Such was the view of the Himalayas which made me catch my breath when I looked out of the train window in the early morning in the Autumn of 1944. I was on my way to join my friend Long at Darjeeling in order to spend our leave on a trek into the remote and beautiful principality of Sikkim. This small and innocent country, lying between Nepal on the West and Bhutan on the East, was one of the buffer states between India and Thibet which the British Raj wisely maintained to prevent possible clashes with far-off China. The sole military garrison consisted of one corporal of the Royal Corps of Signals who was stationed at the court of the Chogyal or Rajah so as to enable radio contact to be maintained with Calcutta. Such was the peace of the British Empire. Nowadays, I suspect that the country swarms with soldiers of the Indian Army facing hordes of Chinese soldiers in Thibet while the Chogyal has, I believe, been dispossessed of his country by republican politicians in Delhi.

Sikkim is, or used to be, an enchanting little country slightly larger than Devonshire covered with gigantic mountains and deep semi-tropical forests. Overhanging it to the West is Kanchenjunga which, at 28,168 feet is the third highest mountain in the world. To the South is the steamy Bengal plain and to the North the freezing plateau of Thibet. The invention of the jet engine has enabled thousands of people to visit Nepal, where somewhat similar conditions prevail but in 1944 it was a rare privilege to be able to visit Sikkim. The only road, some forty miles long, led from India up to Gantok the capital. All other communication was by paths or mule tracks and in order to carry our food and spare kit we chartered about eight coolies who packed all into large baskets slung on their backs. Incidentally, yak's meat does not improve in flavour when carried in the same pannier as a leaking paraffin tin. Our bargain with these tough little men included the provision of a pair of new boots for each, but I noticed that they did not wear these even in the snow, but carried them all the way so as to be able, no doubt, to sell them new on their return home.

Our route led us at first up the gorge of the Tista River which roared far below. We met occasional parties of Thibetans leading caravans of yaks laden with salt or other merchandise. It was one of these yaks which kicked me as I was rashly passing it on the outside but I managed to avoid falling over the precipice. We were too late to see the rhododendrons in bloom in the forest but I recall long white bells of Daturas hanging over mountain torrents. Brilliant and enormous butterflies flew like snipe through the patches of sunlight and shade on the path and among the feathery tree ferns and clumps of bamboo. Most memorable of all was to look up at the green ice-falls of Kanchenjunga framed by mossy branches festooned in yellow and purple orchids. As we climbed higher we could look down into side valleys so deep that they appeared to be filled with blue water. After a few days we reached, at about 9000 feet, a tract where apple orchards were laden with fruit. At this date the larch woods had turned golden and one day we walked for miles opposite a vast hillside of larch woods interspersed with acres of purple flowers, Michaelmas Daisies I think. Finally we came out onto bare grassy slopes leading up to the high pass which it was our objective to cross.

By this time my good army boots had given up in despair and I still have the small home-made bradawl which I bought from an itinerant cobbler whom we found living with his family in a skin tent. Despite his assistance the uppers soon parted from the soles and I had to make the return journey with the boots bound together with rope "to keep body and sole together". Equipped like this we crossed the Sebu La, which at 17,560 feet is higher than Mont Blanc, and in the deep snow I got a frost-bitten toe. This was of no great significance but somewhat impaired the pleasure of the sixty mile walk back to Gantok. We called on two Scottish Missionary ladies who were the only Europeans living in that valley. They kindly dressed the toe and so gave me a friendly feeling about missionaries ever since.

The trifling affair had an amusing sequel. When I got back to Mhow the toe had turned septic so I was taken into hospital. While I was there, General Phillips, the Signals Officer-in-Chief came to inspect our O.T.S. Tom Bewsey, the second-in-command apologised for my absence in hospital. It was a blazing hot day, and when asked what was the matter with me, he replied with a straight face "Frost bite, Sir". Tableau.

So the long war drew toward its close. In May 1945 Germany surrendered to the Allies. General Slim and the glorious Fourteenth Army drove the wicked Japanese invaders out of Burmah in ignominious defeat. Soon afterwards the dropping of two atomic bombs on Japan brought the war to a halt. I have met people who were not even born then who contended that rather than employ these terrifying weapons the allied armies ought to have continued to wade through slaughter till the Japanese mainland was laid waste. That was not a view shared by those who would have been called on to do the fighting.

Now the thoughts of all British troops became fixed on getting home. By this time I had been appointed Chief Instructor of the Signal Training Centre at Mhow. I was invited to stay on in the army after a spell of home leave. Though flattered I had no hesitation in declining. Beside the call of home and family it was essential to get back to my profession promptly if I was ever to build anything of a practice at the Bar. Once again, it was time to move on.

I liked Indian people and left their country with regret. Good memories come back bright as slides on a screen. The grave courtesy of Mr Sheikh Abbas my Munshi, the interesting talk of Piare Lal the barber who used to come to cut my hair on the verandah. I see the sudden beauty of a covey of green parakeets clinging to a black dome in the deserted city of Mandu; I smell the tang of blue smoke on early parades; I hear the harsh cry of a peacock in the jungle while I fished, mostly in vain, for mahseer in a fast river where a fish hawk had more success in the next pool. Above all, I recall how my heart swelled with pride when I saw the Union Jack flying over the old fort and reflected how the men and women of my country had brought together into one land this vast Empire, had given it peace and honest government with religious and civil freedom under the rule of law, and all with a handful of British soldiers.

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