Escape to Pagan by Brian Devereux

sleepers to make less noise. Jackals will lead a tiger to any helpless human in the jungle, just to scavenge their remains. I was convinced a tiger would appear at any moment out of the jungle and crouch on the railway track.
    â€œThere is little twilight in Burma; soon it would be pitch-black before the moon and stars appeared. This hour of total darkness according to my brothers was known as ‘the dangerous hour’. It is the time of the nocturnal predators. I felt like screaming. Then to my astonishment and total relief I saw a dim figure walking towards me in the fadinglight – my mother! She was carrying you; it seemed to me that all our remaining possessions had been lost, left on the train. But I did not care, my prayers had been answered. ‘Don’t get separated from us again Kate’ was my mother’s only greeting. But I knew she was so relieved to see me.
    â€œâ€™Quick our belongings are with the Pathan night watchman from Taunggyi, he is looking after them until I return.’ said my mother. I was so happy. The train had slowed down for some reason and my mother and the Pathan got off. Handing you over to me, my mother set off at a quick pace. I could not stop crying for joy. I vowed that under no circumstances would I ever be separated or disobey my mother again. Soon our little group were reunited with our possessions.
    â€œThis Pathan, who used to patrol our street in Taunggyi, was often given tea and food when he passed at night; he was also at our wedding. The tall proud Pathans came from Afghanistan in the north of India. Pathans were the most feared night watchmen in Burma. They always carried a thick heavy metalled bound stick and a dagger under their robes. The Pathan refused all our efforts to reward him and quickly set off for his home and family nearby. He had no intention of remaining in Burma. He wished to make the journey to India with his family on foot before the coming monsoon. That night we slept in an old railway carriage at the side of the track. It had no door.”

    The noble Pathan had a good chance of guiding his family through the Hakawng Valley ahead of the retreating Chinese and the advancing monsoon. The steep tracks would be dry, the leach and tick population would still be aestivating. The gravid female malaria mosquitoes would be patiently waiting, sheltering under leaves from the sun, waiting to drop their eggs in the first puddles of the approaching mango showers. I hope this good man made it back to his far off village somewhere in the barren, dry hills of Afghanistan.

    â€œThat was the first of many nights spent in the Burmese jungle without a door for protection. The following morning our small family groupwalked along the railway line to the next station. There was a train at the platform. This was the same train to Myitkyina Airport that my mother and the Pathan watchman had got off the day before; it had been bombed and machine gunned by enemy planes. The dead were quickly being buried next to the railway lines. It had taken the crew all that time to get the train moving again. There was no news of Cyril, Victor or Lucy at the station. My mother prayed that somehow they had managed to reach the airport and had been flown to India. The guard and his wife were no longer in the last carriage; it was now filled with strangers.
    â€œThe following day the train reached the station on the outskirts of Myitkyina Airport without incident. We carried you in a sling and were soon walking along a road when night began to fall, but I was not afraid. There were so many other people walking with us, talking about reaching India and safety. Everyone was happy to be escaping the war and leaving Burma. It was dark when we arrived at the airport; the planes had stopped flying until the next day. To our disappointment the Airport was crowded.
    â€œWe lit a small fire, made tea and people shared their food. We slept on the grass with the rest of the