Here's what happened again. This is based on a true story, to let the ghost for those who fought there rest. Sorry its off track. I, and all us Brits, owe it to those who were there. An Infantrymans tale.

Thousands of large blue bottles, gorged and swollen with blood, swarmed around the bloated carcass of the longhorn cow that lay beside the path outside the village. The brush jungle cleared here as it met the small settlement of wooden and clay brick huts and single story houses, that lay for the most part hidden and shaded from the sun by lush canopy.
Here and there shafts of golden sunlight sprayed through to the floor, in which could be seen the tiny particles of floating dust.
Behind the village the jungle thickened as it stretched away to the west, while to the right the ground fell away before opening up into patchy scrubland dotted with small clumps of trees and bushes and swaithes of waist high Elephant grass.
The settlement was quiet and still, here and there lay objects dropped seemingly at random like mattresses and baskets, items of clothing, a single shoe, or pieces of paper. Some doors lay open while other houses still smouldered from earlier fires that had now burnt themselves out. Several fowl of various breeds pecked and sratched around in the dust between the houses and somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
It was just after noon and the temperature was approaching 100 degrees.
There were nine of us, two lads from the East Yorkshires, one from the 5th Mountain Battery, 17th Indian Division and six all but raw lads of the 1st Battalion of Royal Gloucester Regiment. We had seven Lee Enfield Mk 1's, one Bren Gun with a spare barrel, two old fashioned claymores, half a dozen BR2 Grenades and about 300 rounds of .303 ammo between us. None of us, except the NCO of the 5th had any combat experience.
We had taken position in the village, hopelessly cut off, no idea where our line was, no idea where we should go. 'Tilly', one of the East Yorkshires had recounted his sight of one of his battalion, strung to a tree, naked with many bayonet wounds to his chest and torso. Another of the Gloucesters told of a corpse, the bloody stars of barbed wire still around the wrists and midridft, a single gunshot wound to the head.
All that, and much, much more, drove us. There was nowhere to run now, and little chance of mercy. Behind us we could see the palls of thick black smoke that hung over the burning oil storage tanks way to the west in Rangoon.
They appeared from the brush line, walking casually, rifles presented forward while they scanned from side to side. At first there seemed to be but a few, but then more appeared along the thinning tree line while more came from the path emerging into the village. They came on at a gentle pace, almost relaxed, but there was something sinister about them all the same.
Overall, they appeared to belong to the same army, yet they they all appeared different, no two alike as one who is unfamiliar with soldiers would expect. Most wore dust covered tunics or shirts in the heat, baggy battledress trousers and wind on puttees. Some wore Steel helmets while others wore Kepis with sunflaps to protect the neck from the sun while others wore plain forage caps. They carried rifles mainly, though some held other burdens, HMG's, Mortar tubes or tripods, ammo boxes or communication equipment. Their faces were stained with dust, and less visibly, blood from many combats.
We could feel our breath. Even though the temperature was in the 100's, we could feel the vapour of our own breath. Our fear lifted from us, floated above us, for we knew we could run no further. With the Salween river at our backs, no communication with our HQ or the world, this was our lot. It was now. Never wasn't in it. There was no never.
And that was where we were. The first mine went up like a fountain, showering dust into the tree's. The Bren Gun next to me opened up with Mally at the trigger. The whole universe opened up into some kind of concerto. The noise was stupendous. I saw two Japs take rounds from the bren, one thrown backwards at such close range, the other spin through 180 degrees with a jet of blood spiralling upwards before he fell back into the grass. Tracer seemed to be flying around all over, like pretty fairy lights, unreal, like when you're pissed on Christmas Eve. The second mine detonated in the middle of about six Japs, they went all ways.
We did'nt cry, we did,nt laugh. We just went on firing. The Bren was spewing spent rounds all over, smoking like crazy. Mally and Tike did'nt even change the barrel, they just went on firing. We all did.
One of them running forward struck me, so dispassionatly. I don't know why. He was no different, equally hated, equally missed. I lifted the rifle and fired, missed, reloaded and fired again. He was hit in mid stride, his own inertia carrying him forward into the grass never to be seen again.
Strangly enough, we felt no hate, though God knows we had enough reason to. In our hearts we felt every hit, we felt every loss, we felt every one of our own men and theirs gone. They were no different to us.
The killing went on for ages, though I guess it was only a few minutes. We did,nt give any mercy. We didn't expect any. They say we gave up and did'nt fight in Burma in 1942. Let me tell you, son, that we did fight. We fought for our f--king lives. We took our dead with us when we could and we never left a wounded man behind. I don't need to tell you what happened to those who couldn't be moved. We paid a price. We paid it in another coin, even if we survived.

That was all I ever heard about it, or ever asked. The man that recounted this tale but once, lived through nearly four years without seeing his home or family. When he did, all was changed beyond recognition.Some of the most savage fighing of the entire war occured in Burma. The man that recounted this story died in 1993. He was a very brave man.