Spit and Polish

by Carl Muller

  Was it to be Germany and Europe first ... or Japan?

  Needless to say, King was most put out. Roosevelt endorsed Eisenhower’s plan. Pressure would be put on Britain to join in an all-out campaign in Western Europe.

  Roosevelt, in accepting ‘Germany first’, put Britain in a tight spot. Britain had tried to convince America that it was suicide to attempt a frontal attack on Germany. It was wiser to wait until Russian resistance had weakened Germany’s military strength. The British also initially pooh-poohed the idea of a cross-Channel attack. There were, she said, not enough ships and landing craft.

  America was not impressed. The plan (to be known as the Marshall plan) was the only plan she had. Roosevelt sent Chief of Army Staff George Marshall and his confidential emissary, Harry Hopkins, to London. They had to convince the British prime minister to fall in line. It was a do-or-die situation.

  It was time, America thought, that Britain got her finger out.

  17

  Of Queen’s Cups and Rowing Boats and Rolling out the Barrel

  They marched out . . . band leading.

  They lined up on the Queen Elizabeth Quay of the Colombo harbour, where the Royal yacht Brittania was tied up alongside.

  They waited for the Queen of England.

  They were inspected by GI Brady and the Captain of the Navy and assorted captains and commanders. They passed muster. The morning sun set their ceremonial bayonets ablaze and fired the buckles on their webbing. They looked good . . . and they knew it.

  But there was a bit of a mish-mash. First out of the royal yacht, stepping out daintily in a dress of cool, apple green, was the Queen’s lady-in-waiting. Perhaps she jumped the gun, but on sighting her, the shore battery jumped to the guns too. A 21-gun salute from the Galle Buck battery shook the air with great hollow thumps. Like a giant smacking his belly after eating his Wellington boots. Bwackh! Bwackh! Bwackh!

  It was only after the Ceylon Armoured Corps had ceased firing that it was realized that an enthusiastic island had accorded the Queen’s lady-in-waiting a Royal Salute, doubtless raising the good lady’s self- esteem several notches.

  Later, the Army maintained that the Navy had given the signal to fire and there was much recrimination with the exchange of lots of heavily-worded signals.

  Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II stepped onto the saluting dais in perfect peace and quiet, punctured maybe by the querulous hoots of an uncaring tugboat. Then came the tremolo of Lieutenant Commander Lawyer. It warbled, ‘Royal Gaaarde . . . prezen—tarmz!’ Prince Phillip saluted briskly. The Royal Standard clapped boisterously in the breeze. The band played ‘God Save the Queen’. The guard stood, each as stiff as a stick of Brighton rock.

  A pretty cursory inspection, actually. An officer strode ahead and turned to face Carloboy, glaring balefully at him as the Royal party approached. The Queen ignored them both. There was no reason why a reigning sovereign should look into any particular sailor’s face, is there? Isabella of Spain did, we know, but that was Columbus, and she was one hungry woman.

  Later, Carloboy told the others, ‘So what the hell, men, the only sailor she looked at was Prince Phillip. And what did she do? Went and married the bugger!’

  Formalities over, it was time for more fun and games. A special horse race would be held at the Colombo Turf Club course. It would be, naturally, the Queen’s Cup. Her Majesty would be there . . . and so would the Navy, for over a million people swarmed in, each trying to get a glimpse of the Queen.

  To this day, it is hoped, Petty Officer Ronnie Meedle has, among his souvenirs, photographs of the crowds, held in check by sheer Navy brawn. One photograph raised much comment. It showed Carloboy, Ordinary Seaman Vanlangenburg and Ordinary Telegraphist Yusuf grimly keeping back a press of thousands, their elbows locked together, feet dug firmly in and refusing to bend before the surging mass behind them. Perched on Carloboy’s shoulders was a bejewelled, sari-clad lass of about twenty. She had climbed up there to get a grandstand view of the Queen. Carloboy, all said, grinned and bore her.

  The developed photograph was taken to the petty officers’ mess and then, being too good to be true, to the wardroom where it was examined by the very officer who had bawled out the guard on the eve of Her Majesty’s arrival.

  ‘Hah! I knew that bugger was a bloody cad! A woman on his shoulders and—and where are his bloody hands? What is he doing?’

  Many imaginative theories were tossed around. Carloboy was summoned to the PO’s mess.

  ‘Ah, so it’s you. Good. Saw this picture? Going to send it to the papers.’

  ‘My god, PO, there was such a crush . . . ’

  ‘Crush is right. Anything for a crush, no? Who gave you orders to carry girls on your back?’

  ‘But I didn’t know!’

  ‘Balls! A woman climbs up your spine and you don’t know? Tell that to the fucking marines!’

  PO Meadle growled. ‘I was there. Why couldn’t she climb on my shoulders? You know this girl?’

  ‘Never saw her before in my life.’

  ‘OK, but what I want to know is where are your hands?’

  ‘My hands?’

  ‘Yes. Not to be seen in the snap.’

  ‘But PO, we had to lock hands together behind our backs. Form a solid wall. That’s what we had to do.’

  ‘Oh yes—solid wall. And a solid piece of flesh on top of you. What did you lock your hands on? Her bum?’

  There is no convincing a dirty-minded sailor. Carloboy shrugged, then asked, ‘PO, can I have this photo?’

  ‘What? Get out!’

  When the Queen left, it was the Army’s turn to see her off. The boys relaxed, slipped into their everyday routine, began to pursue their normal shipboard tasks. The main signals office was the centre for the routing of and distribution of signals. Between study hours, signalmen were detailed to take post here as messengers and gophers, clearing signals to every branch of the service. But there was the practical training too, which took the boys in number eight working blues to Kochchikade where they had to row large, cumbersome whalers in the port of Colombo, usually in the early hours of the morning.

  This was much looked forward to and became particularly interesting when the big Peninsula & Orient passenger liners were in port. These vessels would ply the UK-Australia route and would steam in with hundreds of females lining the decks—tourists and passengers taking in the sights and sounds of the port.

  The sailors would take in the sights too—always an eyeful—and it became customary to row up to the proud liners, ship oars, and spend the most of their time looking up. It was unanimously agreed that when considering a female’s many charms, the worm’s eye view was quite the best.

  ‘Why the hell aren’t you rowing?’ the coxswain would demand.

  ‘Shhh killick, just look up, will you.’

  ‘Wha-oh-jeez! See that third girl from the left? Here, pull up a little closer.’

  ‘How about the one next to that fat fellow with the straw hat?’

  ‘Oh woooo!’

  At the jetty, an exasperated petty officer would await their return. ‘Where the devil have you been?’

  ‘Rowing, PO. Rowing and looking.’

  ‘Rowing and looking? What the hell sort of a thing is that? You’re late!’

  ‘But PO, how to row anywhere without looking?’

  ‘Oh fuck off!’

  Which, as we now know well enough, is standard Naval procedure.

  It is also fortunate for the Sri Lanka Navy of today that Able Seaman Percy Nathali is no longer a force to be reckoned with. Just a few months before these words were written, the news came that Percy had turned, from a sailor’s life to that of a farmer ashore. This would have been to Carloboy (if he were consulted on the subject) utterly, incongruously unthinkable! Percy, Carloboy realized, was the most obstreperous and redoubtable sailor any country could boast of: completely crazy and totally dismissive of discipline of any sort.

  The new intake goggled. They had fancied
themselves the new boys on the block, ready to take on any and everybody. They soon found that Gemunu had its own ‘bad eggs’—men who had miraculously survived every heavy disciplinary hand. Of them, Percy, like that Abou something character, led all the rest.

  The boys had a thirty-two bunk hut in which they were expected to maintain the naval code at all times. The hut figured largely in daily routine—beds to be arranged, floor scrubbed, the little veranda kept spotless, the drain running past it cleaned. The hut was not a refuge, really, for the adjoining hut, with its windows opening towards theirs, was the canteen, and there, as would be expected, sailors were permitted to be noisy and get noisier with each tankard of beer.

  After a day’s stint in the signals tower and the MSO, they would come in to flop on their bunks and consider their boots with a deep hatred. These had to be polished, as usual, and their gym shoes pipe-clayed for 5 a.m. physical training (universally loathed).

  It was on such an evening, when they had come in with ‘aaahs’ of relief, that Percy popped in. He gave them a most affectionate smile. He carried a hand drill and a long length of rubber tubing.

  Carloboy grinned. ‘Hey Percy, what’s that for?’

  Percy bummed a cigarette and gave a small cackle. ‘You know something? You guys are the most favoured in this whole shit’ole. You have a hut next to the canteen.’

  ‘So?’

  They knew that this unpredictable able seaman had not come in to discuss the location of their hut. Nathali, as the Captain of the Navy had once remarked, was a fiend incarnate. Seven years an able seaman, promoted to leading seaman in which exalted state he lasted a mere three weeks. His anchor had been torn off his sleeve for some particular devilry. He was a law unto himself.

  He nodded solemnly at the boys. Like a parson who had just been shown the pearly gates. ‘Yes, yes. Fine hut, fine hut. Really like the lie of it. Can you see—’ he did the grand tour, ‘your window, canteen window . . . other window, canteen window . . .’ he walked down the line of beds, ‘whose bunk is this?’

  ‘Mine,’ said Roy Fernando.

  ‘Mmmm, wonderful. Nothing like a nice bunk. And beer. That’s what makes everything worthwhile. I’m going to use this bed for a while, OK?’

  ‘Use?’ Roy stared blankly, ‘Use how?’ He studied the hand drill in Percy’s hand nervously, ‘you’re going to bore holes in my bed?’

  ‘Don’t talk bilge. What do I want to do anything like that for? You want a hole in your bed, make one yourself. I’m going to—’ he stretched luxuriously, ‘—lie down for a little.’

  The boys stared. Bijja hissed, ‘He’s up to something.’

  Then, with a dragging of work boots, Stoker Mechanic Ryan breezed in, made for the reclining Percy and asked, ‘How? Everything OK?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Percy murmured, ‘shoo these buggers out and shut the door.’

  Ryan turned on the boys, thrusting forward his ham-like face, ‘You heard? Fuck off!’

  Theirs not to reason why. They went.

  Carloboy said, ‘Wait a bit, we’ll take our plates and mugs. They’ll pipe supper in an hour.’

  ‘Yes, take, take and go.’

  They stood outside, bewildered. Pushed out of their own hut. Something was afoot, but what? They went to the canteen, sat, kept an eye on their hut through the open windows. An assortment of seamen, many of them Percy’s cronies, were inside. It was beginning to look like the gathering of a witches’ coven.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Sims asked.

  Carloboy shrugged.

  The evening mellowed. They had supper, then drifted back. The door was firmly shut. So were the windows. No sound save an indistinct snoring.

  Nugawira put an ear to the door. ‘Snoring. Sure I’m sure. Come and listen.’

  ‘Gone to sleep in our hut!’ Roy said bitterly, ‘Like bloody pirates they have taken our hut!’

  Carloboy pondered. ‘But why should they? There’s something up, I’m sure. Let’s kick the bloody door in.’

  They found that the Navy in Colombo made doors too stout for the most concerted assault. Perhaps another heavy roller . . .

  Then Daft raised a drippy boot, ‘Ai, what’s this?’ He pointed to a stream of frothy liquid which was seeping from under the door. It became a thin stream that coursed around their feet to the drain.

  ‘Piss!’ said Yusuf, ‘It’s piss!’

  The liquid was certainly of the right colour.

  ‘Piss? Jeeeesus, they’re pumping all over the floor?’

  They banged lustily on the door. Yusuf crept around to the space between huts to thump on the windows. The hullabaloo brought the duty officer on the double.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  The boys shook their heads, did not trouble to give him the customary salute. ‘We can’t get into our hut, sir. The door’s locked on the inside.’

  ‘Who’s inside?’

  ‘Don’t know sir.’

  ‘What’s all this stuff? My God, what’s this? Have you bastards been pumping all over the place!’

  ‘Sir, it’s coming from under the door, sir.’

  ‘What the devil—’ the duty officer banged on the door, ‘This is the OOD,’ he boomed, ‘Open this door at once!’

  No answer.

  ‘One of you fetch a shipwright. Tell him to bring something to force the door.’

  ‘Yessir,’ Nugawira trotted off.

  The amber liquid kept flowing.

  It took shipwright Silva twenty minutes to remove the heavy lock and lo! when the door swung open there was a sight to freeze the toughest duty officer. Six sailors . . . fast asleep. From the slats of the window over Percy’s head a length of rubber tubing emerged, and from Percy’s end of this tube poured the liquid that had been mistaken for urine. The floor was awash with it. Beer! The hut reeked of beer. Three bunks were soaked in beer. Percy and his cronies lay, comatose, each wearing the hint of a seraphic smile. They were blotto on beer—gallons of it, while gallons more piped out in a steady stream.

  The boys gaped, then together with the duty officer, crowded round Roy’s bed and the snoring Percy. Silva examined the rubber tube and gave a wide grin.

  ‘Ah sir, very cute these fallows, just see what have been doing.’

  The duty officer saw, and strange things must have danced a gavotte before his eyes. He seized Percy by the hair, jerked him up. The able seaman merely sank back in a stupor.

  Silva pushed open the window, dived out and hooted for the leading seaman who officiated in the canteen. ‘Oi! you fine fallow, no? Free beer all giving to this side. See how much beer have left in your barrel.’

  The leading seaman was dumbstruck. He poked his head out of the window, saw the rubber tube stuck into his large 176-gallon cask and choked. Then he howled, ‘Take that bloody thing out!’

  ‘Can’t, can’t,’ Silva howled back, ‘If take out pipe, will all come from the hole. Mus’ get a bung to block.’

  The duty officer told the boys, ‘Carry these buggers out one by one. Put them in the corridor. Get the QM here, and call an SBA.’

  They hauled the six beer-laden men out. Next door, the canteen was in ferment. Their hut smelled like a brewery. Beer-sodden beds were stripped and the stores opened to issue new mattresses and linen. Percy and his cronies slept on ...

  Even the First Lieutenant couldn’t summon the imagination to decree fitting punishment. ‘There’s only one thing I’d like to do,’ he glowered, ‘shoot you and dance on your graves!’

  Percy was drafted to Talaimannar, to HMCyS Elara, a shore base in the north of the island where he was expected to prevent, as best as he could, the illicit immigration of south Indians to the island.

  Peace reigned in Gemunu. Only the leading seaman who administered the canteen remained jumpy. He had, he said, 152 gallons of beer in his barrel. Now he had only 24. And there were other of Nathali’s stripe in the camp. He implored the First Lieutenant to get rid of Percy’s cronies as well.

  The
First Lieutenant wobbled. ‘What! I sent Nathali to Elara. Alone he’s a national disaster. Use your head, killick. What do you think will happen in a place like that if the others are there with him?’

  Did we say peace? Scratch that. Okay, comparative peace, anyway. We’ll settle for that!

  18

  History—Target Ceylon . . . Japan’s Westward Advance

  America was unable to appreciate, at the start, how the British Chiefs of Staff were dismally considering the threat to their Indian Ocean and Middle East communications after the Pearl Harbour disaster. Also, America’s battle fleet had been hit for six.

  The Japanese, led by the Army of Yamashita had pushed the last American survivors out of the Philippines, and Japan now held the Dutch and British East Indies, Singapore, Malaya and the Sumatra Straits.

  There was no doubt about it. Everything pointed to a westward advance. The Japanese would strike across the Bay of Bengal and seize Ceylon. The scenario was disturbing. Once Ceylon fell, the next move would be to cut the Persian Gulf oil supplies and then link up with Italy and Germany through the MiddleEast.

  The Royal Navy was desperately short of capital ships. Britain needed adequate naval power closer home should Ceylon fall, but the Admiralty had sent five battleships and three aircraft carriers to the Indian Ocean. This had left the Royal Navy very sparse in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean.

  In March 1942 Admiral Sir James Somerville, who was in command of Britain’s Force H in the Mediterranean, was sent to Colombo. H was to take overall command of the five battleships and aircraft carriers and have strategy consultations with Sir Geoffrey Layton who was in charge of the Ceylon station.

  The Chiefs of Imperial General Staff were very satisfied with Sir Geoffrey. He had been made Flag Officer Commanding, Ceylon, and later Supreme Commander of all the British forces in the island. Admiral Layton was an ‘action man’. He improvised the island’s defences and even requisitioned private properties to constructed airfields and emergency landing strips. And he saved the RAF a packet.