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     Besides coming down with regular bouts of amoebic dysentery, fever and tangling with numerous poisonous insects and snakes; my folks had other serious problems to deal with in 1940 and ’41.  Namely: The Second World War.

     By this period the war was raging in Europe, and Britain was fighting for its very existence.  Because of this there was resentment among the English at Chauk towards my American parents, since America was maintaining its neutrality and hadn’t yet entered the war.

     For example: One hot, dusty afternoon my dad came in from the oilfield and dropped by the club for a beer before going home.  He found the bar empty, save for three British officers at one end of the bar.  Sitting down at the other end, he placed his cork topee on the bar and gave the Tamil bartender his order.

     British officers stationed at India.

     The three English officers heard Dad’s Yank accent.  Which set the captain off on “what soft cowards the Americans were,” for not taking their rightful place in the war and mixing it up.

     Father held his temper and let the captain’s tirade slide; obviously this officer was drunk.

     In the end however, the captain then started in on American women, and, “...what easy sluts they all were.”

     That was the last straw; Dad set his drink down, took off his wristwatch, stood and hitched up his baggy shorts.  He was able to take only one step towards the British officers, when this gigantic hand engulfed his left shoulder; stopping him cold.  Father glanced over his shoulder, and discovered Scotty towering over him, with the usual pipe firmly clamped in a corner of his mouth.

     Oh yes, dear reader, this was “our” Scotsman from the infamous tiger hunt at Digboi.  He had also recently transferred to Chauk a few weeks before.

     Scotty looked down at my father sternly.

     “Oh fuck!” my dad thought.  “Have I got to take you on too?”

     Scotty removed his pipe, handed it to my dad, and said, “Michael darlin’, be a good laddie and hold this.”

     Puzzled, Father reluctantly took Scotty’s pipe.

     Then Scotty physically forced him to sit back down on the bar stool, as he would a petulant child, and added, “You appear tired, Michael. Have a wee rest whilst I sort this out.”

     As my dad sat there a bit dumfounded, holding Scotty’s pipe, the giant Scotsman turned and moved towards the English officers.  Upon approaching the motor-mouthed captain from behind, Scotty tapped him on the shoulder.  The inebriated captain rotated on his bar stool and faced Scotty.  With an open hand, Scotty slapped the captain across the face.

     This was not your average slap, dear reader.

     The English captain was struck with such force that it literally levitated him off the stool, whereby he made a hard landing on his side - collapsing a table!  The captain was out cold.

     Instantly, his two lieutenants were on their feet ready to do battle.

     Calmly, Scotty turned to face them, and said, “Gentlemen...I apologize.”

     Both English officers froze.  

     Much to my Dad’s amazement the situation seemed to be defused.

     Scotty then walked over to my father, retrieved his pipe, and murmured under his breath, “It’s called ‘protocol,’ Michael darlin’.”  After which he winked, patted Dad on the shoulder and left the bar.

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     From that day forward my parents were “adopted” by the Scottish and Irish minority at Chauk.  Whenever one of them had a birthday, or a Scottish or Irish national holiday, this minuscule group of rebels would slink away from the compound and throw their private parties in the bush - sans the English.  They especially enjoyed throwing a walloping bash on the 4^th of July, with loads of fireworks.

     The Scots and Irish at Chauk, Burma, who adopted my folks.   

     Nevertheless, in late autumn of 1941, the Burmah Oil Company Superintendent at Chauk became uneasy with this social rift.  Due by and large to the following situation:  In their preparation for the invasion of Burma, the Japanese had spent the past few years placing a fifth column network in Burma; one of its goals being to stir up anti-British sentiment among the Burmese.  Lately minor demonstrations were erupting, making the English very nervous.  Having a social rift in the British compound just wouldn’t do; how could they depend on each other in a crisis.  Something had to be done to heal this social breach.

     Burmese demonstration stirred up by the Japanese Fifth Column.

    Coincidently, the superintendent’s wife got wind of the Scots and Irish preparing to throw a party for my dad’s birthday.  What an excellent opportunity for the English to mend their social fences.  The superintendent ordered everyone to get onboard the “Yank’s birthday party,” which would be held at the club inside the compound.  No more skulking off into the bush.

     Now a trivial development occurred, lost in the background of this English political intrigue, which ultimately shattered the superintendent’s dream of social unity.  It all began innocently enough, when my mother went to the bungalow next door to borrow a half-cup of baking soda.  A green eyed, redheaded, stout Irish lady in her thirties met Mom at the door; her nick-name for some obscure reason was “Brownie.”  She possessed a heart of gold and, although raised with five tough, scrappy brothers, Brownie didn’t have a mean bone in her body.  She also absolutely adored my dad, because he made her laugh at the drop of a hat.

     As Mother sat on Brownie’s veranda and sipped Darjeeling tea, Brownie set down her cup and said, “Vivienne, I wish ta make a special t’ing for Michael’s birthday.  Perchance a dish the lad’s not had in a long spell.”

     Mom lit a cigarette, exhaled blue smoke, and then picked a piece of tobacco from her tongue as she gave the request a measure of thought.  Out of the blue it hit her.  “Lemon meringue pie!” Mother exclaimed. “It’s Mike’s favorite and he hasn’t had one since he left the States in thirty-eight.”

     Unfamiliar with this exotic American dish, Brownie queried my mother for further details.  Mom ran back to her bungalow, dug out her old cookbook, blew off the dust and located her grandmother’s recipe.

     Remember, dear reader, this was the 1940s when women knew how to make a home, be mothers, cook and bake cakes and pies from scratch!  Who needed Marie Calendar? 

      Not only could they cook, they taught me how to ride, shoot and drive a car; so much for the “Libbers.”  God...how I miss those women.

     Hence the “great lemon meringue pie expedition” was launched!  Resembling one of her knightly ancestors searching for the Holy Grail, Brownie diligently explored, cajoled, bribed and blackmailed to assemble the necessary fresh eggs, milk, butter, flour, sugar and all other ingredients for the construction of this noblest of pies from scratch.

     Also remember, dear reader, there was a war going on; a lot of this stuff was rationed, plus she was attempting to track down the proper materials in the wilds of Burma – no easy feat.

     After immeasurable pain and effort, Brownie finally assembled the right stuff.  Subsequently the R&D (Research and Development) commenced.  Following hours of sweaty, hard work in the tropics, the first pie she baked was so-so.  The second pie was much better.  But the third was a masterpiece: Angel-light flaky crust, creamy-smooth lemon filling, with a lightly toasted mountain of meringue.

     I don’t care if you are Betty Crocker, dear reader, get your buns off my counter and eat your fucking heart out!  Brownie’s lemon meringue pie was the best in all of Burma!  Okay...okay, so maybe it was the only one in all of Burma in 1941.  Still, I bet it would’ve made Marie Calendar jealous.

     Much later Dad’s birthday finally arrived.  It was a formal affair held out of doors by torch light in the evening - on a putting green between the clubhouse and golf course - under a massive, decorated banyan tree.  A number of long picnic tables had been set up with linen table cloths; the piano had been moved outdoors so Mother could play and sing; while the Burmese servants, in starched uniforms, drifted among the guests with beverages, tons of curries, and other exotic dishes.

     The superintendent beamed across the table at my pop; as a whole the evening was proving to be a success.  English social fences were being mended.

     Eventually the end of the perfect meal arrived.  The servants cleared the tables; coffee and port were served. An outsized, cloth-covered box was placed on the grass behind Brownie, containing her pie, who then gave a discreet signal to Mom.  My mother stood up, moved behind Dad, and placed her hands over his eyes.  After several moments, Mother bent down and murmured into his ear, “Happy birthday, darling.”

     Removing her hands from his eyes, Pop discovered the most perfect lemon meringue pie he had ever seen in his life sitting in front of him.  All Dad managed to do was sit there in stunned disbelief, for a colossal birthday lump had formed in his throat, making speech impossible.  At length, a solitary tear began to course its way down his cheek.

     Unfortunately, at that precise moving moment, the English superintendent’s wife – seated next to my pop – also spotted the pie.  Picking up a soup spoon, she exclaimed, “Oh...how lovely! A trifle!”  And having said that, she proceeded to make the biggest mistake of her life; she stabbed the spoon into the center of the pie and pulled out a plug; leaving a gapingly-huge crater in what was previously perfection.

     Just as the superintendent’s wife plopped the plug of meringue and lemon filling onto her plate – pleased as Jack Horner pulling out a plumb – Brownie, who was seated across from her next to the superintendent, abruptly stood.  Leaning forward, Brownie placed her left hand in the middle of the table for support, and then belted the superintendent’s wife squarely in the chops with her right.

     Dad told me it was the best right hook he’d ever witnessed, dear reader.  Apparently Brownie’s five Irish brothers had taught her how to throw a punch. 

     The superintendent’s wife flew backwards, ass-over-teakettle, and made a crumpled up soft-landing on the lawn; she remained unconscious for the next two hours.

     The superintendent’s wife out cold.

     From that night forward all bets were off; the parties concerned moved back into their separate, isolated social camps.

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