THE LEDO ROADand other verses from China-Burma-India
Smith Dawless, a sergeant in the U.S. Army in the China-Burma-India Theater of World War II, wrotemany verses about what he saw in India and Burma. The most well known of these is Conversation Piece,a poem about the building of the Ledo Road. The verse was so closely associated with the road that it actuallytook its name, often being titled The Ledo Road (as it is here). It appeared in many publications during and afterthe war. It was even put to music after the war.
As a correspondent for CBI Roundup many of his poems appeared in it during the war. Other CBI publications also printed his poems, including Yank, Army Times,and The Indian Press Limited.
In 1951 Sergeant Dawless published his work in a small booklet titled The Ledo Road and other verses from China-Burma-India.The booklet was "dedicated to the China-Burma-India Veterans Association, a non-political group whoseonly objectives are to keep alive wartime friendships and maintain interest in the Far Eastern countries".
This page contains all the verses from the booklet and is dedicated to Smith Dawless and his special insight into the CBI Theater.
Smith Dawless started writing at the age of six. He said that nobody paid much attention to his work until 1931 when he won the Yearbook Awardand the Irene Hardy Award at Stanford University.The university published a collection of his poems and after that he began to free-lance.During a six-year stretch on the editorial staff of Warner Brothers Studios, Dawless turned out a trunkful of unproduced scripts and several plays, one of which, "Baby's Name Is Oscar," had a successful run in Hollywood.
In 1942 he enlisted in the Army and was sent to a pinpoint on the map called Ledo, lying along the Assam-Burma border.He soon became a field correspondent for the CBI Roundup, official newspaper of the theater.After a year and a half in the jungle, he was transferred to New Delhi, where he did the final rewriteof the CBI report to the War Department on the Merrill's Marauders operation.
Brought back to the States by General Joseph W. Stilwell to work on a special assignment, Dawlessgot out of uniform late in 1945 and joined the staff of Army Times as associate editor.He later joined the International Press and Publications Division of the Department of State,which carried out the government's "Campaign of Truth" to free nations of the world.
Each of us who served in the China-Burma-India Theater during World War II has his own memories of those days.Many of the small details that seemed so important then have slipped away.But most of us have one memory that is clearer than all the rest, one that will stay with us always.Mine is the memory of the sweat, struggle and grit of the men who built the Ledo Road.For me, CBI is brought to life again in many ways by the verses in this small volume.In them Smith Dawless, who served at my headquarters in Ledo, has recorded life along the Ledo Roadas the GIs knew it.
Conversation Piece, describing the experience of the men who served under my command in Base Section 3,was named by the editors of Army Times as the best soldier verse of World War II.It has appeared in publications throughout the world and is now being heard as a song in concert halls.
Salute, written for General Stilwell, is a deeply moving farewell to one of the greatest soldiers of them all.
I believe In Memoriam is one of the finest tributes ever paid in words to a fallen comrade.
As for the lighter verses, there is not one that will fail to recall those long months that we sweatedout the monsoon in the jungles of Burma.
To all the men who served in CBI, I commend these verses as a cherished record of those rugged days.
Major General Lewis A. Pick
Chief, U.S. Army Engineers
SALUTE
To Vinegar Joe
The old gray warrior has done his part:
Remember the iron pressure of his hand,
The kindliness within his valiant heart,
His tolerance toward those of every land,
Furrowed by full years, his gentle face,
Humorous... deep-bronzed by Burma's sun
Is touched with the simplicity and grace
Of all great men whose missions are well done.
Yet in the troubled days ahead, a spry
Lean ghostly figure will be seen along
The Ledo Road - his campaign hat awry -
Roaring in his jeep down toward Mogaung.
Past lifting jungle hills, and we shall say,
"You see?" He never really went away!
THE LIFE-GIVER
From the great port of CalcuttaA serpent forged of iron moves forth
Winds on its fateful journey north
Along the Brahmaputra...
Pauses in the green rice paddies of Assam
To feed impatient transports
Eager for the hour of flight...
Invades the trim tea gardens,
Bright in the monsoon sun...
Fills hungry bombers that at night
On Singapore and far Formosa
Let their deadly burdens fall...
Pushes forward ever upward
Spiraling around the Patkai Mountains
With the intention and the purpose
Of a living thing...
Inches up the jungle slopes
Across deep gorges where the hollong
Lifts its monarch head toward heaven...
Curls in changing pattern southward
Subtly slips into the Hukawng Valley
Hurdles many a flood high river
To pierce the core of teakwood forests...
Rises toward the austere Hump, that white
Half-world between the earth and sky...
This is the life-giver
Pulsing with the drink of planes...
This is the mother vein
Throbbing with abundant strength
For thirsty trucks and tanks
Twisting, turning, moving ever on...
A vast strong artery that pumps
The endless flowing stuff of war.
COMMENT
Oh, give me cobras, give me mice.
But do not give me bamboo lice.
They revel in your blankets,
Cavort among your clothes,
And sixty times a minute
They drop upon your nose.
They shinny up your shoulder
And swarm around your face.
For each one you extinguish
A dozen take its place.
Oh fleas and ticks are rather nice
Compared to fiendish bamboo lice.
They leap across your pillow.
And when they wake you up
You find them nestled snugly
Within your canteen cup.
But worst of all, the demons
Don't hesitate a bit
To rear their lousy litters
Inside your shaving kit
Oh, blessed peace at any price,
But not one pice for bamboo lice!
(Untitled)
Lines written to commemorate the fact that at a certain hospital unit in Upper Assam a section of the chapelwas roped off for officers and nurses at Sunday services
Last night I flew across the Hump
And cut my transport's final roar
Upon an Elysian landing field,
Far from the bitter scene of war.
St. Peter, at his bamboo gate,
Produced a seating chart to know
On which side of the rope I sat
Each Sunday down on earth below.
I humbly pointed out the place,
Not where a holier oxygen
Is breathed by special order, but
Where sit the low enlisted men.
A wondrous burst of sound arose,
The beautiful, celestial din
Of choiring angels round the gate
That opened wide to let me in.
The heavenly hosts surrounded me,
While beggars walked with kings.
And though I looked most everywhere
I saw no rank upon their wings.
DARK SPECTER
There is the oddest magic
About a Burmese night,
For nowhere else is Heaven
So generous with light.
Immaculate, the planets
Present their brilliancy.
The moon bestirs the jungle
To quiet activity.
A thousand bodeful fancies
Attack the mind and eye,
As strange companions venture
Across the midnight sky.
For there, sharp-silhouetted
Against the gibbous moon
A purposeful, slow bomber
Wings southward toward Rangoon.
THE HEAD HUNTER
The lithe, lean-muscled Naga
Moves with a wild, swift grace,
And centuries of struggle
Lie scarred upon his face.
From out the sultry foothills
He comes on panther feet
To sell his polished agates
Along the village street.
His ebon hair pulled tautly
Around a gleaming bone,
He wanders through the market,
A man who walks alone.
"A rupee, sahib, one please!"
Is all that he will say,
And when his tin is empty
He quietly turns away.
Up toward the lifting mountain
He goes with head held high,
A proud and stubborn Naga
With lightning in his eye.
Oh, was he here? Most surely!
I know a sudden calm
Has passed, and here's the moonstone
All cool within my palm.
PLEASE NOTE - SUPPLY
At first I was given a bedstead of iron,
Equipped with a mattress and springs,
I sprawled at my ease
Without doubling my knees
And slept like the richest of kinds.
I next was assigned a collapsible cot
Of canvas spread taut on a frame.
It was not built for sport
And appallingly short
But I managed to sleep all the same.
They took that away and issued me next
A contraption completely boo-how.
Not even a dog
Could sleep like a log
On the charpoy I'm burdened with now.
A cumbersome article fashioned of wood,
The charpoy is latticed with rope
Whose criss-crosses meet
In a knot round my feet,
And of sleep I've abandoned all hope.
I rise every morning exhausted and limp,
And all of my basha mates snicker,
For I look, where I'm fat,
Like the model who sat
Inadvertently down on the wicker.
Now call it a torture-rack, call it a joke,
But don't call the charpoy a bed.
From its legs I will make
A stout scaffold, and take
The ropes for a noose round my head.
ELEGY
Inscribed after the Powers That Be refused to permit Clare Boothe Luce to contribute a weekly column aboutCongress to CBI Roundup on the grounds that her material might be too controversial for the armed forces.
Come brothers, let us mourn, forsooth:
They nipped the nib of fair Clare Boothe,
Hushed in her journalistic prime
Full forty years before her time.
No sinner she: the printed word
Was all in which the lady erred.
Her dreadful controversial ink
Induced poor Army lads to think!
(A heinous habit which a man
Must strive to conquer if he can.)
It seems, on matters politic,
That GI brain cells mustn't click,
If Congress dances, all the same,
We'd like to know the fiddler's name.
I ask you, is it man or mouse
Who scorns the drama of the House?
If Senators collapse and fall
Aren't we supposed to care at all?
We cannot hope it's for the best
To set our gimpy minds at rest.
Beneath some spreading banyan tree
We'll ponder philosophically
The baffling quirks of fickle Fate
That won't let soldiers speculate -
When Members introduce a bill -
On whether it is good or ill.
It's au revoir and not goodbye
To Clare from us in C.B.I.
We pray she won't unload her guns,
And that her plays have three-year runs!
WATER BUFFALO
Along the roadway, tortoise-slow he paces,
Nor cares his bland medieval eyes to turn
Upon the Army truck that past him races,
But pulls his ancient cart with unconcern.
Resentfully, he ambles past the hollow,
Now rife with soldiers, where in other years
He daily took his heaving hulk to wallow
In stinking mud up to his sacred ears.
But on a stormy night he comes cavorting,
Across the nullah, plunging through the deep
Dank grass capriciously, with joyous snorting.
Ecstatic grunts invade the aliens' sleep
As, once again carousing in the rain,
He tastes the sweets of his usurped domain.
THE FOREIGNER
They welcomed Hayden back from war, and fed
Him horn-pout chowder, muffins, and berry pies.
"He hasn't changed a bit," the village said -
But there was the look of Asia in his eyes.
They fussed, and petted him; they wept again,
Telling the neighbors horrors he had known:
"Two years he lived among those naked men
Who worship hideous idols carved from stone!"
He remembered the Chinese coolie, Long Nee Lum,
Who fought in the Burmese jungles by his side,
The Kachin scouts, and the headsman at Nhpum,
And other dark-skinned brothers who had died.
How could he make these good folks understand
That this, his Maine, was now the alien land?
CONFIDENTIALLY
There's one in every outfit
Who always beefs and gripes,
He hates the first three-graders,
And has no use for stripes.
He's late for all formations,
And streams off without fail
When he's assigned twice weekly
To work latrine detail.
"The Army's crammed with morons,"
He says, "Between us two,
Our unit's I.Q. average
is barely sixty-two!"
A self-made guardhouse lawyer,
A headache and a bore,
He spends his time misquoting
The Articles of War.
He loves to boast and swagger
Wherever there's a crowd.
And, worst of all, when sleeping
He snores off-key, and loud.
There's one in every outfit,
In ours - who can it be?
Offhand, I cannot name him:
Do you suppose it's me?
KALA NAG
The cobra sports a mean incisor,
When he expands his scaly hood,
To make you sadder if not wiser.
Though with his venom he's no miser
His best intentions are not good.
The cobra sports a mean incisor.
He spouts his spittle like a geyser
As self-respecting cobras should
To make you sadder not wiser.
This reptile is no fraternizer
And few his kisses have withstood.
The cobra sports a mean incisor.
His hipless mate, if you surprise her,
Would fang you fondly if she could.
The cobra sports a mean incisor.
Don't think you are a hypnotizer
And try to charm him if you would:
The cobra sports a mean incisor
To make you sadder not wiser.
CONVERSATION PIECE (THE LEDO ROAD)
Is the gateway to India at Bombay
Really as beautiful as they say?
Don't rightly know, Ma'am. Did my part
Breakin' point in the jungle's heart;
blasted the boulders, felled the trees
with red muck oozin' around our knees;
Carved the guts from the Patkai's side,
Dozed our trace, made it clean and wide,
Metalled and graded, dug and filled:
We had the Ledo Road to build.
Well, surely you saw a burning ghat,
Fakirs, rope tricks and all of that.
Reckon I didn't. But way up ahead
I tended the wounded, buried the dead.
For I was a Medic, and little we knew,
But the smell of sickness all day through,
Mosquitoes, leeches, and thick dark mud
Where the Chinese spilled their blood
After the enemy guns were stilled:
We had the Ledo Road to build.
Of course, you found the Taj Mahal,
The loveliest building of them all.
Can't really say, lady I was stuck
Far beyond Shing with a QM truck
Monsoon was rugged there, hot and wet,
Nothing to do but work and sweat
And dry was the dust upon my mouth
As steadily big "cats" roared on south,
Over this ground where Japs lay killed:
We had the Ledo Road to build.
You've been gone two years this spring,
Didn't you see a single thing?
Never saw much but the moon shine on
A Burmese temple around Maingkwan,
And silver transports high in the sky,
Thursday River and the swift Tanai,
And Hukawng Valley coming all green,
Those are the only sights I've seen.
Did our job, though, like God willed:
We had the Ledo Road to build.
LINES TO AN ARMY NURSE
You are a bright and shining star,
For in this dark, despairing hour
You shed a radiance where you are
Like some exotic, lovely flower.
You are the vision that must be
Tomorrow's hope for all creation:
Now, darling, won't you share with me
Your cigarette and whiskey ration?
RIKKI - TIKKI - SAVVY?
In Hindustan the mongoose
Is in excellent repute.
On all ophidian subjects
He's exceedingly astute.
About the house he's handy
And very highly prized,
Because he keeps, most ably,
The place de-reptilized.
The small viverrine mammal
Moves quicker than a cat,
A cobra always strikes where
The mongoose isn't at.
Around his victim dancing,
he waits the merest slip
Of vigilance, then leaps in
To plant his lethal grip.
Oh, nothing but a mongoose
Can keep the snakes away.
The banded kraits and vipers
Drop in, but do not stay.
When I get home from India,
I'll hunt the nearest zoo.
I'd like to see a mongoose
In person - wouldn't you?
THE INTRUDER
Where the pulsing spring
Deepens to a pool
Among the boulders,
All is green and cool.
The huddled nahore trees,
The vines that run
In nightmare patterns
Toward the light
Defy the bright, possessive sun.
Between the moss-dark rocks
Rise unexpected ferns,
Taller than most ferns grow;
And ekra plumes reflect
Gold in the pool below.
With sudden throaty purr
The black panther
Leaps from the jungle,
Setting the fronds astir.
He pauses on the boulder
And lifts a satin nose
To sniff the unfamiliar scent,
Then turns, and quietly goes.
Only the trembling grasses,
A wet print on a stone,
Betray that here one passes...
And I am left alone.
A WOMAN OF BURMA SPEAKS
Awaken, little one, and go
Before the teakwood trees
Are touched by morning and become
Alive with enemies.
They took your father. Oh, my son,
How thickly dark and red
The blood ran on that afternoon
They struck him swiftly dead.
Your brothers marched into the south
And no one now can say
If still they live, or if they fell
At Prome or Sandoway.
But there beyond the Naga Hills
Are friends who fight until
The world grows sane again and men
No longer lust to kill.
Go be with them. The dawn is near
Our parting must be brief,
Although my heart is cold and numb
There is no time for grief.
Nor mind not leaving me alone.
For you are young and strong,
While I am old and worn by life
And here's where I belong.
The wars may come, and husbands go,
And children say goodbye,
But Burmese mothers always stay
At home until they die.
Until our land is free once more
Your work will not be done.
Now lift your head up toward the sky,
Farewell - farewell, my son!
GOOD GODDARDUp and down the Ledo Road,
Everything is humming.
Heard the latest rumor men?
Paulette Goddard's coming!
Careful, lucky Air Corps wolf,
As you fly our gal up.
We are desperate for dames
To zoom our low morale up.
Tall and slim upon the screen
She holds our rapt attention.
But now in person we shall see
Paulette's third dimension.
Jungle life is growing stale,
We're tired of meditating.
Ripe for glamour and for fun:
Goddard, we are waiting!
CHOCOLATE SOLDIERS
(Lines to the Army nurse who accused American men of being lousy lovers)
Now fancy words and flowers have a fine poetic touch
But damsels we have dated said that they appreciated
The cigarettes and Hershey bars we gave them just as much.
In Hindustan, the dwelling place of fakir and dacoit
We feted Khasi lassies with extremely classy chassis
And modest Moslem mamas found our courting ways adroit.
Marines assigned to storm the beach in far Pacific isles
Recall delights Elysian with brown-skinned Polynesian
Delectables arrayed in nothing but sarongs and smiles.
The Navy boys in Russia swore the nights were simply Hell
Until they learned the Volga was the habitat of Olga
Who thought us crude Americans were really pretty swell.
The Dutch and Aussie darlings gave us all a pleasant deal
We fraternized with Hilda, we waltzed around Matilda
And what we lacked in artistry we had in fresh appeal.
In gay Paree's Pig Alley just below the Sacre Coeur
Affectionate Fleurette helped every flier to "forget"
And made our trip to Europe like a summer travel tour.
From London to the Philippines, from China to Dakar
Our wooing won no curses save from jealous Army nurses
And every other maiden seemed to like us as we are.
The romance international has brightened all our lives
And now the daily papers say those Yankee foreign capers
Resulted in our bringing home a hundred thousand wives.
So, sister, stay abroad where love's a glib and subtle art
We may be rough with kisses, but you'll never be a "Mrs."
Of any U.S. male unless you have a change of heart!
THE LEDO BAZAAR
They ran out the pedlars, stamped out the vice,And sent the dukan-wallwahs packing,
Killed all the picturesque and spice,
And something that's lovely is lacking.
The vagabond rascals and fakirs have fled,
The doors of their shacks stand ajar,
The markets are empty and laughter is dead,
On the streets of the Ledo Bazaar.
Gone the blind singer, the bansri's soft tones:
The Nagas in supple bronze splendor
No longer bring kukris and worthless red stones
For the rajah-American spender.
Only the merchant respected in name,
Maintaining shop prices at par,
Sells pan and tambaku, and nothing's the same
On the streets of the Ledo Bazaar.
No more do the beggar, the saffron-robed priest,
Or Bhutani just down from the mountain,
Stand waiting to drink while a ladder-ribbed beast
Cools his flanks in the flow of the fountain.
The black-bearded goat and hysterical fowl-
Does anyone know where they are?
And why don't the mange-ridden jungle dogs howl
On the streets of the Ledo Bazaar?
There, Hindu, Mohammedan, Burman, Chinese,
And every known caste found their level.
But now it's restricted and clean as a breeze
And plainly consigned to the devil.
Those colors and odors the vendor's shrill talk,
Held sweeter enchantments by far.
And often, at evening, God used to walk,
On the streets of the Ledo Bazaar.
(Untitled)
Lines prompted by the announcement that Renie, Hollywood clothes designer, predicts that before longwomen's gowns will feature completely open fronts
Oh, Renie's a progressive girl
A smart couturiere.
She prophesies the bodice will
Be cut for open air.
So, ladies, let the uplift go
Discard that silly bra.
And trust the law of gravity
To make the wolves say "Ah!"
Farewell to slip and lace chemise
For nobody will use 'em
Those quaint old-fashioned articles
Conceal the female bosom.
To qualify among the world's
Best Undressed Dames - you must
Throw caution to the winds and get
A sun-tan on your bust.
No matter if you're of petite
Or dowager dimension
Be certain that you will command
Much masculine attention.
Suppose your long-protected chest
Can't take a north exposure
You'll leave a nation grateful for
Your generous disclosure.
All hail those expert stylists who
Decree the blouse removal!
At last we'll have one fashion that
Wins every man's approval!
WAIL OF A BEATEN WOMAN
Dedicated to the wife of a GI who was sent home from India because he had an uncontrollabledesire to beat people
My war-weary Willie is back home again,
Decidedly psychoneurotic.
Afflicted with strange paranoiac desires
Acquired in locations exotic.
Embittered, frustrated, he cannot relieve
His desperate nervous condition
Unless he is staging an amateur bout
With me on the floor of our kitchen.
The eminent experts explain that I must
Be patient and most understanding,
Regardless of where my anatomy's hit
Or how I get battered in landing.
So beat me, dear daddy, sixteen to the bar,
My floating ribs part from their mooring
Oh, cave in my clavicle, shatter my shin,
Assured that my love is enduring-
At least, until I can arise from the floor
And get from the cabinet shelf
A rolling pin, darling, to knock you out cold.
I've a few inhibitions myself!
THE SOLDIER
Lin Yuan Ling lies upon the bed,
The cloth around his scalp stained red.
His fingers curl as if to keep
A hold on life throughout his sleep.
But fifteen summers has he known,
Yet he is wiser than men grown.
For though his touch on earth is light,
Cat-eyed, he stood alone one night.
Along the Upper Chindwin's shore,
And felled a dozen foes or more.
Lin Yuan Ling lies upon the bed,
With halos bandaged round his head.
THE OPEN HEARTED
Back from the Mogaung is Huen Low
With shrapnel pitted face.
There is a radiance in his eyes.
That pain cannot erase.
For somewhere north of Myitkyina
In mud up to his knees
He braved an ambuscade and killed
A ranking Japanese.
How eagerly the short, thick hands
Describe his wary tread
Along the ancient Kachin trail
Where death abode ahead.
Thus did he raise his rifle high,
Take careful aim and slow,
Across the teak grove calmly watch
Unerring bullets flow.
Here is the gleaming samurai sword,
And there the Rising Sun
Upon the captured flag to show
How well his work was done.
"But tell us, Huen, how did he look,
This loathsome enemy?"
Thought stabs his forehead as he smiles
And softly says, "Like me."
FASHION NOTE
The quartermaster issued us,
For summer wear or sports,
Two simply devastating pairs
Of British khaki shorts.
Designed for ventilation, they
Resemble Girl Scout bloomers,
Though somewhat windier below
According to cold rumors.
Such ducky little scanty-pants
Are not a Yankee's dish.
They bag and sag at every seam
And, brother, how they swish.
Alack our lumpy, modest legs,
Canary like, must be
Exposed in hairy freckled shame
For all the world to see.
Throughout the jungles of Assam
Each GI loudly roars,
"I'll don a dhoti, but decline
To wear these droopy drawers!"
BANDAR LOG-ARITHM
The gibbon is a monkey
Shorter than his reach is
His actions are engaging
Until he ups and screeches.
But vocally this joker
Is strictly adenoidal
His screaming is inhuman
Precisely anthropoidal.
He roams the Burmese jungle
Because the bloody war's on
And tries to scare the Nippons
By hollering like Tarzan.
For all his fine endeavor
Why not award the gibbon
The medal for Good Conduct
And Asiatic Ribbon!
IN MEMORIAM
R.M.B.
A little while ago
He was here.
We heard his sudden laughter,
Full and clear.
We touched his hand, his shoulder,
And all around this place
We felt the warm good-nature
In his face.
We bantered, and we knew
Each other through,
As men who live for long
Together do.
He shared our homesick days
And we broke bread
Beside him, wordlessly.
Now... he is dead.
Sleep softly
In the jungle, brother,
Rest on the rich dark breast
Of Earth, our mother.
The hollong tree
Lifts proud and high
Above the uncharted spot
Where now you lie,
And shrill the alien mynah calls.
Within that sunless gloom
Where no foot falls.
But down the years before us
We shall keep
Your gift of laughter,
Sleep quietly, brother,
Long... and deep.
