The Hell of Burma: Sergeant Harry Verlander

In memory of all the members of the special forces who sacrificed their lives during the Second World War

THE HELL OF BURMA: An Excerpt from Tales from the Special Forces Club

Harry Verlander was standing in the doorway of a twin-engine Dakota as it cruised above the lush, green canopy of Burmese jungle 600 feet below. As the aircraft approached the drop zone, an RAF dispatcher tapped Harry on the back – it was the signal to jump.

Leaning forward, he held his breath and threw himself into the void. Harry had jumped from an aircraft before – in France the previous year, when he dropped behind the lines to help mobilise the Resistance prior to D-Day, and at the RAF base at Ringway. In all the previous jumps, however, Harry had simply dropped through a hole in the aircraft’s floor – good technique was not a necessity.

But jumping from a Dakota was different. As Harry exited the aircraft from a side door, he hit the slipstream with his legs apart – a basic mistake – and was spun like a top.

‘I sensed straight away that I was falling too fast. I looked up and I could see the parachute rigging lines coiled like a rope. The canopy was streaming above me completely deflated, so I began kicking and pulling and doing a lot of swearing.’

Harry tugged away at the rigging lines and eventually pulled them free, allowing the canopy to form and slow his descent. But he was now way off course and, rather than drifting towards the cleared drop zone, he was heading for a steep wooded hillside.

‘I kept my feet and knees together, covered my face and waited for the pain. I bounced off branches and ended up tumbling through bushes about six feet high. I landed on my right leg, it took my whole weight, and there was this great surge of pain which shot up my right-hand side. I fell backwards and whiplash sent pain searing through my neck, and at that stage I passed out, briefly.’

Harry regained consciousness and tried to stand but it was too painful to put any weight on his right side. His uniform had been ripped by thorns and one of the soles of his green canvas jungle boot had been torn off.

‘Great start, I thought. I was hundreds of miles behind enemy lines and less than five minutes into the mission. I was injured and had become separated from the rest of the team. Then just as I was getting my bearings I heard a slashing sound from the jungle ahead.

‘Japs! Can this get any worse, I thought to myself as I pulled out my .45, cocked it, removed the safety catch and was all but ready to fire when a young lad appeared carrying a machete. He looked at me, then the pistol, lowered the machete and smiled, and then I realised he wasn’t a Jap but one of the Karen tribesmen who were helping the British push the Japs out of Burma.’

The young Karen could see that Harry was unable to walk unaided, so he offered his body as a crutch. Gingerly the two men moved towards the area where Harry assumed the drop zone was located.

As the two men moved along, an older man appeared, clearly European, dressed in green jungle uniform and sporting a grey beard.

‘I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Cromarty Tulloch, the officer in charge of group Walrus [the codename for the area in which Harry was to operate], but you can call me Pop – everyone else does. There’s no rank here. Anything broken?’

‘No, sir, I mean Pop,’ said Harry, still slightly bemused by the situation and unable to think straight due to the searing pain. ‘I’m just a bit beaten up and I’m having a little bit of difficulty walking.’

‘Well, we’ll get some people to have a look at you, but you won’t be able to make it to your base tonight. You’ll have to rest in one of the caves and we’ll come and get you in a few days’ time – but don’t worry, the locals are friendly and they’ll look after you.’

Harry was also reunited with his pack, which contained his emergency rations, water, ammunition, grenades, some spare clothes and, most importantly, cigarettes; and the four men ate a simple meal of rice and vegetables. After the area was cleared of any sign of activity, Pop and the two uninjured members of Harry’s team said their goodbyes and left, promising to return in two to three days.

‘As soon as I was hurt I knew that I would be left on my own somewhere safe. There was no other mode of transport, so if you couldn’t walk you had to stay where you were. I wasn’t at all bothered, I was armed, had my emergency rations, my cigarettes and some painkillers. I had a cigarette and settled down for the night in my makeshift bed, which consisted largely of my parachute, closed my eyes and went to sleep.’

* * *

Harry Verlander was 13 years old when the war broke out and was evacuated from the East End of London until he was old enough, almost, to volunteer and join the Army. By the time he was 16 (Harry had lied about his age) he had been in the Home Guard, volunteered for military service and enlisted into the King’s Royal Rifle Corps on 19 March 1942 ‘for the duration of the war’.