
By now a good hour late, but this is India.

 At the end of that ride we still had to get to the station in the next town, so took a
tuk-tuk – motorised rickshaw. But the two-stroke engine was older than most, and first
we would stall every time we had to wait to filter right, and then the flyover out of town
was just too steep for the thing, or we and our luggage too heavy... We eventually
made the station, and alighted to be surrounded by offers of all sorts of help – except
for the chap who insisted on videoing us on his mobile phone. We find our carriage
for the night, which is repeatedly sprayed with mosquito repellent

Our journey to the mainline train station continued by shared taxi (4WD); we were
the first to buy tickets for this car, so we had to sit and wait until others travelling in
the same direction took the rest - 4 in the back, we 2 in the middle with our luggage
and, to our horror, 4 in the front. There probably wasn’t much gear changing.
Descending several thousand feet down a single track road comprising multiple
hairpin bends with no roadside barrier or kerb on the downhill side was bad enough,
but of course it wasn’t really a single track at all, and large vehicles would vie with
us as to who would take the edge.

Day 15

Another day of adventure! It may have begun at the tail end of yesterday. Having gone
to bed early, given the prospect of a pre-dawn arrival, it was a bit alarming to awaken a
bit later and find the opposite bottom bunk empty. It had contained a business man
due to alight at 12.30am. I dozed off again, a bit worried about the vulnerability of our
luggage on the floor, and awoke again, this time to find two heavily armed police, in
full uniform and automatic weaponry at the ready, sitting side by side on that bottom
bunk. One gave me a cheerful wave, and I turned over much happier, wondering
when I had last slept with quite that much artillery. Sadly that state of affairs didn't last.

Next time awake was because a whole family seemed to want that same bottom bunk,
and the police, who by then had wrapped themselves in a sheet each and were fast
asleep like two ultra-thin corpses in shrouds, were unceremoniously ejected. Sleep
after that, given constant family interchange between our and the next compartment,
was minimal, and we staggered off the train at 4.30am, probably much the worse for
wear. We waited outside the station entrance for an hour as dawn came, unlike our
driver. After much borrowing of mobile phones to make fruitless calls, we found our
own tuk-tuk, jet-propelled compared with yesterday's, for the bracing (no windows
except the front screen) half hour trip to the airport where, in due course and some
hours later, we caught our £17 a seat helicopter to Shillong, another hill station.

 Met at the other end - Shillong Air Force Base - by our hostess, we were escorted to
the Residence, an authentic relic of the Raj, complete with bungalows, abundant staff,
green lawns, and breakfast under a shady umbrella. Thus fortified, we set off to discover
Shillong Memorial, deep in the Assam Rifles base. Then to All Saints Church, lined
with brass memorials, and the Anglican Cemetery - a beautifully kept garden with
graves from the last 150 years or so.

Day 16

Twelve hours sleep was followed by a slightly muddled breakfast, as new staff tried to
serve the English breakfast without supervision. A hair-raising downhill dash back to
Guwahati followed, our driver trying to make up time lost in traffic jams by overtaking
on blind bends, of which there were many on this steep mountain road, and then
driving down the wrong side of the central reservation of a dual carriageway; facing
large trucks bearing down on us side by side (one graciously stopped for us each
time this happened), after a while even he realised this was just a bit too risky, and
when we came to a break in the reservation our taxi retreated into our own traffic
flow and we breathed again.

Passing through a valley of smelting works, fuelled by coal, even the few remaining
trees still living no longer bore green leaves, and the grime covering people’s homes
can’t be described. We had seen for the first time the effects of industrial pollution
of an emerging industrial nation.

Our driver’s skills gave us time for an hour in Gauhati War Cemetery, some 500
graves marked by dark metal plinths, many of which were washed off for me before
photographing. Then to the station, to leave Assam and venture into Nagaland

and Manipur. It’s hard to believe that the famous WW2 battles around Kohima
(Nagaland) and Imphal (Manipur) actually took place in and near an area where
naked cannibals still lived (and some say still do!), where some 90% of the
population are Christian, yet (I was told yesterday) all the deaths recorded on|
the Assam Rifles Memorial in the last couple of years at least were committed
in counter-insurgency operations Nagaland. The British successfully used the
skills of the Nagas against the Japanese in WW2, no small contribution in this
being made by an English society lady, Ursula Graham Bower, who was |
decorated after the war for her work.

 Day 17

Last night was spent in a private home - palatial by comparison by anything else we
have seen in India. We were met as we stepped down from the train - such a change
from having to battle our way out of a station and then search in vain for a car and
driver who seems to take delight in hiding away rather than making himself known
to the only whites in town. It was of course pitch dark, and we negotiate our way
around sleeping forms on the platform as we make our way to the police office to
register our presence in Nagaland.

Then 'home' for food and chat late into the night. Awake before dawn to the cockerel
and assorted other animal sounds - our host keeps a variety of them, and appears
pretty self-sufficient food-wise.

This morning saw us on the road to Kohima - a long uphill traffic-clogged road, with
many evidences of wet season landslides amid beautiful landscapes and towering
forested hills. Kohima is a busy hilltop town, and the cemetery pretty central, rising
in terraces above the traffic because of the way it was built up around the renowned
tennis courts. Though not what I was expecting at all, it contains a much greater
number of moving epitaphs on its stones than usually found. It wasn't easy to
imagine the awful slaughter and great heroism that had taken place at this renowned
place. The Visitors' Book contains evidence of many others also reaching this
remote spot in the last few weeks.

 Day 18

Just 10 of us wandered across Dimapur's runway for the Imphal plane. Check-in
had opened 5 minutes after it was due to close, the coach bringing the airport
staff having turned up just 10 minutes previously. But given the procedures and
restrictions which had applied to foreigners trying to reach Manipur until this
January, I was really grateful to be en route.

But we landed in a cloudy but dry Imphal, and once the staff at the foreigner's
registration desk had retrieved all their foreigner forms from the cupboards, and
summoned from town the only guy who was allowed to use their rubber stamp on
my papers, I was clear; the taxi was there, and soon was able to retake the two |
WW2 cemeteries and be the first to capture the Cremation Memorial for the project
. A VC in the Indian Army Cemetery was, I guess, fairly unusual. Then to the
hotel to while away the rest of the day before my return flight to Dimapur in the
morning.

Last night's rice beer at our homestay - spoon out half a glass of rotting rice from a
jar in the fridge, add a little water and mash well, then eat the rice and drink the liquid -
seemed to have had no ill effects, though our hostess after her second glass confessed
to feeling a little light headed. Perhaps she mashed better than I did. The night was
punctuated by downpours of rain, which continued as we drove to the airport, and
our flight was delayed a few minutes while they waited for the weather at Imphal to
clear a bit - not the best way to start potentially the busiest day's photography.

Day 19

Another early flight returned me from Imphal to Dimapur, once again 75% empty; the
remainder of the day was waiting time, prior to the late evening train to Tinsukia. It
was filled in a variety of ways; morning service in a Naga church, an afternoon
meeting with a former Indian MP, now a member of the Nagaland State Assembly,
and much explanation about the Nagas - 16 tribes all with their own customs,
traditions and heritage, and how Nagaland became the Indian State which it is today.

Last day

We had left Dibrugarh more than 3 hours late; our hostess had come with us to the
station, and a strategic 'tip' to the acting station supervisor, who had apparently been
imbibing considerable quantities of something stronger than tea, secured us the VIP
waiting room in which to wait; reasonable sofas, but the 'facilities' were as bad as any
we had seen (and been forced to use).

The train failed to live up to predictions that it would make up its delay during the night,
but of course one doesn't know that unless one wakes at the timetabled time, and
then keeps a tight watch (no announcements are made on Indian trains). We
therefore met our driver with a significant sleep deficit, and having watched pouring
rain for the last 2 hours, and seen flooded fields and tracks from the train window
since first light.

An hour's drive took us to our final destination, Digboi War Cemetery. This small
town, sandwiched between is probably the most remote spot I have ever visited
for the Project. Just 200 graves, again plinth style; what was it like here in 1943-45?
Yet even here there were a succession of almost daily entries in the Visitors' Book.
Yet where were we? Less than 100 miles from the border with what used to be
Burma, maybe only 300 miles from China. We had been warned by our Naga
hosts that we faced the possibility of landmines in this area, as guerrilla activity
was rife in the lead-up to Assam elections. To reach the cemetery we had needed
to follow the signs to the Pengaree Tea Estates; it was only after we left the
cemetery that our driver chose to inform us that Pengaree was at the heart of
this local 'protesting'; for once it was comforting not to be wise until after the event!

A couple of hours drive took us to the nearest airport, and by early evening we
were back in Delhi for our flight home the following day. We had travelled over
15,000 in three weeks, more than 6,000 of them within India itself. 

Once again I want to record my sincere and grateful thanks; to members of
the Commission staff, both in the UK and India, who among other things
kindly provided letters of recommendation for me to carry and use; some
have had to endure a succession of questions from me over recent weeks,
which they have done with patience, providing me with additional information,
personal contact details, and more; to CWGC cemetery staff, who welcomed
me with kind hospitality, and in some cases essential additional assistance;
to the many members of BACSA, who gave me so much advice and
detailed information, not just about the many cemeteries and churches
where I might find other military and inscriptions, including detailed maps,
notes etc, but advice borne of much experience about travel - and survival -
in India; and of course to Steve, who succumbed again to my badgering
and permitted me to accomplish this assignment on behalf of the Project
and initially opened windows of opportunity to receive much of the help
detailed above.

'Incredible India' provided me with an unforgettable experience.

David Milborrow

*********************************************************************************

                                             THE WAR GRAVES

                                      PHOTOGRAPHIC PROJECT 

 On the road to Mandalay

               By David Milborrow

  Foreword by Steve Rogers - March 2013

 David Milborrow has recently taken the opportunity to visit present day Myanmar more
commonly known as Burma to those of us in UK. The country is going through a period
of change and beginning to open doors to visitors so before being ‘spoilt’ by mass
tourism David wanted to visit and take the opportunity to photograph Rangoon memorial
in total and update any cemetery images en route. What follows is his Journal for the
few days spent there.

  Day 1 - As we took off from Bangkok International Airport, destination Rangoon, I
realised that my trip had really begun. Somehow breakfast had been only 3 or 4 hours
previously, but afternoon high tea was now being served, and the sun was setting.
The overnight flight from London Heathrow can pass without description – however
good the service is, travelling economy overnight tends to be squashed and
uncomfortable, to be endured more than enjoyed.

Waiting at the boarding gate for the Rangoon flight, I was befriended by a young
Burmese furniture manufacturer who was keen to give me the low-down on the speed
with which his country was being transformed. Politically there were many references
to 'the lady'; economically atm's and places to pay by credit card were appearing fast
– perhaps necessarily when a Rangoon hotel which 2 years previously was maybe
$50 a night was today costing $350 (mine would be considerably less!). When he
pulled out his 3G phone to show me some photographs I realised that Derek's
advice to take my phone with me was better than the FCO's website, which had
said 'Don't bother.'

 It was dark again by the time we arrived in Rangoon, as it had been when I left
Heathrow. However, the latter had been around 4 deg C - Rangoon was still 24!

My promised guide and taxi driver evaporated in the queues for passport control and
immigration, though he did meet me to pass on his contact details in case I got stuck
at all. My luggage, never a sure thing for transit passengers, arrived safely though
hanging open, and after winning the usual(?) Asian taxi driver versus airport arrivals
scrum, I was duly deposited at my hotel.

 Day 2 -The next morning dawned heavily overcast but sultry.

 The 15 miles from Rangoon to the cemetery was full of traffic and diesel smoke. In a passing thought, I wondered if it had been a mistake to omit carrying heavier winter clothing. The warm and generous welcome by the Commission staff meant a slow start to the photography.

 It slowed further when my lens steamed up after just 50 minutes’ use! It was even more humid than I had realised. Thankfully, I had learned my lesson in a sandstorm at Knightsbridge Cemetery in Libya three years earlier and I was carrying a good backup stock - unless each lens was only going to last 50 minutes... That particular predicament ended, but speed was reduced further, as the sun arrived and the temperature rose. My conscience was pricking (as was the sun burning the back of my neck) as I was still avoiding the Monument. Steve's prime reason for asking if I was going to Burma was for me to retake the Monument and I was avoiding the issue. The Commission staff suggestion that I should wait until the sun was directly on the Monument was a good excuse as the 112 panels are both narrow and extremely high! But the sun was casting a strong shadow across many of the panels, so that was another mistake.

 We (I) avoided the issue by leaving mid morning to go out and to buy my coach ticket for Moulmein (recommended as being more interesting than 10 or 12 hours on an aged train from British Empire days). During the short trip - and the inevitable lunch - the outside temp rose from 29 deg to 36. Not promising. In the end a compromise was reached – abandon the Monument for today and start earlier (still) - by forfeiting breakfast - the following day. So the remainder of the day was spent in the uncomfortable heat obtaining around 3,700 images – around two thirds of the total graves, plus 2 additional small memorials. It was interesting to note 7 VC's and a GC in this one cemetery; also the Canadian crew of a Dakota who were only removed from their crash site and re-interred here in 1996.

 I decided that images taken at the highest resolution with both feet firmly on the ground provided a more consistent result than hanging at a strange angle from a ladder. Hopefully, this would give Steve a better chance of achieving something magical with his image-enhancing software. Hoping to offset the detrimental effects of the strong sun's shadow I photographed the Monument a second time before I left the Cemetery, having completed the remainder of the graves.

 Day 3 - Dawn had just about arrived when I returned a few hours later. An attempt to use a ladder and human assistance to achieve reasonable images was soon abandoned and I started again solo on the Monument.           

                                              

 Dropping into the delightful little Rangoon War Cemetery, confusingly not the home of
the Rangoon War Memorial, I ended the day with my images and some aching muscles.
Somehow during the day I had collected some 6,000 images, comprising the remainder
of Taukkyan Cemetery, the Rangoon Monument (twice) and the 1,300 graves in Rangoon
War Cemetery.

A short wander from the hotel in the evening revealed the following; Rangoon's pavements comprise either loose concrete slabs or steel sheets; either way to attempt window
shopping would be painful if not fatal: under these sheets lurk significantly heavy duty
power cables (and possibly much besides):  because the streets are so poorly lit, stopping
to look in a window produces too much dazzle to then be able to see what's underfoot:
there's nothing worth seeing in the aforesaid windows.

It was a short walk to learn so many lessons.

 Tomorrow it's down south for my final Cemetery. The Express bus ticket for the 200 mile trip
cost the equivalent of 7 litres of petrol, or 3 pints of local beer from a mini-market; no wonder Easterners find the West somewhat confusing, and vice versa.

Day 4 - There is a sense of the bizarre sitting on an air-conditioned coach, tapping
away on a laptop while passing straw huts on stilts above the water at the roadside,
with two barefoot Buddhist monks sitting in the row of seats in front. When a mobile phone rang, I did wonder for an instant if it were theirs... Perhaps this is an instance of where the Middle Ages meets modern society, or East meeting West?

              A Busy Bus Station in Rangoon

En route, a few lessons in modern road-building would help comfortable transportation,
as would the risks of parking in the outside lane when picnicking on the central reservation.

The traffic on all carriageways comes to a halt whenever we pass a group of temples,
as cars park anywhere and families pile out to go and participate. Crocodiles of monks
meander past with their fans, and processions follow dragons and drums celebrating
Chinese New Year. If only the video on the coach TV screen of the discordant musical
comic would come to an end....

 A small sense of satisfaction was achieved towards the end of the journey when a different
mobile ringtone sounded – and one of the monks in front produced his HTC android,
with the various display screens beautifully produced in Burmese script..

 Why does that blank look from a hotel receptionist always bring such a cold clutch of
fear to one's heart when one attempts to check in at a fresh hotel? The bus trip had
gone well and the 'transfer' in the back of a motor cycle rickshaw had been survived,
despite the fact that there was no 'stop' at the rear of the pavement facing seat to stop
one just sliding out at the back (should one hold onto luggage or framework when
the bike accelerates?). But the lack of any welcoming smiles at the hotel told its own
story – no record of reservation, despite prepayment via an agent nearly 3 months
previously. 'One night only' was offered – no use to me who had scheduled a 3 day
stay and expected to be off early for Thanbyuzayat. Was there a convention in town
which meant all rooms had been resold to the highest bidders? Thankfully another
hotel was contacted and a room booked, though it meant paying again until the
Malaysian agent could be contacted.

 There are times when a promise of a bed is worth more than money! And it was
cheaper – and closer to the bus station! Subsequently I was taken - the rearmost
of 3 adults on a modest motorbike – back to the bus station to book my seat for the
morning. More dire threats (echoing those I had received in Rangoon) about how
early was the last bus back to Moulmein in the afternoon, but tomorrow was another
day. A crazy end to an unusual day – every table in the hotel restaurant has a bar
across the legs, which means everyone sits sideways on – perhaps it's an old
Burmese custom?

Day 5 - Today began with my third motorbike ride in 45 years – and my third in 2 days.
Thankfully the bus station is not far from the hotel, and unlike the previous day I was
the driver's only passenger. The bus, when it finally came, was everything a Western
tourist seeking an Eastern experience could have asked for – everything and everyone
was travelling except a cage of chickens on the roof. the special Western guest had
a reserved seat – indicated very vociferously after he had sat at the only apparently
free seat – directly under the drinking water urn, which was dispensing freely without
the need to use the tap.

 Then more got on, and even that wasn't necessary. Everyone had to remain just good
friends – it's so nice when it's all done with warm smiles and good grace. We seemed to
have most of the deliveries for most of the street vendors' stalls all the way to
Thanbyuzayat, and they apparently had good trade – fruit, vegetables, and crates and
sacks of unknown items were on board. We stopped many, many times after leaving
the bus station - the driver seemed not to recognise 'full up'. His passengers just kept
coming. We literally struggled up modest inclines in first gear, and a severe sideways
motion occurring above maybe 30 mph indicated that the suspension was perhaps
less than perfect. One passenger with good English told me she was a primary
school teacher (I should have realised – the teachers wear the same uniform as the
pupils). The bus was full of – I supposed – her colleagues, and when she told me
she was one of 89 in her school, I assumed they were all on my bus. Yet at her school
stop only 4 alighted. A guy getting on with a couple of goats at this stage would not
have surprised me. We weren't just full, we weren't just packed – I guess the English
language doesn't need to have a word to describe our bus. There were very few grab
handles – standing passengers just tried to press the flat of their hands against
the roof.

And these were the casualties found along the northern part of the track – less than
25% of the total casualties. I was shown the original Cross of Sacrifice, constructed
after the War from sleepers of the Burma Railway and now preserved in the entrance
gateway. Then more got on, and even that wasn't necessary. Everyone had to remain
just good friends – it's so nice when it's all done with warm smiles and good grace.

 The problem then became how to find, and then extricate, the next street trader's
delivery. Two and a half hours passed quickly. We arrived at Thanbyuzayat, but then
suddenly there was no-one around who understood 'War Cemetery', and no way
was that bus leaving me anywhere else. Alighting, I found a motorcycle taxi who
did understand, and was willing to explain my need to the assembled company
and press me back into my seat for a final mile. 

A warm welcome, as usual, awaited me at the Cemetery; nothing was too much
trouble . Are overseas Commission staff recruited for their diplomacy and hospitality?
It became a painful 3,600 images; the temperature was as high as ever, and the
site just seemed never-ending. But it was a very sobering thought to realise that
ALL the graves, with the exception of just a few post War casualties, were the
victims of the Japanese as POW's; to put it another way, none of the 3,700 plus
in this cemetery had died in actual battle.

                             The ‘Cross of Sacrifice’ made from the original timber
                                         Sleepers from the Burma Railway.

 We travel sitting on the floor of a flatbed pickup behind a motorcycle. A carpet is
provided to sit on, although it all proved pretty awkward for the one of us wearing
a skirt.

 At the end of my day at Thanbyuzayat, before catching a slightly more luxurious bus
'home', I was taken to see the northern end of the Death Railway and an engine from
the period, preserved there until it rusts away. It had been a privilege to visit this
remote place – 2 hours from Moulmein, more than 7 hours from Rangoon, down
some appalling roads – yet only a few dozen miles from the Thai border. There is
every expectation that the border will soon be open to all, and with roads and new
railway lines planned, perhaps in only a few years this site will be so much more
accessible than at present. Even now there is a motel advertised just opposite the
Cemetery – apparently not 'suitable' for tourists, but a sign of things to co 

Day 6 - My only free day in Burma. There are (at least) 3 churches worth a look at,
for the possibility of memorial plaques and even military graves. I hitch a ride with
a German couple who are going via a pagoda.

 We travel sitting on the floor of a flatbed pickup behind a motorcycle. A carpet is
provided to sit on, although it all proved pretty awkward for the one of us wearing a
skirt.

 The Catholic priest had told me that the Anglican graveyard had been appropriated
a few years previously for railway building, so there was nothing to look for there. A
warm welcome awaited at 3) the First Baptist Church, founded by Adrionam Judson,
a nineteenth century missionary of some fame in his time. Only his family members
seemed to have been buried by the church, so my errand had been in vain.

 This Pagoda was possibly the 'old Moulmein Pagoda' of Kipling's poem – probably
little changed, and well situated on the top of a ridge overlooking the river. Then on
the back of a motorcycle down to 1) St Patrick's, the Roman Catholic church with an
old cemetery nearby, overgrown and with coats of whitewash seemingly holding
many of the gravestones together – but obscuring the inscriptions, of course. The
few that were decipherable indicated the area had been in use for 200 years. No
remotely military graves were apparent, and the church was bare – as was 2) St
Matthew's cathedral – unfortunately locked, but with little at the windows to obscure
the view of bleak dank walls, as sad a church as could be found anywhere.                      


                         St Patrick’s Cemetery

 Day 7 -I had found that a very kind and welcoming group of CWGC staff from the
UK checked into the same hotel, which provided me with good company and also
a lift back to Rangoon the following day (yesterday). No more overcrowded buses
for me! I am left with one more day of exploration in Rangoon.

The Catholic priest had told me that the Anglican graveyard had been appropriated
a few years previously for railway building, so there was nothing to look for there. A
warm welcome awaited at 3) the First Baptist Church, founded by Adrionam Judson,
a nineteenth century missionary of some fame in his time. Only his family members
seemed to have been buried by the church, so my errand had been in vain.

A welcome cup of iced coffee down by the river, a wander through Moulmein’s market,
and a long walk 'home', was enough for the day – the high temperature, even higher
humidity (over 90% at times), and dust and grime meant that remaining in any way
tidy or respectable was out of the question.

 The Rangoon Cemetery manager 'leant' me one of his staff to guide me to the
Jewish Cemetery, which contains just one war grave. Although the Commission do
of course have access to the site, it appears to be neither free nor unrestricted!
Permission has to be sought and, in this case at least, securing entrance for the
two of us was not 'free'. Like so many Jewish cemeteries worldwide, it was from a
past time, unused for many years - little used since the 1930's. I wondered whether
the family of that one casualty would have insisted on that particular burial ground
if they could have seen a) the condition it would be in by 2013, and b) how every
Commission site would be maintained.

 At the time the Commission data sheet was written there was no system of grave
numbering, but by the time of my visit every grave was very clearly marked with row
and grave number in bright blue paint. I wasn't sure it was an improvement.

 The local market took place on the muddy track outside the Cemetery. My driver
pointed out the large wall-sign stating 'historic site - no street trading here', but
perhaps the local traders couldn't read either. The trading all took place at ground
level – mats spread over the mud and dust contained piles of fruit, the usual variety
of vegetables, chickens at differing stages of dissection and fish likewise. All very
jolly and lots of laughter caused by my photography - 'Don't just take graves,'
said Steve and my family alike before I travelled.

 Day 8 - During the night I awoke to total silence, and eventually realised that meant
no electricity again. It was the same when I woke again, and began to wonder how
I was going to pack up for a dawn start if I could not see. My wind-up torch wasn't
holding its charge for more than a few seconds; I was on the sixth floor, had been
planning on breakfast and am not that keen on that much exercise that early.
Thankfully a few minutes before my alarm sounded, power was resumed.

It was a bit disconcerting that the airport shops appeared to be offering similar prices
to yesterday's market – after the haggling. Possibly I'm not the most reliable subject
for effective retail therapy anywhere east of Dover?  The short hop to Bangkok was
unremarkable, but there was a small wish that it was a direct flight home...

Day 9

Then to a round of some of the sites – a couple of massive pagodas, and the main
English churches. A blank was drawn at the Roman Catholic Cathedral and Baptist
Church, but the Anglican Cathedral did have a WW2 Memorial Chapel, and a 1st
Bn. Queen's Royal Regiment memorial to their casualties.
Shopping occupied the afternoon – gemstones, cloth, wood carving and lacquer-
work was much in evidence in an enormous market frequented by locals and
tourists alike.

 Day 8 - During the night I awoke to total silence, and eventually realised that meant
no electricity again. It was the same when I woke again, and began to wonder how I
was going to pack up for a dawn start if I could not see. My wind-up torch wasn't
holding its charge for more than a few seconds; I was on the sixth floor, had been
planning on breakfast and am not that keen on that much exercise that early.
Thankfully a few minutes before my alarm sounded, power was resumed.

It was a bit disconcerting that the airport shops appeared to be offering similar
prices to yesterday's market – after the haggling. Possibly I'm not the most reliable
subject for effective retail therapy anywhere east of Dover? The short hop to
Bangkok was unremarkable, but there was a small wish that it was a direct
flight home...

 Day 9 - Bangkok – heat, humidity and traffic fumes. But two great days just
being a tourist.

 On the first day, a trip up country to the 'River Kwai' bridge (we transferred from
coach to motor boat for the final few miles), an hour's trip on the railway, visits to
Kanchanaburi War Cemetery and the Museum. OK – it was the basic tourist day,
but having seen the northern end of the Railway at Thanbyuzayat, visiting this
southern end somehow joined up the circle. A last day in Bangkok, on the river
and in the markets, brought the trip to an end, and then it was back to icy Heathrow

 It just remains for me to once again express my gratitude to Steve for asking me to
go, and giving me much support; and to the Commission, whose staff always went
that extra mile to make my trip easy and enjoyable, helped me with planning and
transport, and offered generous hospitality. Thank you.

 David Milborrow
February 2013