Spit and Polish

by Carl Muller

  ‘Vanish,’ said Nugawira tersely.

  ‘No, wait; can’t leave him like that—’

  ‘But if we go to help—’

  ‘You run and tell the quartermaster. We’ll try to help the bugger. If anyone asks say we heard him crying out and went to see what.’

  Rashid begged for his trousers. Dora had dragged on a housecoat and was yipping and yodelling at the roller that had come to rest in her hall and at the door which was no longer anything remotely like a door. Rashid was carried to the regulating office and laid out for inspection. He was not an attractive sight. Mud clung to his shrivelled penis which, in its circumcised state, was quite repulsive. The duty officer sent him to the sick bay where he was cleaned up and his swollen ankle prodded quite mercilessly. He was then made respectable and sent to hospital.

  The duty officer shook his head. ‘What that Seraphin’s wife sees in him I’ll never know,’ he muttered.

  When the ninety boys arrived in Colombo, they were in much the same state of disorder and disarray as they had been when they stepped out at the Diyatalawa railway station two-and-a-half months ago. They were to be later told that their training had been clipped by two weeks, and all because of the Queen’s visit.

  At the gate of Gemunu they were mustered and looked over by a frosty leading seaman with pimples. ‘From now on’, he barked, ‘Consider yourselves the Royal welcome service. After colours every morning you will fall in on the drill ground for parade. Number ten drill order. I don’t have to warn you about your turnout. We have more imagination than the chaps at Rangalla and we use it better. You will now report to your sections. Signalmen and telegraphists to the main signals office; stokers to the motor transport office; electricians to the office next to the PO’s mess; SBA’s to the sick bay; cooks and stewards to the galley. Seamen stand fast! The rest . . . deees-miss!’

  Carloboy, together with Nugawira, Yusuf and an assortment of Fernandos and Pereras, made his way to the main signals office. He introduced himself. So did the others.

  A Yeoman, Barnett, gawked at the straggling bunch of sleepy-eyed recruits. ‘Who the fuck are you? What d’you want? Go away, go away.’

  ‘But we just came,’ Carloboy said feebly.

  Barnett closed his eyes. ‘I know. Thank you so much. Nice of you to come. Pleased to meet you and all that. Do come again—in about two years. Patrick, we have a visitation of the pox!’

  Carloboy gaped. If Navy Signals didn’t know they were coming there had to be something very wrong with naval communications.

  ‘We are from Rangalla,’ said Daft.

  ‘They are from Rangalla!’ cried Leading Signalman Patrick, leaping from his chair.

  ‘You mean you are O/Sigs?’ the Yeoman asked.

  ‘Yes, PO.’

  ‘Not PO, man,’ he said testily, ‘not PO. What did they teach you in Rangalla? There are no petty officers in Signals. The very idea! I’m an Yeoman of Signals . . . ’ he leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘PO’s are of the common herd—seamen and stokers and even the telegraphists upstairs. You can call me Yeo. I like it. All of you are O/Sigs?’

  ‘No, there are four O/Tels, Yeo.’

  ‘Four? Who are the four? Shoo! Scat! Upstairs! Don’t ever come in here unless the signal tower falls on you or something!’

  The four scat. The wireless cabin was halfway up the winding staircase that led to the signals deck, bridge and masts.

  ‘Well now,’ said Yeoman Barnett, rubbing his hands together, ‘how nice. A bunch of O/Sigs all our own. Haven’t had little O/Sigs in here for a long time, eh? Patrick?’

  Leading Signalman Patrick grinned.

  Barnett looked them over. A pained expression crept into his eyes. ‘But you look so bloody awful. What have you been doing? Jumping the railway engine with your clothes on? Ha, ha. We have our little jokes, eh? Patrick?’

  Leading Signalman Patrick grinned.

  ‘Have you seen your mess and got your bunks and lockers?’

  ‘No, Yeo.’

  ‘There you are. Can’t have you in here looking like bloody louts, can we. Do you know,’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘even the Captain of the Navy walks these decks. Yes, and the chief of staff and officers here, officers there, officers-officers everywhere. I think they should get themselves organized, eh? Patrick?’

  Leading Signalman Patrick grinned. Then he stopped grinning. ‘Report to the signalmen’s mess,’ he snarled, ‘Put away your kit, bathe, get the fleas out of your backsides, brush your bloody teeth, arrange your bunks, give your dirty linen to the camp laundry and report back in an hour! Get moving!’

  They moved. When they looked back, Yeoman Barnett was trying to balance a pencil on his nose and Leading Signalman Patrick was grinning. It was hard to tell who was the madder.

  When they got back, the MSO was crowded. Yeoman Barnett was nowhere to be seen, but a goodly crowd of signalmen and leading signalmen welcomed them with cries of gladness. Buckets and mops were thrust into their hands. ‘Scrub,’ they were told, ‘the staircase . . . you, you, upstairs—signals deck . . . arrange the flag locker . . . you—haul tight the halyards, get the projectors polished . . . you—go to the galley—bring tea . . .’ They seemed to have come as a godsend. There was lots of work to be done, and henceforth they were the chosen slaves. Viva le Navy!

  They were placed in the tender care of Yeoman Louis who was their signals instructor. That worthy kept them endlessly wagging their hands in semaphoric combinations and reading the Morse code on a blinker until their eyes burned. Then to the buzzer and the endless repetitions of did-daah—A; daah-did-did-did—B; daah-did-daah-did—C and on and on.

  All this signals training went on after dinner. Three calls the Navy relished: ‘Hands to breakfast,’; ‘Hands to dinner’; and ‘Hands to supper’. Each morning the recruits of Rangalla came together again, all ninety of them, under the wary eye of GI Brady who had that air of a man prepared to do and die for his Queen.

  They marched. God, how they marched. They were even marched in the streets of Colombo in ceremonial number six uniforms. Leading Seaman Baldy trotted ahead of the column, beating a tattoo on a drum. They saluted the Queen in absentia so many times a day that the poor lady- must surely have had queasy afternoons and incredibly dreamy nights. They practised street lining and were scattered all over the city roads where stray dogs sniffed their boots and raised eager hind legs. And they were each howled at no less than seventy-three times a day.

  ‘Von Bloss! Your rifle is ten degrees out. Keep that fucking forearm parallel to the ground!’

  ‘It’s parallel, sir.’

  ‘It’s not! Don’t argue!’

  Carloboy shifted his forearm a fraction.

  ‘Sims! Your web belt is a disgrace. And there’s Brasso all over the bloody canvas!’

  Sims keeps mum. Nothing helps when the Guard Commander is on the prod . . . Unless it was a big orangutan strolling on the kerb singing ‘Swanee’.

  ‘Fernando! Fall out! Fall out! What is that thing on your head?’

  ‘My cap, sir.’

  It is his cap, but he doesn’t tell the Guard Commander how it had flown off his head when he was on the flag deck of the signals tower and how it had been pancaked by a passing jeep on the road below.

  ‘A cap? You call that a cap! It’s like a fucking urinal! Are you going to stand on the quay with a cap like that? Do you want to disgrace the Royal Guard?’

  As the days sped by, the business of disgrace became quite profound, vast in scope and application. They were, it seemed, reaching for that Ultimate State of Abjection.

  ‘Do you want to disgrace the Navy . . . your country . . . your father and mother . . . the government . . . me?’

  By the time the final full-dress rehearsal on the quay came around, they had smeared and sullied the good name and standing of everything within and beyond reach—the Captain of the Navy, the East Indies Fleet, the South East Asian Region, the Commonwealth of Nations . . .

 
Having displayed their firm intention to wallow in trenches of undrilled iniquity, they were by no means disposed to having the Queen think unkindly of them. Accordingly, they brought forth reserves of elbow grease in order to present, at the fateful hour, a brave show. Kits were brought to peak perfection. Prince Phillip, they were informed, would be in the uniform of an Admiral of the fleet. They were determined to show the man that they were as good a part of the fleet as any.

  ‘She’s quite a peach, isn’t she?’ Todwell said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Queen.’

  ‘Wha—oh . . . the Queen? Yes, men. Good-looker. Nice legs also, I think.’

  ‘You know,’ Carloboy mused, ‘wonder what she will do if we put her a wink when she’s inspecting us.’

  Sims stared. ‘Wha-aat? My God, they’ll lock you up and throw the bloody key away.’

  ‘Gorsh . . .’ said Todwell with reverence.

  ‘I say,’ someone sang out, ‘pukka idea.’

  ‘So what’s a wink?’ another asked, ‘Comes and goes—phut!—in a flash, no?’

  The idea festered. ‘So what’ll she do? She’s the Queen, no? She’ll have to just queen it.’

  Some gasped, other chuckled.

  ‘Hey, von Bloss,’ Nugawira carolled, ‘what’s the bet you won’t do it?’

  The conversation was getting serious, also quite out of depth. ‘Who says I won’t do it?’ Carloboy demanded.

  ‘Oh, you can. Anybody can. The thing is will you do it?’ Todwell asked.

  ‘And how will we know if you winked or not?’ Bijja Fernando asked, ‘as if we will be able to see.’

  ‘And,’ Sims chortled, ‘what’s the use of even winking if the Queen doesn’t notice it?’

  There were shouts of laughter.

  ‘You’ve got to wait until she looks into your face and then put a wink,’ Daft advised.

  The idea took hold. ‘What can she do? Whad’you think she will do? Can she complain to the Guard Commander that a sailor winked at her?’ Carloboy argued.

  ‘Serposin’ she does?’

  ‘Bullshit! She’s the Queen.’

  ‘So okay, maybe she’ll ignore. But she can tell afterwards to somebody. Then what’ll happen?’

  ‘Who’s she going to tell? Prince Phillip?’

  ‘Oh balls,’ said Carloboy (and he wasn’t after canteen beer either), ‘if she looks at me, I’ll just close one eye . . . very slowly.’

  The boys roared.

  Greatly cheered by what would or could happen, they put the finishing touches to their kits and descended on the canteen to celebrate. Barely half an hour later, the bosun’s pipe drowned the din of the canteen. ‘Royal Guard will fall in outside the quartermaster’s lobby. On the double!’

  ‘Hell,’ said Sims, ‘is the Queen coming tonight?’

  They slouched up to the small gateside cubicle with its gravelled walkway. There, they formed rank and watched as the duty officer swept up with an assortment of petty officers and leading seamen.

  ‘All right! Who’s the bastard who’s going to wink at the Queen?’

  So the cat was out and ranging free. The boys were shocked. A Judas among them. Carloboy knew that the duty officer’s eyes were scorching him. He decided to lie as firmly as he could.

  ‘We were just having fun, sir ... just thinking the Queen is a good-looker. I think there has been some misunderstanding . . .’

  ‘Misunderstanding! It’ll be a bloody international misunderstanding! What is it you have to say, von Bloss?’

  ‘We were just having some harmless fun in the mess, sir ... talking about the Queen—’

  ‘And you said you will wink at her! Did you or did you not?

  ‘Not actually winking, sir,’ Carloboy lied firmly. ‘Just said the Queen was very good-looking. If she was anybody else—’

  ‘Then you will wink?’ the duty officer pounced.

  ‘Why, yes sir.’

  ‘So that’s the sort of bugger you are!’

  ‘But sir, what’s the harm in winking at a pretty girl?’

  ‘Shut up! What’s the harm ... let me tell you something you—you—you lecher! When you are in the Queen’s uniform you will not wink at girls! Is that clear? You will respect and honour the uniform you wear. Is that clear? Haramanis, what did von Bloss say?’

  Haramanis had an axe to grind. He had never forgiven ‘Carloboy for the hard time he had been given in the Rangalla refectory. Also, who could forget that plate of rice on his head? He cringed. He knew that all eyes—most hard, unforgiving eyes, were boring into him. ‘He said—he said he was going to—going to wink, sir.’

  ‘Wink? Wink? Wink at who? Out with it! Repeat what you told the quartermaster.’

  ‘The Queen, sir,’ (very faintly).

  ‘Wassat?’

  ‘The Queen, sir.’

  The duty officer turned on Carloboy, ‘So you were just having fun, eh?’

  ‘He’s lying, sir. He doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Oh, is that so? Well, I don’t like you either. Do you want to cause a bloody international incident! You in this habit of winking at every bloody woman you see?’

  ‘Yes—no, sir.’

  The duty officer grimaced. ‘I don’t suppose you will actually have the balls to wink at the Queen . . . but I’ve heard a lot about you—all of you! You are the worst intake of recruits we ever had the misfortune to select. We are still getting reports from Rangalla and from the Army and Air Force camps as well. So!’ very fiercely, ‘You were a pain in the arse there but you’re not going to be a pain in the arse here! Is that clear? This is a disciplined fighting force. Not a bloody home for vagrants or—or—’ glaring at Carloboy, ‘sex maniacs!’

  He eyeballed them fiercely, hands clenching and unclenching a la the Boston Strangler. ‘Von Bloss! I’ll be watching you. Like a bloody hawk! If you bat an eyelid, move one fucking eyelash—so help me—bloody lunatics! Wink at the Queen! And that goes for all of you. Get out! Get out! Dismiss!’

  The boys were very glad to. Haramani’s bolted to the galley, but not before Todwell elevated him a couple of feet with a swift boot directed unerringly at his backside. Carloboy raced after the weaselly cook but was foiled when the man leaped into the galley where a chief petty officer was checking the wardroom menu.

  They returned to their beer somewhat dispiritedly.

  The next morning they would be marched out to salute the Queen. Salute her. Not wink at her.

  They all agreed that that was a great pity.

  16

  History—the Marshall Plan and the Japanese Aggressor

  Eisenhower was very frustrated. ‘Ships! Ships! All we need is ships!’ he exclaimed.

  On April Fools Day, 1942, the American Secretary of War and the Chief of Army Staff came up with a plan. They gave President Roosevelt a blueprint for the invasion of Northern France. An Anglo-American invasion. It was Eisenhower who authored the plan. He had been newly promoted and was in charge of US Army Plans and Operations staff.

  The consensus was that the US should be on the defensive in the Pacific and be all-out offensive in the Atlantic. Two large oceans. All Eisenhower needed was the ships.

  The plan was as good as any. The main idea was to keep Russia fighting, and all that was needed to achieve this was to turn the Germans west. Let the Russians think that Germany was backing away to tend its western front and the Russians would follow on with all the viciousness they could muster.

  American ground and air forces would then meet the Germans head-on in Europe. Eisenhower was certain the European Axis could be destroyed. Then, the US could concentrate on the Pacific where Japan had become over-aggressive.

  The crux of the matter was the moving of men. Eisenhower needed to move either two armoured divisions or three infantry divisions to Britain. That was all the force he could plan for, for that was all the ships he could muster. But, he insisted, up to 400,000 more troops and airmen needed to be moved to Europe in 1943. If only he had the ships, he
said, he would have a one-million-strong force—up to thirty divisions—that would, with back-up air cover, storm into France, smash German coastal defences, and set up a Second Front in Europe.

  But with Hitler causing initial havoc in Russia, Eisenhower knew he couldn’t wait a year. Britain would have to power the first storm across the Channel, establish a foothold, a bridgehead in France and hold on to it until America could come in strength.

  The Chief of Army Staff, George Marshall, agreed. He was convinced that northern France was the only place where a powerful offensive could be launched. He sent a memo to Roosevelt, stating that ‘successful attack in this area will afford the maximum of support to the Russian front’. He also said that this was a priority. Japan would have to wait.

  America had already deployed 132,000 troops, but the bulk of them had been sent to the Pacific to keep the Japanese in check. It was not an easy ocean to defend. Its range was staggering—from the Aleutians to New Guinea. Within this arc was Midway, the Hawaiian islands, the Fiji islands, New Caledonia and Australia.

  The Americans simply had to hold the islands. They needed to concentrate on air power rather than sea power and the general idea was to make every island a stationary aircraft carrier. But they also needed heavy bombers and strong bodies of marines to hold the bases. Again, the need was for ships.

  The US Chief of Naval Operations in the Pacific was a tough old salt. Admiral Earnest King. He had only one objective: avenge Pearl Harbour, drive the Japanese out of the Philippines and give Japan what-for. His plan was simple. Halt Japan; then hit her for six.

  But getting the ships was the problem. German U-boats were taking a heavy toll of Allied shipping in the western Atlantic and the Caribbean. The US government was also faced with conflicting demands. For one, General MacArthur was peeved about his evacuation from Corregidor in the Philippines. He wanted an early counter-offensive. He also feared a Japanese advance on Australia.

  Australia, too, was anxious, and moroever, the American public was clamouring for revenge. Pearl Harbour was foremost on everyone’s mind. The Japanese had come, wrecked, and gone. What was the government doing?