Spit and Polish

by Carl Muller

  Energies were released in quick rotation, the queues, even if ragged and sometimes spiced heavily, orderly in the main. Cost per head was kept at an absolute minimum. It was supposed that there was a generous ‘volume discount’.

  Isobel produced more girls. Soon, fifteen women found HMCyS Rangalla a steady source of income, costlier per head, but that scarcely mattered. Soon, with the staff let into the act, they began to stay all night, were bundled in blankets and led to the bathrooms to wash and were even sneaked into the officers’ toilets where lights could be turned on and the boys could see what they were getting and even take them on the cold tiled floor.

  But it had to happen, sooner or later. Carloboy shook his head. ‘Can’t today,’ he said ruefully, ‘you ask the others and see. We’re broke. Until pay day will have to wait.’

  ‘But that never mind,’ Isobel said, ‘If want you do. Pay day giving can.’

  Carloboy sniggered. ‘That’s a pukka thing. You heard,’ he hissed to the others, ‘Can fuck and give on pay day. What say?’

  The boys were charmed. They hadn’t reckoned on the genius of these girls. True, Shaw had called the English a nation of shopkeepers, but these illegitimate daughters of the British had their fathers beaten hollow. Thereafter the girls came in, each carrying a little pocket book. The fee, the name, was entered. Pay-off was on pay day. Nobody welshed because Missy, one of the women said, ‘If paying won’t, we again coming not. Here about hundred have. In Army camp how many have you know? Six hundred.’

  Oh, the women were canny. They plied their trade fearlessly. They knew that the Armed Forces kept strict health controls on their men. They had nice, young, clean boys who just wanted to relieve themselves and weren’t old enough to be vicious or perverted.

  Missy, Isobel, Jane, Sudu, Nona ... so many daughters of the night . . . and perhaps the zaniest of all the zany things in Rangalla: sex on the never-never!

  10

  History—The Ceylon Naval Volunteer Force

  Before 1937 there was no specific Ceylon Navy. Even the country’s laws did not provide for one. But the Ceylonese did serve under the Royal Navy during World War I and there were those who served on Colombo Port Commission tugs which the British pressed into service to sweep the approaches to Colombo harbour for mines.

  The idea of the British possessions having their own navies was mooted in 1932 at the Imperial Defence Conference, where it was decided that each part of the British Empire must be responsible for its own seaward defences.

  Be it dominion, colony or protectorate, each was to have its own naval force, assume its own naval responsibility as early as could be managed. This was the first shot across the bows.

  Ceylon decided that, being an island, the seas needed to be guarded, ships or no ships; and that was how the ‘Naval Volunteer Force Ordinance No. 1 of 1937’ was passed. Now, the island had a Navy and ‘the Navy’ it was, through its many phases of growth—from the Ceylon Naval Volunteer Force (CNVF) to the Ceylon Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (CRNVR) during Second World War, to the Royal Ceylon Navy (RCyN) of which Carloboy von Bloss was a part, and, with republic status in 1972, the Sri Lankan Navy (SLN).

  It has been a long, sixty-year road, and as this book relates, Carloboy walked just four years along it; but even as he heaved over Isobel in his Rangalla bunk, and marched, and saluted, and stripped down a Lancaster Carbine, and brawled with the best, his story too began with the commissioning of the first four naval officers in January 1938: Lieutenant F.B. Rigby-Smith (who, in civilian life, was in the Ceylon Wharfage Company); Lieutenant P.J.B. Oakley (who was Marine Superintendent, Peninsula & Orient Lines); Paymaster Lieutenant E.F.N. Gratiaen (who was to later become a Chief Justice of Ceylon); and Paymaster Lieutenant D.S. de Fonseka (later to be knighted, become Sir Susantha, and to serve as Ceylon’s ambassador to Japan).

  Four officers—two British, one Burgher, one Sinhalese, The British administration then appointed a Britisher to lead: Commander W.G. Beauchamp, and he was in charge of the infant force for the duration of the Second World War.

  Now the ranks had to be swelled. Sixteen other officers were accepted, among them being two prominent Burghers, Hildon Sansoni and Arthur van Langenburg; and an intake of signalmen, gunners, Lascar seamen and stokers. It was time for the island to sit up and take notice.

  On 30th January 1939, the Navy had its first ceremonial parade in front of the office of the Captain-in-charge, Ceylon—the senior Royal naval officer based there. This office was to later become the Naval Headquarters, but, in that year, it was the preserve of the Royal Navy, overlooking the sea at Galle Buck, and, as a shore establishment, commissioned HMS Highflyer.

  Housing the new officers and sailors demanded a location by the port of Colombo. Kochchikade (often waggishly called Cock-eyed Kade) was the best available. It was to be the Navy’s first stamping ground and there, much history still radiates. The CNVF headquarters which was built there, became the home of the Navy for many years. It cost Rs 28,000 to build (no more than US dollars 560 today, which shows how nice things were even in wartime Ceylon) and was sited just below the famous St Anthony’s Church, by the landward perimeter of the harbour.

  In time, the old buildings were replaced and a big illuminated sign rose over the new: CEYLON FOR GOOD TEA—reminding every passenger liner in port that here was the land of Lipton. None could know that below the sign, in the naval headquarters, tea was not the hottest of drinks. Rather, there was much NAAFI beer and whisky; and there were cigarettes at only one rupee a tin!

  The NAAFI (Navy, Army & Air Force Institute) doled out the best and the cheapest even when Carloboy had butted in, and it would always be a matter of pride to his father, Sonnaboy, that his son could bring home Booths gin and Dewars and Johnny Walker at six rupees a bottle, Jamaica rum eight rupees and Wild Woodbine and Marcovitch gold tips at a rupee a tin. This, to Sonnaboy, was manna indeed!

  With the war, the illuminated sign was dismantled. Black-outs were the order of the night and the sign would surely tell enemy aircrafts that an entire port lay, waiting for their attention. Pity was that the sign was never re-erected. The British had other problems, like the growing clamour for independence. Soon, they would have no claim to the tea anyway. They had stirred the pot for too long.

  The Royal Navy had the task of bringing the CNVF to scratch. ‘Weekend camps’ were organized, with all personnel, mainly unmobilized volunteers, reporting on Friday afternoons to Galle Buck for training. It was a strange start, to be sure, almost a Mickey Mouse local Navy as many civilians uncharitably dubbed it, for uniforms were donned at weekends and the men marched and were inspected and taught drill and yelled at because their hair was too long. They learned to fix bayonets and do all those things Carloboy was now being made to do.

  But mobilization had to come as Hitler became too threatening for words, and, on August 31, 1939 the CNVF became an unit of fully-fledged sailors, ready if needs be, to serve under the white ensign in any place, any time.

  It was also necessary to move to the water. A new headquarters building was planned with its own jetty and a more seamanlike bearing. Thus, in 1941, was the new Kochchikade base by the sea commissioned. A brave move, to be sure, and the official ceremony on July 11, 1941 was carried out with much pomp by the Governor of Ceylon, Sir Andrew Caldecott.

  The Commander-in Chief of the East Indies Station (C- in-CEI), Vice Admiral Ralph Leatham, was there, and so was Vice Admiral Geoffrey Arbuthnot. Two hundred distinguished guests were invited, among them being the Minister of Agriculture and Lands of the Ceylon State Council, D.S. Senanayake (later to become independent Ceylon’s first Prime Minister). Another was the Ceylonese Minister of Health, George E. de Silva.

  The sailors marched and presented arms and the ensign flew bravely and the ladies fanned themselves and looked at the port (a rear view, so to say), all a-bristle with derricks and masts and the chug-chug of tugs and the colliers making their own blazes of dust.

  There was, and
is, nothing really romantic about Kochchikade. To many, even the best of us, a harbour is most attractive when viewed from an incoming or outgoing vessel. The Kochchikade section always housed the colliers with their rust-red sides and grimy funnels. There was always the grinding, raucous sound of coal, tumbling down the black shoots and the ships, dirty beyond belief, would lie in the sun and assume a grim, utilitarian dignity.

  The coal-grimed men on the barges were not impressed by the ceremony on shore. They slipped between the lines of ships, towing their loads of coal. Fussy tugs hooted and did their best to drown the governor’s words.

  Such a harbour it was, even then. Bibby boats, Brocklebankers, Glasgies, Glen Liners, motor launches dashing to and fro like shuttles through a loom.

  Even as rifle butts hit the floor in a smart ‘order arms’, a Maldivian buggalow inched into its inner berth, its one big sail limp in the still air, its sides festooned with coils of rope, its hull glossy brown. None of these graceful crafts were ever built in the Maldives. It is said that in the distant past, Indian traders sailed to the Maldives, even built boats for the Maldivians.

  The ceremony ended. Dutifully, the men marched away. For many years after, they continued to look on their place by the sea as their headquarters, and Sir Andrew said:

  ‘If ever, as has been done in other parts of the Commonwealth, the men and ships of our local Navy should be placed at His Majesty’s disposal by the Ceylon government for the duration of the war, you officers and men have, by proven service and efficiency, made certain that such an offer would be gratefully accepted.’

  It was not to be. The offer was made two years later!

  11

  Of Christenings and Essence of Chicken and Firing on the Range

  Naval training, as every recruit will tell, can be a most fearsome thing. The boys were drilled hard, worked hard, and, in that bracing hill station, developed the most amazing appetites. It made them very aware of a cardinal truth. The cooks had to be cultivated. They had to be, next to mothers and dogs, a man’s best friend.

  Tin plates in the hands of a ragged line of hungry sailors ... some days were peaceable enough, fresh food, be it known, was in plenty. The stewards dished it out, and in the mess the stewards were important. They could give generously or not at all. It all depended on how they felt about the man who stood before them, tin plate held in great expectation.

  Carloboy went through his first heaping portion in record time. He considered the beef to be particularly good and decided it would do his digestion no real harm to go for seconds.

  Cook-steward Haramanis squinted. ‘Again you’re coming? Why, not enough you took?’

  ‘Enough? With curry like yours? How about a little more rice?’ He gave an agreeable smile. Keep the cook humoured. That was a golden rule.

  Haramanis sniffed, ‘If all come to take like you, galley staff will not have anything.’

  ‘Go on! You buggers are eating all the time.’

  Haramanis put two scoops of rice on the plate. ‘There. Now go and eat.’

  ‘What about the curries?’

  ‘No more anything. Only rice.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Plain rice how to eat? Put some curry also.’

  ‘Haven’t, haven’t. You asked little more rice only. So I gave. So go and eat.’

  ‘Haramanis, if you don’t serve me in two seconds . . .’

  ‘Hah! You’re coming to threaten me!’ Haramanis banged the ladle down, ‘I’m going to report!’

  ‘You bloody mangy little—Here! Take your bloody rice also and go!’ It was so easy. The plate swung and with a ripe thock! Haramanis was plastered. He shrieked, turned to flee, and in that instant, the mess hall became a madhouse.

  The other steward saw Yusuf advance, plate poised. He leaped the counter, dragging down the big aluminium pot of shredded cabbage. He could not make the door, for a tin mug of water took him below the right ear and he sat heavily, losing interest in all that subsequently happened.

  Carloboy hurriedly helped himself to a dish, served himself and slipped out to the boardwalk. The things that were happening in the mess hall made eating impossible. He polished off his meal and watched interestedly as the Platoon Commander swept up, followed by a gibbering Haramanis who was shedding rice with every head-shake.

  ‘Where’s von Bloss! Where’s von Bloss!’

  Carloboy followed them inside. ‘Here, sir.’

  The man leaped, then swung round. ‘You’re under arrest!’ he bellowed.

  A mug whizzed by and he jumped nine inches east. ‘Who threw that!’ He grabbed Nugawira by a shoulder. ‘And you! Where are you going with that?’

  Nugawira was toting a cauldron of curried beef.

  ‘Where’s the duty cook? Who is in charge here?’

  Nobody paid the man any notice. They were all busy eating, second helpings . . . third helpings . . . Daft Fernando patted his stomach and beamed, ‘That’s why I like this Navy,’ he said chattily, ‘everytime enough to eat.’

  The PC staggered under the unreality of the whole scene. ‘Who is the duty cook?’ he squawked.

  Haramanis, at the door, was dusting rice out of the inside of his blue shirt.

  ‘Don’ know, sir,’ said Roy Fernando cheerily, ‘cook steward Haramanis was here, then he suddenly went.’

  ‘Suddenly went!’ the light popped on. ‘Yes! Because hit him with a rice plate! Haramanis! Come here, Haramanis!’

  ‘H-here sir.’

  ‘What is the meaning of all this? You were serving meals? Stand to attention when you’re talking to an officer!’

  ‘Yes, yes sir.’

  ‘What d’you mean yes yes sir?’

  ‘I—yes sir.’

  ‘Are you mad? You’re a raving lunatic! Rice all over you! Bloody imbecile!’

  ‘Yes—yes sir.’

  ‘Von Bloss! Did you put rice on his head?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Why? Why? Why!’

  ‘He told to put, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ask the others, sir. He said to put. I think you’re right sir. He’s mad. Real raving lunatic. An imbecile sir.’

  The PC waved his hands helplessly, ‘Thank God somebody agrees with me,’ he said fervently.

  ‘Don’t know what he will do next,’ Carloboy pressed home, ‘If put poison in the food even . . .’

  ‘What! My God, Haramanis! Go and bathe! Rice all over the place. Are you trying to kill people here! Don’t stand there like a bloody bishop with a crowbar in his arse! Get out! Get out!’

  (In the nineties Carloboy told his sons he would gladly give ten years of his life to be in Diyatalawa once again!)

  And all the while, the process, painful as it was, was having its desired effect. They were beginning to think and act as sailors. Naval jargon fell easily from their lips and they came to understand the significance of the uniform they wore. It was a world within a world, and to know it all was truly fascinating—from the humble reef knot to the procedure for mooring ship in heavy weather; from naval codes and call signs to star maps, fixed bearings and the basic trigonometry of navigation. Parade ground to classroom to rifle range. Route marches to ceremonial salutes; the mysteries of B-29 receivers and harbour intercom, boat and gunnery signals.

  Yet, the recruits came into their own after each gruelling day on the parade ground and in the classrooms. It was mandatory that everyone be ‘christened’ and for the first two months, each was in turn set upon by the others that he may regard himself later as one who has been honourably initiated. It was a most earthy ceremony, actually, where the one to undergo the rites is stripped, laid flat on his back and christened. Resistance was futile and a total waste of effort, since the initiate was sat upon by about forty and thus totally immobilized.

  The general order of procedure was as follows:

  All pubic hair shaved.

  A liberal smearing of boot polish on the denuded area.

  The penis caked with a mixture of anyt
hing spreadable. This may or may not include toothpaste, jam, shaving soap, Brasso, pipeclay, builder’s putty, French polish, etc.

  A blob of anti-corrosive grey neatly put on the glans (solely for decorative purposes).

  Each testicle painted in red lead and anti-corrosive grey.

  A tube of toothpaste squeezed into the anus.

  Delicate haloes painted round navel and the nipple of each breast.

  Overall application of coconut oil with a final dusting over of talcum and cotton from a handy pillow.

  A final blessing. This would vary according to the available material at the moment and the promptings of the demons within. Todwell received the contents of a firebucket which held stagnant and pea-green water since the days of World War I. Carloboy received the contents of a big pot of dishwater from the galley. Winnie was pumped upon since the boys could not find anything suitable. Koelmeyer simply stood at the gasping Winnie’s head. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said, ‘I’m the bloody Pope,’ and like a latter-day Gargantua, pissed tremendously, and Winnie glubbered and globbered and became quite turkey-ish.

  The initiate was then released while everybody cheered and clapped and hooted and whistled street-Arab style. He was expected to make a rude gesture, which he did, and was then proclaimed ‘one of the boys’ and presented with a bar of soap and bottle of turpentine. Quite the kindest thing to do, actually, for Carloboy spent up to three days scrubbing away the evidence of his own christening!

  But, as in any group, a few clung to their own views on many things. Ordinary Signalman Cowpea Perera thought long about advancement and quick promotion and how this could be effected simply by getting in good with the staff. Oh, Cowpea had his charms. In his village, he had been the curly-haired darling of a long line of village schoolmasters and a procession of village toughs who found him a ready receptacle for their vileness.

  Pliant as the best of whores, Cowpea had endured every paedophile and come to enjoy every trick in the overt homosexual’s book. It was gay abandon since he turned eight. He was also quite Peter Pan-ish, very much the earnest schoolboy, deer-eyed, soft-spoken and seemingly shy.