Daily Mail

The terribly English hero who sacrificed himself for his comrades – and sang hymns as the Japanese made him dig his own grave

- by Tony Rennell

ROBIN HOOD is a compelling english legend. We love a man of principle, hiding out and harassing an unscrupulo­us enemy, a self-sacrificin­g hero, standing up for what’s right.

Major hugh seagrim was just such a figure in World War II, except that his battlegrou­nd was not sherwood Forest, but the tropical jungles of Burma. There, this outstandin­g soldier and exceptiona­l human being — whose little-known story has surfaced in a new book, Lost Warriors — headed a private army of local hill people that for two years resisted the ruthless Japanese occupiers of their country.

The local Karen tribes he commanded called him ‘Grandfathe­r Longlegs’ because of his height. he was an imposing 6ft 4in with the large hands and massive reach of the amateur football goalkeeper he had been back in his youth in england.

The son of a Norfolk vicar and public- schooleduc­ated, he was quintessen­tially english in so many ways. Yet now he stood on the veranda of his bamboo hut raised on stilts in a jungle clearing, his hair shaggy, his beard long, skin tanned a dark brown and teeth stained red from the betel nut he chewed.

his pukka British army uniform was long gone and he dressed in the local style in a red and white shirt and wide trousers, with a Tommy gun under one arm, a Bible under the other and a pistol tucked into his belt. he was barefoot, had no spare clothes, no mosquito net and no possession­s other than an old blanket.

But his background still shone through. Corporal roy Pagani, a British army fugitive in Burma on the run from the Japanese, was led into the hills to meet him and at first glance took him to be a native.

‘as we got nearer I realised he was a white man and very, very tall,’ he said. ‘he raised his hand, jumped down and said to me “hello, old chap”, as if welcoming me to a country mansion. he grasped my hand and nearly shook my arm off. I was astounded.’

For Pagani, this epic, Livingston­e-and-stanley-style meeting in the remote jungle wilderness was one of the most memorable moments of his exceedingl­y eventful life.

he himself was brave and daring, an inveterate escaper who had managed to get away from Dunkirk, singapore and even one of Burma’s Death railway labour camps.

But he doffed his cap to seagrim as a revered hero, one of a rare breed who inspire others to great deeds. ‘I owe no other man a greater debt,’ he wrote.

Yet seagrim was never a promising soldier. he graduated from sandhurst 137th out of 154 in his year, with a reputation for pranks rather than military prowess.

He

JOINeD the Indian army and was then posted to the Burma rifles, where he first came across troops from that country’s Karen community and immediatel­y forged a bond with them.

he was there in 1940 when the Japanese invaded this outpost of the British empire as the first step to conquering India, and it was his idea to organise a resistance force among the hill tribes.

When the British retreated in disarray — 300,000 fleeing overland to India and tens of thousands dying on the way — he was left behind to train and lead his force against a cruel and pitiless enemy.

Overnight, writes author Philip Davies, ‘ seagrim had become the de facto ruler of his own private fiefdom, a romantic hero straight out of a Joseph Conrad novel seeking his own personal salvation in the sweltering wilderness of the Burmese jungle’.

his ‘ kingdom’, though, was soon under fierce attack as the pro - Japanese Burmese Independen­t army mounted a barbaric campaign against the Karens, burning down villages and molesting their women.

One wife watched her husband killed in front of her and was then forced to eat part of his body.

seagrim knew full well what a desperate and dangerous venture he had embarked on. The crossbows his Karens wielded with great skill would not be enough on their own.

In his last letter home, he wrote home to his mother: ‘ how long we can survive depends on how much ammunition and arms we can capture.’

hampered by a shortage of guns and medical supplies, he and his guerillas were forced deeper into the jungle.

Numbers dwindled, and all he could do for the next six months was lie low, constantly on the move from one makeshift bamboo hut to another, a fugitive behind Japanese lines.

Food was scarce and they were reduced to eating rats. They slit the throats of rhesus monkeys and drank the blood while it was still warm for extra sustenance. With the onset of the monsoon, they were overrun by malarial mosquitoes and leeches.

In these dark days, seagrim turned to his Bible for solace and read it from cover to cover more than a dozen times. always a deeply spiritual man, he found faith there, and the fortitude to go on.

at the end of each day, he held a service for his small band of warriors, reading from the Bible and reciting the Lord’s Prayer with them as they stood around with their rifles and guns. The strains of Onward, Christian soldiers, sung in Karen, rang out across the dense, green wilderness.

The Karens were Christians, too, having been converted by a Victorian missionary. It chimed with the monotheism of their own ancient tribal faith, which also predicted a messiah would come among them.

some began to see the increasing­ly monk-like seagrim as that saviour.

he lived up to that image with a humility unheard of in a white man in those colonial days. When villagers brought him food, he refused to touch it until his ‘ boys’ returned to share it with him. he even cooked their rice for them.

They responded with awe to his dedication and inner calm. One later recalled that ‘we not only loved and trusted him, but almost worshipped him’.

and even if it was now impossible to confront the enemy in battle, they could still spy on them. each day, seagrim’s scouts would disappear off into the jungle and return with a torrent of informatio­n about troop movements and potential targets, all of which was transmitte­d to British high command in India by radio.

It took six hours of heavy cranking to charge the batteries, but, after sending the latest intelligen­ce from behind Japanese lines, seagrim and his boys would then settle down under a sodden groundshee­t to shelter from the rain, tune into the latest news from London and take heart.

he was constantly urging his superiors, sitting behind comfortabl­e desks in India, to launch a major offensive against the Japanese.

‘Can lay seeds of rebellion to cause chaos everywhere in plains and hills,’ one hopeful message read. he pleaded for weapons to be dropped.

Bide your time, he was told, build up your networks, be patient — and in December 1943, for the second Christmas in a row, he squatted on the jungle floor to dine on chicken soup and sing carols. But time was running out for him and his band of outlaws.

The Japanese, affronted by their continuing resistance, were closing in. They bribed some Karens and tortured others to try to turn them against ‘the english major’.

One gave in under the beatings and guided them to seagrim’s camp. Three hundred Japanese troops closed in.

Just in time he heard them coming and yelled: ‘scatter!’ his men broke in all directions, running for their lives as bullets hissed and whined around them. That day he lost his wireless transmitte­r, six sten guns, three Tommy guns, rifles, revolvers and his precious Bible.

BUT he managed to vanish into thin air, fleeing through the dense jungle, sleeping out under the trees at night rather than risk staying in villages.

Behind him a massive manhunt was under way as the Japanese launched a campaign of terror to frighten the Karens into betraying him. all food over an eight-mile radius was destroyed and homes were razed.

entire villages were forced out into the forest to search for him, diverting the people from planting vital crops for the next season. Faced with the horrific reprisals being inflicted on the people he loved and had sworn to protect, seagrim chose to surrender.

To put an end to their suffering, he sacrificed himself.

On the morning of March 14, 1944, the Japanese commander was asleep in a village hut when he heard a commotion outside. Towering in the open doorway was the tall, thin wraith of a bearded white man, who extended his hand.

remarkably the two enemies shook hands. ‘Treat the Karens generously,’ seagrim pleaded, tears in his eyes. ‘They are not to blame. I alone am responsibl­e

for what’s happened in the hills. I have been releasing informatio­n to Britain as a British spy. I hope to be executed honourably for the sake of Great Britain.’ And then, standing stiffly to attention, he quietly began to sing the national anthem. Physically, he was in a terrible state. He had not eaten for 20 days, his foot was badly poisoned and he had to be carried out of the jungle on a stretcher made from two bamboo poles and a blanket. But he retained his dignity and his charm and even the Japanese commander fell under his spell. He thought Seagrim ‘a gentleman, a man of high character’ and deeply respected his pleas on behalf of the Karens. But such niceties would soon vanish as Seagrim was driven to Rangoon and a cell in the socalled ‘ Rangoon Ritz’, the nightmaris­h headquarte­rs of the vicious

kempeitai secret police. There, his presence galvanised the jail, giving renewed heart all to those around him as he steadfastl­y refused to kowtow to the Japanese.

An RAF pilot held there recalled: ‘When the Japs said “No talking,” he would ignore them. They would hit him on the head with their clubs and he’d start talking again. He laughed a lot, kept very fit with exercise and was never sick.

‘ I found myself stirred the moment I saw his tall, proud, erect figure and deep-set, kindly eyes.

‘ He had an appearance of superiorit­y over ordinary men. I knew at once that I had seen an exceptiona­l personalit­y.’

A captured American airman recorded how Seagrim ‘ walked tall, and straight, with his head in the air. He would not call the Japanese master. He would not bow to them. He was always calm and friendly and doing what he could for his fellow men.’

Another never met Seagrim, but caught glimpses of him ‘standing at the bars of his cell holding up his hand in the best Churchill “V” manner. His spirit gave us all a lift’.

Eventually, Seagrim was transferre­d to a military jail, where a Japanese court martial sentenced him and seven Karens to death.

Even now he acted with typical selflessne­ss, stepping forward and requesting a reprieve for the others. ‘I do not mind what you do to me, but do not punish them. It is only because of me that they have got into trouble. I beg you to release them.’ His plea was ignored. Hands tied behind their backs, they were taken to a waiting truck and driven away.

By a strange coincidenc­e, Corporal Roy Pagani — also now a prisoner of the Japanese after his marathon attempt to escape from Burma ended in capture — was on a working party in the courtyard of a Rangoon jail that same day.

He had stayed in the jungle for weeks with Seagrim’s guerillas, helping him organise them, before leaving to try to get home. He had long wondered what had befallen the major in the months since they had said their farewells.

Now, as he toiled away, he noticed a truck moving out of the gate, loaded with natives and a bearded man. The man waved to him and he waved back. ‘I was puzzled by this incident. Only later did it dawn on me that it had been Seagrim waving at me on his way to execution.’

It is plausible, argues author Philip Davies. The timing was right and the lorry that took Seagrim away may well have stopped off to pick up other prisoners on its way to the place of execution.

‘Whether or not it was Seagrim, that poignant, fleeting moment — two brave men with their arms raised to each other in final salutation — haunted Pagani for the rest of his life.’

SEAGRIM died that day in September 1944, aged 35. Ordered to dig their own graves, he apparently picked up a spade and said with a smile: ‘Come on, boys! Let’s do it!’

They then sang a hymn before being lined up and shot by a firing squad.

A Japanese officer recorded that ‘he died with composure’. Even the commander of the Rangoon

kempeitai, later acknowledg­ed that: ‘I have never come across a finer gentleman.’

As for the British, when six months later they finally took the fight to the Japanese in Burma, the Karen guerillas regrouped in the hills and gave vital support, wreaking havoc on the retreating Japanese in raids and jungle ambushes. They blew up convoys and set traps of bamboo stakes for soldiers to fall into and impale themselves on.

Seagrim’s work was done after all. He fought the good fight and paid the ultimate price, but his self-sacrifice was not in vain.

The brave, indomitabl­e spirit of this extraordin­ary Englishman won through. He was nominated for a posthumous Victoria Cross, which was denied on the technical grounds that he been executed rather than killed in action. He was awarded a George Cross instead.

Even today, his courage and integrity has never been forgotten by those he fought alongside.

This week, a plaque honouring ‘England’s lost warrior’, accompanie­d by the biblical text Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends’ was unveiled at a cathedral in Rangoon.

Incredibly, a few Karen survivors from his guerilla force, now mostly in their 90s and some more than 100, were among those paying tribute — loyal to the very end.

LOST Warriors: Seagrim And Pagani of Burma — The last Great Untold Story of WWII by Philip Davies is published by Atlantic Publishing at £20. To order a copy for £16 (offer valid to November 23) visit mailshop. co.uk/books or call 0844 571 0640.

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 ??  ?? Inspiring: Hugh Seagrim, aged 27, at a wedding before the war. Far left: Japanese soldiers execute blindfolde­d prisoners
Inspiring: Hugh Seagrim, aged 27, at a wedding before the war. Far left: Japanese soldiers execute blindfolde­d prisoners
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