by Carl Muller
It was around 6.30 a.m. on April 9, 1942 that the Japanese bombers came. Nagumo had special targets. He wanted the destruction of the oil storage tanks at China Bay and the dockyard. He also wanted to sink as many ships as he could. Trincomalee, he knew, was a military and naval base of great importance to the British.
The bombs rained down. They fell on Fort Frederick, the Air Force base at the naval dockyard, China Bay, and the oil fuel depot. The loss of life was most severe, especially as thousands of civilians were already at work.
In China Bay, the Tata Company of India was erecting hangars for the RAF. Men were working on the roofs. The bombs, slim torpedo-shaped and gleaming silver in the sunlight, took a heavy toll.
‘I saw planes in groups of six, come over the base,’ a survivor later told the press. ‘There were so many men working on the hangar roofs, fixing and painting the cross beams. When the bombs fell I saw them being tossed like dry leaves in the wind. I crawled under a concrete cylinder. When the raid was over I saw dead bodies everywhere. Many were just masses of burnt and smoking flesh. I couldn’t stay there. I took my bicycle. I had to carry it over the dead. Then I pedalled away as fast as I could. I was crying and thanking God that I was alive.’
Administration failed miserably. Everywhere in the dockyard was turmoil and death. Again, it was the civilians who perished. The Commandant of the Essential Services Labour Corps (ESLC), who was also a Captain, Ceylon Light Infantry, confirmed that many civilians had died and there was none to attend to the dead. The bodies lay there for up to five days. Eventually, the ESLC removed the corpses for burning to a place called Alles Gardens, north of Trincomalee, This is where the war cemetery now is.
All Japanese attempts to destroy the oil tanks in China Bay failed. The bombs just did not find their mark. Nagumo ordered a kamikaze attack. It was the first such suicide mission witnessed in Ceylon. Two airmen and a gunner screamed out of the sky, their fighter diving viciously. They hit one of the tanks with a roar of metal and flame and the splintering of wings and undercarriage. One tank, three lives. Later, parts of the Japanese fighter were gathered together around the burnt tank and enclosed within an iron fence. The skull of one of the Japanese airmen was also found and added to the grim souvenir. Some years later, the skull disappeared, removed, possibly by some unknown souvenir collector.
In the harbour a cargo ship burned fiercely and many warships also destroyed, but the Royal Navy set to work with a will. The remains of the stricken vessels were salvaged, the parts used to build a jetty inside the dockyard. Everyone said that the Japanese took more lives, caused more havoc in Trincomalee, but peculiarly, very few mark Nagumo’s raid there. Maybe it was the Easter Sunday raid, a day so significant to the large British Christian community in Colombo, that caught the eye of the historians. The raid on Trincomalee was all but forgotten. True, many more died there. Also, Ceylon saw its first kamikaze attack . . . but in Colombo, the church bells pealed after the raid and that is held long in memory.
In London, the Chiefs of Staff Committee was in two minds. The air action over Ceylon had been repulsed. Twenty-seven Japanese planes had been downed. But the Japanese fleet was still in the Indian Ocean and, as far as they knew, their Eastern Fleet was retiring westward. There was no sign of transports and they did not like the situation very much. They knew that they were very weak in the Indian Ocean.
Attempts were made to get the Americans to make a counter-move towards Japan, draw the Japanese away, but the First Sea Lord had not been very convincing. On 7 April the COS made frantic calls for air support from Wavell1 but as Viscount Portal, Marshall of the RAF said, there was little chance of this.
Yes, the empire was in a precarious position. How could it keep going through 1942? Yet, they had pulled it off in Dunkirk. It was a time to believe firmly in miracles.
23
Of Toddy Trips and Goat Hunts and Five Thousand Bottles of Beer
Carloboy found that the Navy could be most accommodating. He actually got two days leave in preparation for draft. He took the opportunity to give Colombo the careful once-over. The Swan’s girls had to be met and Yvette, who had set him on fire ever since her birthday party. Although in her billowy birthday dress, he was gratified to find, as he fondled her urgently beneath the banana trees in her rear garden, that she had not worn her knickers. And, above all, there was Barbara whom he loved (or so he believed) to distraction. Barbara Heinz was a little beauty. Everything about her was so, so adorable, from the way her lips made those delicious O’s of surprise, to hazel eyes framed with long lashes and the dimple at her pert chin. Her brown hair was a puff-ball of small, springy curls and she could not think of anyone but Carloboy whose Navy singlet stretched tight across his chest, its sleeve-ends biting into his biceps. Barbara loved uniforms. Her uncle, a major in the Army, was her idol. Now, a devil-may-care sailor occupied her every thought.
Carloboy sighed. Leave all this, he thought ruefully. But even his fondest goodbyes were touched with that glamour the Navy somehow injected into even the lowliest deckhand’s life.
Anti-illicit immigration duties. A nice phrase. An important-sounding one, hinting at drama and derring-do at sea. His family, his friends, most of all his many girl-friends, were impressed. Barbara said, with eyes that glistened, ‘Be careful—if anything happens to you—’ and left her fears unsaid.
Carloboy held her hand gently. ‘What can happen to me?’ At least he had the confidence that he above all, was immortal. What could happen? Indeed, so much had happened in his nineteen years . . . and here he was, the past in limbo, the present to be lived to the hilt, the future a matter of the least concern.
And he made his next diary entry: ‘September 15, 1954. Drafted to HMCyS Elara at Talaimannar for anti-illicit immigration duties.’ It was the beginning of high jinks.
Dry. Dusty. Dead. That was his first impression of the good ship Elara, which lay alongside the quarters of the Inspector of Police of the area who had a pretty niece with a nice Spanish name, Carmencita, and dark eyes that watched the Navy’s every move.
Up a red road, leading to left from the camp was the toddy tavern, where the foaming, intoxicating sap of the palmyra spathe was served in cleaned coconut half-shells, or in tight-woven little panniers of young palmyra fronds. This was the drink of the hoi polloi of whose numbers the sailors of HMCyS Elara were a major quantum.
Able Seaman Percy Nathali, for one, claimed bosom friendship with the tavern keeper. He drank on the never- never, the account squared every pay day. Morning physical training was little more than a brisk trot to the tavern where after much libation the men would walk back rubbing their bellies and belching fearsomely, their innards awash with the milky fluid.
Elara tended to ramble. Its decks of white, burning sand; its bridgework consisting of a dilapidated building that served as canteen, mess hall, regulating office, victualling stores and armoury. Rats galore there were and they held nightly parliamentary sessions in the victualling stores.
The men bedded under canvas and there was, for naval effect, a mast and yardarm, a white naval ensign that had seen better days, a couple of jeeps and a five-ton truck and a radio that could only raise Luxembourg at two in the morning.
The ops room was situated a mile away, at the home end of the long Talaimannar pier. To this ops room, a converted railway compartment that commanded a view of the sea, the pier, the railway station and the palmyra jungle, the signalmen were posted daily. Inside this box, which was quickly dubbed the ‘coffin’, were transmitters and stacks of batteries and nary a flag in sight. Yeoman Barnett was so right. Signalman von Bloss was now a telegraphist, whether he liked it or not. Colombo, Gemumi, had to be raised every hour. The old tuning signal and preamble became to him as second nature, 4SJ, 4SJ, 4SJ DE 4QRS, 4QRS, 4QRS QRU QRS K. Which, decoded, was Gemunu, Gemunu this is Elara, Elara, Elara, do you hear me, what is my signal strength, over.
In Ceylon’s long and chequered history, Gemunu was a great warrior king and El
ara an Indian who popped in one day and usurped the throne. History tells us how Gemunu got his act together, marched on the capital, told Elara to come out and fight, slew the usurper and regained the throne. All this happened in the times before Christ.
To this hourly preamble, Gemunu should have, by right, replied: Elara, Elara, Elara, this is Gemunu, Gemunu, Gemunu, I hear you all right. To hell with your signal strength! I’m coming over on my war elephant and you’re going to see stars, my lad!
Nothing as sensational as this would ever happen, of course. Gemunu would reply: 4QRS, 4QRS, 4QRS, DE 4SJ, 4SJ, 4SJ, QRU7, QRS8, K. And signals would be exchanged, mostly weather reports and sitreps on day-to-day anti-illicit immigration measures and countermeasures. A weary, weary job which Carloboy found most uninspiring. ‘It’s the same damn thing every day,’ he would grouse, ‘what the hell does Colombo want to know about the weather here for? Sea slight to moderate, weather fine, swell slight. So what else can you expect in this damn place?’
But in camp . . . ah, what a crew that was! Leading Seaman Poopala was a bearded terror with a face very like those terrible depictions of Ogmios of Celtic mythology. He would gather his beard into little tufts, tying each with a coloured ribbon, each time he reached the high-water mark after copious draughts of beer and toddy. Indeed, to be tanked to the gills was an occupation all on Elara took most seriously.
There were telegraphists a plenty, for Elara not only had the sailors to seize kallathonis (illicit immigrants) off-shore, but was a vital shore base, providing a link between the Army, the police posts of the area and Colombo in the on-going war on illicit immigration. South Indians kept sneaking in across the Palk Strait. They would come in by the boatload, women, children, even their dogs, while some hardy souls would make the crossing alone. One man who was found on a small islet had sat astride the trunk of a banana tree. All he carried was a bicycle chain and a little bundle of his meagre belongings strapped to his back. When the banana trunk could no longer stay afloat, he found himself close to one of the many tiny islands that dusted the sea off the northern peninsula. He crawled ashore, ate leaves and tender thistles. When he was taken off by a Navy patrol, he was half dead of thirst. At the internment camp, he said the bicycle chain was his only weapon. Many kallathonis carried such weapons, to beat off the Navy men who had to seize them at sea. Not on shore, mind, for once ashore arrest and deportation involved the usual lengthy legal procedure.
It was Leading Stoker Mechanic Ronnie Maddo who turned the men’s attention to the great goat scourge. Stray goats—droves of them—menaced the camp. The sailors of Elara did not seem to mind. The goats were a part of the whole, unreal scene. But the animals developed peculiar tastes. They had this fondness for caps, and it all came to a head one day at colour guard. A peculiar turnout. Regulating Petty Officer Thomas was appalled when he rohed up for inspection.
‘Van Heer, von Bloss, Maddo, Johns, where are your caps?’
‘Wearing them, PO.’
‘What! What are those things? Those are not caps!’
‘That’s all we have, PO.’
Each was wearing the cap-band and ribbon. Nathali had chortled loud and long. ‘Hee, hee, stick in a few feathers and you can join a Red Indian lodge.’
‘To hell with you,’ Maddo had growled, ‘you think this is funny? The goats have eaten them.’
‘Fall out!’
Shades of Diyatalawa. They fell out.
Commanding Officer Gunasakes eyed them bleakly after the morning salute. ‘If you know that the goats eat your caps, why don’t you keep them out of reach of the animals?’
Maddo wasn’t convinced. ‘Sir, it’s not what we must do. It’s the goats. We must stop them boarding the ship.’
Gunasakes closed his eyes. Horrible visions rose. A proud warship out on the briny, the captain on the bridge. A goat at the helm. On deck, goats skipped smartly. Every time the captain screamed an order the goats would raise their heads and answer in chorus ‘hei-heh-heh-heh-hei’. He smiled glassily. ‘I agree, Maddo, but in this damn no man’s land there are decidedly more goats than humans. And, as I see it, the goats will eat anything.’
‘Also,’ Carloboy reminded, ‘humans eat mutton, sir.’
‘I know,’ the CO said, a tinge of regret in his voice, ‘but who am I to endorse any nasty thoughts you may have; especially—’ he looked at Carloboy intently, ‘—since I will have no idea what you intend to do.’
Carloboy nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He also made a mental note to take his seaman’s knife to the throat of the very next goat that came his way. The CO was a real corker. He had agreed that mutton would be most welcome as long as he was spared the gory details.
‘Sir,’ said Van Heer, ‘we should organize an anti-goat squad.’
Again the faint smile. ‘We should, Van Heer, we really should. But let it be on the lines of repel boarders. I do recall how well boarders were repelled in the old pirate days.’
‘Oh yes sir,’ said Johns enthusiastically, ‘decks used to be slippery with blood.’
‘That was in the Caribbean, Johns. But then I believe resistance was offered. Here too there could be resistance. Angry goats have this trick of lowering their heads, taking a line on any handy backside, and charging. Yes, you will have to repel in the traditional manner, but—hum—I trust your methods will not be too—too repelling.’
The CO would go far, Carloboy thought, and he was right, for Gunasakes did rise, right to the top. He became, years later, Captain of the Navy!
It was Percy Nathali who fired the first salvo in the anti-goat uprising. He had reason, having discovered that the jersey he had hung on the line had been reduced to two forlorn sleeves and nothing else. A sedate nanny, her dugs like a cluster of footballs, with scraps of his jersey still in her mouth, was making for Daft Fernando’s kitbag.
With a whoop that sent Able Seaman Van Dross bolting through the rear flap of the tent, Percy leaped upon the goat, executed a sort of armlock and hauled the bleating creature into the canteen where many lolled, quaffing their evening tankards.
‘Behold your enemy!’ he roared, ‘a stout matron,- boys. Look at her doodads. Bursting with the milk of goatly kindness. Van Heer, grab her head and keep her occupied.’
Van Heer blinked. ‘What? How the hell do I keep her occupied?’
‘So do something! Sing a bloody song. Show her your cock. Can’t you use your brains?’
Fetching an enamel jug, Percy squatted. ‘Milk-o!’ he sang.
The animal unleashed a hind leg. It got Poopala on the shin and his yell rattled the windows. ‘Grooh!’ he howled, ‘I’ll kill the fucking bastard!’
‘Milk her first,’ Percy said, ‘give her a chance. Once I get these things going she’ll stand still.’
‘So get going, get going! What are you fiddling with her knobs for? Where’s that bloody axe?’
An interesting combination . . . warm goat’s milk, straight from the tap . . . and beer.
Ronnie Maddo launched his own hostilities. He had gone to the heads, and the heads in Elara was a squared-off area fenced in with palm-leaf thatch and sectioned to afford each man a squatting plate upon which he could balance himself and make night soil. He could also look up at the sky, contemplate on the mysteries of the universe, or whatever else sailors are wont to think upon at such undignified moments.
Maddo, it appeared, had positioned himself and was gazing down, regarding his penis morosely. What the hell was the use of the big, fat thing that hung so uselessly with no opportunity to rise up and be useful? Then, a goat had poked its head through the thatch and looked at him.
This, to Maddo was a gross invasion of privacy. Leaping up, he gave a blood-curdling yell. ‘Repel Boarders!’ and rushed out, quite forgetting to clean his backside and put on his trousers. His naked fury, literally, was a rallying call. Rushing to the tent, he seized a hatchet and with a huge whoop led the others who streamed out behind him.
The goats of many colours, cruising about the c
amp, sensed trouble. They tossed their heads, bunched together and eyed the men apprehensively. Poopala launched himself at a wicked-horned creature that sidestepped neatly, bleated indignantly into the fallen seaman’s ear and danced nimbly away. Van Heer pelted behind a rangy fellow that loped off, snub tail erect, completely unmindful of the call to ‘Halt!’
Johns succeeded in grabbing at a hindleg. He hung on. The goat was brought to its knees, but glutton to the last, it twisted over in its struggle and fixed its teeth on the front of John’s singlet and began chewing.
The camp was shambles. The goats fled, through tents, over bunks, through fences. One stayed long enough to take Daft’s stockings. Eventually, all the men had was John’s catch, held down firmly by half a dozen men.
‘So what do we do now?’ Van Heer panted.
‘Kill the bugger!’
‘Who?’
That was the big question. Eventually the animal was dragged behind the galley and Carloboy selected the keenest knife there was. He did, everyone said, a nice job. The next day it was unanimously agreed that the mutton was excellent, and cooked to a turn.
Fishing at Talaimannar was an equally rewarding occupation, especially when it was known that Nathali was a dab hand at drying fish. The men would leave camp at night, walk the silent road to the pier with rods and offal from the galley for bait. They would park themselves at the end of the pier where the waves below would look like silver-edged bolsters, rolling to shore. Magnificent fishing. The two-and three-pounders they caught were taken to camp, filletted in the approved manner, garlicked and vinegared, liberally sprinkled with salt and thereafter dried in the scorching sun.
Yes, things were pretty lax on the Elara. Much time was spent on the whalers, on coastal patrols. The long boats fitted with outboard motors would take them two miles to sea where the swells moved like switchbacks. Or they would cast around in jeeps, making hectic runs to Mannar and Thoddavelli and other such outlandish places. It was a ritualistic part of such excursions to bring in a goat. Skinning and disembowelling became Carloboy’s duty. He was acclaimed a most proficient butcher and the CO would sometimes say, ‘You, Crusoe, come here.’