In late February LIFE Photographer George Rodger raced down from Mandalay through Prome in his Army jeep to cover the death throes of Rangoon.
What he found is seen on this page.
On Feb. 20 the British had ordered total evacuation of the city.
The great Oriental port of 400,000 was deserted (above, right) when Rodger drove in three days later, except for the howling of packs of starved mongrel dogs.
Even the fire department had been sent north to Mandalay and 2,000 convicts had been set free to do what they liked with Rangoon.
As night fell, the sky lit up with fires.
The lunatic Burmese, led by the convicts, were setting fire to houses of the well-to-do and the Hindu laborers who did the work of Rangoon.
Nobody was caught.
Nobody was even watching the fires when Rodger drove down the lanes of flame.
British officers shot a few of the Burmese but there was nobody to remove the bodies, because under the Buddhism of Burma, burial is a privilege reserved to certain religious groups.
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The small of death and charred wood weighted the air of Rangoon.
The criminal and crazy ranged the city, looting whatever they could carry and burning what they could not.
Still on view, amid the flames, were such iconic signs in English and Burmese as: "Rangoon must not burn. Join the Auxiliary Fire Service," and "Don't desert your homes but protect and guard them."
The deserted homes of Rangoon burned merrily.
Strangely, Rodger found that the British were still in control.
The light, power and water services were still working.
Armed Indian Army guards still stood outside the water transport offices.
Ships at the dock were still unloading trucks and supplies to rush up the Burma Road, though somebody had already destroyed a great depot of American lease lend materials.
A few days later word came that Burma could be held.
As late as March 8, the British had "every confidence" of holding Rangoon.
Refugees came back to the gutted city.
On March 9 the Japs entered Rangoon.
BURMESE DISMANTLE THEIR HOUSES TO MOVE THEM INTACT INTO THE JUNGLE.
THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY IS THE ONE SERIOUS WORKER.
OTHERS WORK SITTING DOWN.
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LOOTED HOUSES IN MIDDLE-CLASS AND INDIAN SECTIONS ARE SET AFIRE BY THE SCUM OF RANGOON, INCONVENIENCING BOTH DEPARTING BRITISH AND CONQUERING JAPS.
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THE GODS OF BURMA BURNED IN THEIR TEMPLES WITH FACES EATEN AWAY AND TIN ROOFS CLATTERING DOWN. HOODLUMS HAD FREQUENTLY BEEN ENCOURAGED BY BUDDHIST PRIESTS.
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The major tragedy of Burma was the million Indians who had always done the dock work, housework, manual labor, merchandising, money-lending and clerical work there.
The Burmese did not want the jobs but they had never liked the Indians who really ran Burma. For the past five years the Buddhist priests (Poonghies) had incited riots against the Indians.
This time the rich Indians got out early and easily, but LIFE Photographer Rodger rode into the heart-breaking spectacle of the poor Indian trying to hike their way out of Burma.
Here at last, with the Indians on the run, the Burmese had their fun.
They charged the fleeing columns of the helpless an anna for a cup of water.
The Burmese police exacted imaginary toll charges.
Every Burmese thought up his own racket.
From Rangoon northwest to the oil fields was 400 miles; over the hills to India was another 400 miles.
The Indians, with wives and children, slogged wearily on.
Many died of exhaustion.
Others fell by the roadside with the dread cholera.
They had no thought of getting along with the Jap.
Racing the Japs who cut the road north two weeks later, they hoped to get to the upper Irrawaddy River, where they might get a river steamer and so cross the mountains to India.
THE OLD, THE YOUNG AND THE WOMEN RIDE ATOP BAGGAGE AS THREE INDIAN HEADS OF FAMILY DRAG ALONG AN OXCART THEY HAVE MANAGED TO HIRE FROM THE BURMESE.
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Fleeing Indians, who have already done 150 miles, give big smiles to Photographer Rodger in bullet-marked Army jeep with extra oil tank and tin hat.
Notice scattering of umbrellas.
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Oil fields of Yenangyaung, the priceless asset of Burma, are on line of march.
Two weeks later British burned and blocked the oil wells, refineries and tanks, how well nobody knows.
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The Irrawaddy River is destination of the Indians.
Here they have camped for several days hoping for a boat that will take them upriver to Mawlaik nearer the border of India.
Most of their money is gone and many were still here when the Japs came.
Under the generous acacia tree they squat while the Burmese boats hover tantalizingly in river.
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Like a Bible scene is this moving picture of an Indian family, prosperous enough to hire an oxcart, taking their three pails and umbrella past paddies of south Burma.
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Thirty miles to go, with 150 behind them, from Rangoon the plucky column of Indians comes up a side road south of Prome, close to branch of the Irrawaddy they seek.
Naked to the blazing sun of Burma that throws shadows black as night, a small Indian boy goes into trot to keep up with pack-laden father. The weak and tired died.
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Completely tuckered out, a small Indian child sleeps while being carried on father's shoulder.
War is not necessarily fatal for adults, but is very tough on the very little.
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In a sling hung on a crosspole, a dry-faced father takes his wide-eyed boy down the road out of Burma. There was no time for rest, with mobile Jap Army racing behind.
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Photographer Rodger camps in the jungle on his way to Rangoon, sleeping in his jeep under netting to avoid the huge, silent mosquitoes of Burma. Here he cleans up after a meal.
Rangoon is a dead city when Rodgers enters it. This is normally main shopping street, the throngs... Sule Pagoda Road. Three Burmese can barely be picked out in the distance, standing on a corner.
