Spit and Polish

by Carl Muller

  It was war—mock warfare, with the fleet split into two forces and ordered to fight each other. The Vijaya was pushed to her utmost, fourteen knots, that made her mast shudder alarmingly with the pulse of her engines and the stokers were dying slow deaths in the heat of the boiler rooms.

  But the off days in port did come and then there was the deck routine which largely depended on the master-at- arm’s bile. If he woke after a wet dream, the men would be chipping decks all day or painting the sides. The Vijaya seemed to hang together, held by the succeeding layers of paint. Such feverish painting seemed to be absurd. OK in Trincomalee, they agreed, but a pathetic dissipation of energy in Colombo where the ship occupied a berth surrounded by a bunch of black-hearted colliers. Well, there was not much a sailor could do. It was the old business of complying and, for universal peace of mind, not complaining.

  And then Binkie said, ‘Let’s go to Plinkett’s.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Plinkett, men. You remember we met him outside the fleet canteen that night . . .’

  Carloboy shrugged. He would not remember even if he had been introduced to a Hotentot singing ‘Ave Maria’.

  ‘Jail Road. ‘Member he told to come and play the piano?’

  ‘At his home?’

  ‘What else? Must see his daughters. I’m putting a cap to the elder one. Have a younger one also. Come go.’

  Carloboy hesitated. ‘But I want to go to the railway station. Friend of mine is there. My father’s friend. Driver Jacks. Must go and see him.’

  Binkie looked sad. ‘I thought if you come and play and the old bugger starts drinking, can make him drunk.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What men, if make him drunk, can get the daughter, no?’

  A powerful argument indeed. Carloboy wavered. ‘But what about the mother?’

  ‘No mother. Only old man and the daughters.’

  Arthur Lascalles Plinkett. An Anglo-Indian who had served in an Indian regiment, then settled in Ceylon after his wife had passed on. He had two daughters, and being ex-Royal Army and off-white, held sway in Jail Road.

  Daughter Annette was a mess favourite at the dockyard naval camp. She liked sitting on petty officers’ laps when she was not dancing the hula-hula, and would go to that secluded bit of beach near the oiling jetty where the men of the Navy would form a queue to savour her charms. Annette had shared her father’s bed since she grew up. Plinkett knew that sooner or later some uniformed moron would want to marry her. He had turned to his younger daughter Abela who filled the breach exceedingly well.

  The ‘uniformed moron’ was Binkie, of course, who was determined to marry the perambulating Annette and show her the error of her ways. Plinkett knew how much the oiling jetty contributed to the lubrication of his daughter, but Binkie, who always maintained that he had been well brought-up, did not know as much about his lady-love as her father did. Indeed, all he had to do was say, politely, ‘If you will excuse me, Arthur, I’m taking Annette to bed.’

  Plinkett would have waved him a benediction and merely said, ‘Have another drink first. It helps.’

  Carloboy agreed with Binkie, ‘So you get the old boy drunk. You screw the daughter. What do I do?’

  ‘The other girl is there, no?’

  Again, a very good point. Can’t argue with that. They went.

  Plinkett took his time. He had much to say about the days when he was the regimental boxing champion. Why, he was light-heavyweight champion of India! He gave them a stirring demonstration of ringcraft, sprawling over a divan and reducing a chair to matchwood, and he wanted to sing, which was a mistake because he sounded like a violin with a broken nose.

  But Annette went indoors at his bidding and emerged with a flower in her straw hair and an abbreviated bodice and a skirt of trailing ribbons and Plinkett roared his approval. ‘Play something Hawaiian,’ he bawled and piped ‘Aloha Oye, Aloha Oye’ and Annette danced and bounced her hips and shook her hips and shook her bum at Binkie and swept her long hair from shoulder to shoulder. Binkie sat pop-eyed.

  It took time to drag Arthur Lascalles to bed. He lay, mouth open, grunting with a patch of spittle on his pillow. Binkie was pulling away at Annette’s ribbons as though she was a Christmas present.

  Abela led Carloboy to the tiny parlour. ‘Play one more song,’ she said softly, ‘and can you show me the notes?’

  With her hip pressed against his side, Abela touched the keys as he told her to. He felt her warm against him as he said, ‘A,G,G,G,F,E,D,C,E,E.’

  She played the notes, sang softly to each, ‘I love you, for sen-ti-men-tal reasons . . .’

  His hand was up her skirt, his fingers under the edge of her knickers. She moved her legs slightly apart. She kept playing the line of music over and over again as he reached higher, pulled at the waist elastic, brought the panties to her knees. She bent, kissed the side of his forehead and squirmed, dropping the scrap of cloth to her ankles. It was the work of a moment to draw her to the faded settee. She was nineteen, she said, and no, she was not a virgin. He mounted her awkwardly, but settled himself when he was in her. Small, tight, and very satisfying indeed. He lay on her, waiting till he was hard again and she clutched at his shoulders as she climaxed and tried to draw her legs together. All the while, Annette kept humming, humming. Carloboy recognized the tune. It was the Hawaiian Wedding Song. He smiled.

  ‘You sister hums Hawaiian songs even when someone is fucking her?’

  ‘No,’ Abela giggled, ‘she must be dancing.’

  ‘Dancing? Then what is Binkie doing?’

  She giggled again, ‘Must be watching. When she’s in this mood, she only wants to dance.’

  Binkie brooded. ‘Won’t allow, men. You and your bloody piano. Only doing the hula.’

  Carloboy was in a generous mood. ‘So you go and screw Abela. Only hurry up. We’ll miss the last boat.’

  Plinkett snorted in his sleep.

  ‘You’ll come and play again?’ Annette asked. It was a bargaining chip. With the prospect of another Hawaiian evening, Annette swept Binkie to bed and, as he said later, it must have been the fastest fuck in history. God knows, he had been tensing for it all evening and it was all over before he knew he had begun. He was still wagging his head sadly when they stepped into the boat.

  A week later, in Dehiwela, Sonnaboy von Bloss read his son’s letter and roared. ‘Bugger has been going to Plinkett’s.’

  Beryl was nonplussed.

  ‘Plinkett’s, men, in Trincomalee. You remember that bugger I hammered on the platform? My God, he shat, shat and ran!’

  Beryl sighed. How was she expected to remember any one person her husband had beaten up? The line seemed endless. But she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said faintly.

  ‘Put him one in the stomach. He farted. Then I gave him a kick and he shat in his trousers. Did the bloody bolt, shit coming down his legs.’

  Beryl shuddered. She hated these memories, most of all.

  ‘Must write and tell Carloboy.’

  Carloboy sat on a ventilator, reading his father’s letter. He laughed, then tossed the broken envelope into the sea. He began to whistle ‘Lovely Hula Hands’.

  36

  The British Military Occupation of Ceylon

  There were several internal defence schemes in Ceylon since the First World War. This undoubtedly contributed to the island’s state of readiness. The British, to this day, will maintain that the military occupation of Ceylon was very necessary, although it was also thought that all it did was bring into the country a large amount of money.

  What worried the British administration of the time was that after hostilities were over, it would be hard to get people to return to their old ways. They would want the same war-time wages and benefits and the same financial status they enjoyed in wartime. Many gloomily said that there would be social chaos.

  It would be interesting at this juncture, to leave the Americans in the Pacific, the Europeans in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, and step
back in time to a day in 1872 when a British tea planter in Ceylon, Colonel Gordon-Reeves, sent notices to the British planting community. He said he wished to form a volunteer corps of mounted infantry. He pointed out that all planters had one or two horses and, if the response was good, they would all be sworn in in Kandy, the hill capital of the island.

  The response was good. Sixty-two men enlisted and the military bungalows in Brownrigg Street, Kandy, were the venue of the swearing-in ceremony. Gordon-Reeves assumed command as a major and he had sixty-one troopers under him. They were accepted as a mounted company of the Ceylon Light Infantry and later became a separate unit of the Ceylon Defence Force.

  In 1897, men of this mounted infantry went to the diamond jubilee celebrations of Queen Victoria and in 1899, they went to South Africa when the Boer War broke out.

  That was an interesting campaign. Governor Sir West Ridgeway obtained for the men the necessary equipment from India, and the force was assembled in Colombo on January 24, 1900, preparatory to departure. Horses, too, were provided from Bombay.

  The Times of Ceylon of January 31, 1900 carried a glowing account of the farewell banquet which was followed by a torchlight tattoo:

  Never before in the history of Ceylon has such an unique and inspiring a spectacle been witnessed as that which marked last night’s send-off banquet to the Ceylon contingent at the Galle Face Hotel. The enthusiasm was unparalleled and the scene will long be remembered by those who were privileged to witness it. Great were the preparations, and it is only those who undertook the arduous duties of committee-men who knew the anxiety and care which those preparations involved. As early as half past seven the hotel presented a scene of animation which is not easily described. The hall, verandas, passages and the staircase were thronged with a huge mass of people, which were augmented shortly after by the members of the contingent who formed up inside the hotel near the main entrance, ready for the reception of HE the Governor and staff. His Excellency drove up at 8 p.m. with Sir E. Noel Walker, Captain Currie, ADC, and Captain Toogood, and a move was at once made to the banquet hall. There was no difficulty in seating the diners, a large body of stewards being at hand ready to indicate the location of the seats at their respective tables. Upon entering the hall, admiration of the decorations was expressed.

  The music was much enjoyed, and whenever a popular air was played the company heartily joined in. The balconies overlooking the dining hall were crowded with ladies, who watched the proceedings with great interest.

  His Lordship the Bishop of Colombo said grace in a few appropriate words, and about 10 p.m. the toast list was proceeded with.

  The Governor proposed the Queen, and the Bishop proposed the Governor’s health, and before the Governor replied he asked the company to ‘light up’.

  The contingent sailed for Cape Town on the Umkuzi, a battered old ship.

  Shortly after, a Ceylon Planters Rifle Corps was formed on May 5, 1900, commanded by Captain Farquharson, R N. He was made a Colonel and was possibly the only known Captain of the Navy who became a Colonel in a volunteer regiment.

  Many Boer prisoners were sent to Ceylon. They were kept in a P-O-W camp in Diyatalawa and many died there. Their remains still lie in the big war cemetery there. When the war was over, these prisoners were sent back. They were each asked to take an oath of allegiance to the British. All did, except one stubborn old man named Inglebek (Englebrecht). He became a thorn in the official side until the British government in Ceylon made him a game warden of the animal sanctuary of Yala in the south-east.

  So it was that Lord Kitchener sent the Ceylon Government a letter from Simla on July 28, 1903. It was very much to the point:

  The Ceylon contingent did very good work in South Africa. I only wish we had more of them.

  Kitchener, General

  Simla, 28.7.03

  This then is how Diyatalawa became a service training centre. Soon after the Boers left, the camp became a training camp.

  Indeed Ceylon saw some of the finest British regiments. There were the Gordon Highlanders, the Warwickshire Regiment, the Royal North Lanes. The Highland Light Infantry and the Gloucester Regiment were stationed in the island during the Boer War because of the large number of Boer prisoners sent for internment. After that came the West Kents from South Africa and the Worcester Regiment. Thereafter, Ceylon saw the 98th Infantry and the Punjabis from India.

  It would be interesting to reproduce another Times of Ceylon report in part, on the farewell speech made by Governor Sir West Ridgeway where he made much importance of Diyatalawa:

  I specially hope you will attend the camp of exercise at Diyatalawa as numerously as you can. Government has gone to a great expense and trouble in equipping Diyatalawa, and it is an ideal training ground ... A week or a fortnight at Diyatalawa is worth months anywhere else. The climate is so exhilarating, the country so adapted for manoeuvring that the instruction you receive is as pleasant as it is useful . . .

  Shortly after Diyatalawa was made into a training centre, a house was built for the Admiral of the East Indies Fleet on a hill overlooking the Navy camp.

  In 1911 came the coronation of King George V. A small force of officers and NCO’s sailed for England where they received coronation medals. The King had come to Ceylon in 1901 when he was Duke of York. So did the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Connaught who, in 1907, unveiled the South African War Memorial in Kandy.

  Again, a Ceylon contingent attended the coronation of King Edward VII and, in 1909, General French came as Inspector-General of the British forces to inspect all Ceylon troops.

  Then came World War I and Ceylon did not really figure. Many men did apply to go to the front but had to be content with doing town-guard duties and keeping local units on their toes. However, an overseas contingent of the Ceylon Planters Rifle Corps, composed of eight officers and 221 other ranks did embark on the SS Worcestershire. They fought well, and eventually the tally rose to 800. Of this number, 80 were killed and 90 wounded.

  During World War II, the Ceylon Light Infantry, which was Ceylon’s oldest volunteer regiment, increased in size to four battalions. Also, there arose the Ceylon Artillery Volunteers that proved to be a very useful gunnery defence unit.

  Ceylon was, therefore, both militarily and navally, very certain of herself. Also, there was much royal house interest in the island—an interest that brought the Duke of Gloucester twice to her shores; once in 1934 and again during World War II, where he inspected the troops at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Peradeniya in Kandy.

  The year 1941 was crucial. It saw the arrival of more British troops. First came the Leicester Regiment under Colonel Phillips. This regiment was composed of the King’s Own, the Queen’s Own and the Leicesters, all in one division.

  Then came the 7th Artillery, the East African Regiment and, of course, there was the Indian Regiment. Many others came and went—the 51st Royal Artillery, the Lanarkshire Yeomanry, the Border Regiment. Many of these troops were sent on to Burma or India. And then came the headquarters personnel of the South-east Asia Command to converge on Kandy.

  All the huts in Kandy and Peradeniya were not good enough for the big brass. The British power machine would base itself in the central capital and make of it a good, strong, quite permanent home.

  37

  Of Command Changes and Bara Khana and a Faceful of Bucket for a Bumptious Blighter

  It all started with very simple exercise—shifting berth. It was then that the men of the Vijaya realized that something was very wrong indeed. All they had to do was slip moorings, refuel at the oiling jetty and get back to berth.

  Problem was that the skipper was at a command confab at Admiralty House and had other things on his mind. He was to soon leave for England—a career move with a stint of higher naval training that would give him acting Commander ranking and make him a top brass.

  But that morning a flag hoist had been made to inform the Flagstaff that the Vijaya could not live on beer alone. At the oiling jet
ty was HMS Comus, under the command of a very excitable Scot. Then came the orders from the shore bridge. The signalman there rattled it off on the lamp at breakneck speed, and in the morning light, it was a long hard-to-read blur because the sender never really released the shutter handle which would cut the light after each letter.

  ‘What’s that?’ Daft moaned, ‘Chinese?’ He moaned a lot these days.

  First Lieutenant Tilaka was chuffed. Why, he was in command. He took the signal from Carloboy and looked important. ‘So we are to tie up alongside the Comus. Send this message to NHQ. To Lieutenant Commander Shan. Vijaya. Slipping moorings . . . it’s eight now ... say nine hundred hours. Number One. Got that?’ He then hurried to the bridge, piped for the engineering officer, shouted down the voice tube for Lieutenant Ratna, yelled for the signals crew and generally put everybody’s back up.

  Sub-Lieutenant Hugo ran up the bridge gangway, saluting smartly. He then slipped down to the wheelhouse while Tilaka glared over the metallic glass and made all manner of gestures to the bow crew.

  ‘Let go aft!’ He screamed, almost blowing away Yeoman Louis’s ear.

  Louis bellowed the command to the boat deck.

  ‘Slow astern port.’

  Held by her bow lines, the Vijaya swung in a crude arc until her way was on her, and as the lines slipped, she began to go astern until it seemed she would run blind into the INS Godavari.

  ‘Stop engines! Stop engines! Slow ahead starboard! There, that way!’

  The man was excited. He nearly shouted ‘Whoa!’ And suddenly, with propellers churning slowly, the Vijaya moved towards the jetty where the men of the Comus were dragging the big fuel pipes across deck and putting out the fenders.