The Battle of Kohima — the World War II battle India forgot
Listen to me, you who sit behind a laptop and have landed here in search of amusement. Listen to me, you who idly scroll through words on your mobile, killing time before your next task. Put away your distractions and hear what I have to say.
I speak to you of a sliver of history tucked away in a corner of our land, forgotten by many of us. I speak of a battle in India that was one of the greatest fought during World War II.
I speak to you of the Battle of Kohima.
Exactly seventy-six years ago, in March 1944, the Japanese Army broke through the dense jungles of Burma into India. Their plan was to take Imphal, and then Kohima. Kohima lay at the summit of a pass that offered the best route for the Japanese to move in from Burma into India. Once they broke through the hills of Nagaland, they could race to Dimapur on the plains, then across the plains of Assam on towards Delhi.
The advance caught the British by surprise. The Japanese had attacked Imphal, and the British expected them to try and capture Dimapur. Dimapur had the main supply depot for troops in the north east. If Dimapur fell, the British army would struggle for rations and ammunition.
The Japanese, however, had other plans. They wanted Kohima. Once they captured Kohima, they could consolidate and move further west.
Initially, the British forces at Kohima numbered only around 1500, most of them still not battle tested. They were stationed at a garrison along with about 1000 non-combatants.
The Japanese army numbered close to 12000. To take Kohima, they laid siege to the garrison. The battle began with the odds stacked against the British. In the first few weeks the Japanese army advanced and captured areas in and around the Kohima garrison. But the British army held on to key strategic positions nearby from where artillery fire troubled the Japanese army greatly.
Within the garrison, however, deadly battles were fought. The Deputy Commissioner’s bungalow and a tennis court witnessed pitched bloody battles in what came to be known as the Battle of the Tennis court. The tennis court became a no-mans land, with the invaders and defenders often tossing grenades standing just a few feet from each other or indulging in hand-to-hand combats. Thousands were killed in close combat. Those fighting were often sick from dysentery and breathing the stench of rotting bodies nearby.
There are tales that are both valiant and foolhardy. The Japanese decided to make an advance at night, but their mortar shelling set fire to trees. As the infantry rushed into the attack, they were silhouetted against the night sky, and could be picked up as easy targets.
Trees and turrets witnessed tales of valor. Here, a Japanese sniper who took position and killed many before he was slain. There, a tree behind which a doctor tended to the wounded while he watched the battle rage around. Often, wounded soldiers waiting for medical attention were caught in the crossfire. Supplies ran low, but starving men on both sides did not let go of their positions.
The stalemate broke when Allied reinforcements reached Dimapur. By this time, the Japanese were perilously low on supplies, and started falling back as they realized this was a battle they could not win. And so the Allies held Kohima.
We walk around the garrison; now a large war cemetery. We witness memories of men, slain in thousands now remembered only in the lines of gravestones that dot the land. One reads “Some corner of the world that is forever England.” Another: “You will be missed by the son who has never seen you”
Further ahead is a memorial to the Indian soldiers who were killed, listing their names and regiments. And a marker in memory of those who were killed but never identified.
A stone cross memorial dedicated to the 2nd division reads: When you go home tell them of us and say for your tomorrow we gave our today.
Much of this has been widely documented. But there are stories of those who lived in Kohima that we haven’t heard. Many who lived through those times celebrated the victory, only to see the victors walk away without honoring their promise to reconstruct their homes.
Let’s hear the tale from the octogenarian Mr. Sachu as he leaps across time to the war he witnessed as a boy of ten:
“The Japanese broke into Nagaland and stopped at a village called Zakhma, a short distance from Kohima. We Nagas were a surprised people to see them. They knew about the British, who had started making inroads into their lands fifty years before. We had fought battles with them; then made a peace pact with the British that left them largely alone.
‘Oh my brother! Oh my sister! ‘ cried the Japanese when they marched into our villages. They treated us as their own people. And we grew to like them.
“Within a month of getting into Zakhma, the Japanese army set up a school for the village kids. And we grew fonder of them. None of the outsiders had treated us well. This army cared about us. We shared their food and helped them set up base.
“But trouble lay ahead. The Japanese had brought in 5000 oxen as meat supplies from Burma, but only 1000 survived the march to Nagaland. A warehouse of rice, having supplies that could have lasted the Japanese divisions a long time, was bombed, and all supplies were destroyed.
“We loved the Japanese as our own, but we had to give them up. We had nothing to eat and knew they would not win.
“Aided by a superior airforce, the allies bombed the airfields at Myanmar, leaving the Japanese army no means to bring supplies in. Left with no choice to save their families, many of us slowly sided with the British and led them to many Japanese camps. The Japanese were cornered and lost local support. And this hastened the end of the war.
“But the Allies gave us up”, he murmurs.
“They had promised to reconstruct Kohima after the war, but left behind only a great cemetery at the center of the city and bitterness of broken trust.
“I want the world to remember this tale”, says Mr. Sachu as he gestures across the room we sit in. Since the war, he has set up a private museum in his attic with relics from the time of the war.
Bombshells are lined up neatly in open wardrobes along with army helmets, doctors kits, trunks, photographs, newspaper clippings, guns, masks, water bottles, bandages and provisions. A huge bombshell beside is labeled — the bomb that fell on Kohima.
We spy a mannequin of a soldier’s head with a combat helmet. Its lips are bruised and bleeding. The eyes look weary. Propped against it is a paper where is written in red block letters: peace.
