Spit and Polish

by Carl Muller

Two squadrons of Hurricanes were on their way to Java, but Layton ordered their diversion to Colombo. He said it was a gut feeling—and he was right, Japan had seized Java and holding the Java sea unchallenged. The Hurricanes would surely have fallen into enemy hands had they continued to fly east.

  Somerville did not like the situation at all. His Eastern Fleet was not what he would have wished for. Four of his five battleships were old, slow, fat ladies, short of breath. They were unconverted veterans of the First World War and highly vulnerable.

  But the reports were not so good either. Japan was closing in and were now in the occupation of the Andaman Islands, only six hundred miles from the Indian and Ceylon coasts. Intelligence was confident that the Japanese would launch a carrier-borne attack on Colombo.

  Somerville decided to counter any such offensive. He moved his ships out of Colombo and patrolled the seas around Addu Atoll, the coral island lagoon 600 miles south-south-west of Ceylon’s east coast.

  He was in no position to take on the Japanese at the Andamans. The safety of his small fleet was his first concern. Any loss would cripple him, for there would be no reinforcements for a long, long time.

  Britain, too, was stretched very thin. There wasn’t a single capital ship to guard the eastern Mediterranean, and, in the North Atlantic, the big German battle cruiser, the Tirpitz was becoming a dire threat.

  Somerville’s first obligation was to prevent, with every ounce of his being, any hazard to the supply lines to the Middle East, India and Ceylon. To do so, he had to keep his fleet afloat and intact. He could take no risks.

  Germany, too, was aware of the implications. On 13th February, 1942, Chief of the German Navy, Grand-Admiral Raeder sent a communication to Hitler. Raeder constantly pressed Hitler to joint Italy in attacking Britain’s Middle East bases and seize the Persian oilfields. His thinking (extracted from the ‘War Files’) was as follows:

  ‘Once Japanese battleships, anti-aircraft carriers, submarines and the Japanese naval air force are based on Ceylon, the British will be forced to resort to heavily-escorted convoys if they desire to maintain communication with India and the Near East . . . The Suez and Basra positions are the western pillars of the British position in the Indian Ocean. Should these positions collapse under the weight of concerted Axis pressure, the consequences for the British Empire would be disastrous.’

  In London no one was as worried as Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke. It was certainly a gloomy run-up to Easter 1942. North Africa had to be cleared; the Mediterranean opened. Britain was fighting hard to patch holes. Cairo was not safe; Persia was threatened; India’s eastern flank was growing increasingly vulnerable. Even Australia and New Zealand were open to attack. Communications through the Indian Ocean could be severed at any moment.

  Suddenly, Ceylon became immensely important. The Allies also realized that Hitler was relying on Japan to do a lot of dirty work for him. Japan could take Ceylon. It would give Hitler the edge he needed to storm down south Russia, seize Persia and the precious oilfields.

  It seemed that there was this one point in World War II history: that the fate of the world depended on whether Ceylon would fall or not!

  19

  Of Dust-ups and Signal Watch and Wall Crawlers at Night

  One hears of ‘terrible twins’. A term applied to two members of the human race who join hands to dislocate all around them. Like Adolf and Benito, for example . . .

  In ‘Gemunu’ they were Ryan and Hughes. Stoker Mechanic Ryan, to give him his due, and Able Seaman Hughes.

  Both were tall, beefy, very European-blooded Burghers with fair hair, pale eyes and a predisposition for beer, more beer and brawls ... in that order. They would burst out all over at the slightest provocation. Indeed, they sort of manufactured their own provocations, whereupon the base went into a state of emergency and the duty officer would discreetly retire to the wardroom, having posted a runner to keep him abreast of developments.

  The runner, an ordinary seaman with a hyped-up imagination, would enjoy the bringing of good news from Aix to Ghent. He would trot to the wardroom in Flagstaff Street:

  ‘Sir, canteen door smashed, sir.’

  A low groan.

  Later in the evening the news would improve in dramatic quality. ‘Sir, duty PO is in the sick bay, sir.’

  Another groan. Then: ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Whole head bleeding, sir. Hughes hit him with the quartermaster’s kettle.’

  ‘Where—where’s the QM?’

  ‘He’s running on the beach, sir. Went Mount Lavinia side. Don’t know where.’

  Half an hour later: ‘Sir, all laundry room windows gone, sir. Ryan’s hands all bleeding. SBA Wijesekera telling his veins are cut.’

  A most theatrical groan, ‘Can’t they take him to the sick bay?’

  ‘How to take sir? Like a mad bull jumping and breaking everything.’

  This was Ryan’s problem. When tanked up and on the prod, the sight of glass was one of those ‘provocations’. Window panes pained him. They had no right looking so transparently smug. Every time the beer took hold, every window pane in the camp fell to his flailing fists. The sick bay staff were tired of binding his cut wrists and lacerated fingers and knuckles, for no sooner was one patch-up done and the window glasses replaced when wham! more broken glass and more sutures.

  But Carloboy owed many thanks to Ryan. If it were not for this glass-hating, beer-loving sailor, he may have been in what was surely the biggest jam of his naval career. Maybe there were bigger jams. You be the judge as you read on ... but they were jams with honour. The particular jam we will proceed to recount was a most unpleasant one; but it all came right in the end, settled with that particular forthrightness Ryan was famous for.

  It was the morning when the Royal Canadian Navy sailed into Colombo. Two anti-submarine frigates, grey and grim, nosed into harbour. They were on a ‘show the flag’ cruise and Colombo was one port of call on their run to Gibraltar.

  The warships were berthed slap in midstream, in plain view of the signals tower. Two wickedly-lined, sleek, grey ghosts among the gaily-funnelled, rusty-sided freighters. The duty signalman of one of the ships was eager to get information. He flashed to the duty signalman on watch: ‘Where do we find the girls’ and Daft took the message to Lieutenant Wickrema who had several seizures.

  HMCyS Gemunu had a ringside seat to a Canadian caper when four very wavering Canadian sailors, squeezed into a single rickshaw and each waving a bottle of Booths gin (White Satin, mind) whooped down the camp road, waving cheerily to officers and men of the Royal Ceylon Navy and singing a bawdy French song full-throatedly.

  The rickshaw wallah, determined to earn his daily bread, hung determinedly to the shafts. The wonder was that he could not only draw his spirited load but also keep his feet on the ground.

  The men of the Gemunu crowded the gates, whooping and cheering. This, they agreed, was shore leave with a vengeance. The rickshaw creaked to a stop and one of the Canadians rose precariously, bowed. ‘Alors,’ he croaked and waved an expressive hand. Then he saw Lieutenant Basil. He gave a straggling salute, squinted and grinned from ear to ear.

  Lieutenant Basil, his eyes twinkling, returned the salute crisply. Then he yelled the men to attention. ‘Off caps!’ he roared.

  As a man, caps were cleared.

  ‘Give our visitors a send-off! One!’

  Caps soared in the air with accompanying shouts of jollity.

  ‘Two!—Three!—On caps! Dismiss!’

  The Canadians were in ecstasies. They hurled their caps over the wall. A bottle of Booths sailed over the gate, was smartly caught by Telegraphist Jansze who thanked heaven fervently for great mercies.

  As the men trailed away, Lieutenant Basil told the quartermaster, ‘Kick that rickshawman’s bum and tell him to get that lot to the port. Once won’t do. Kick him twice.’

  That evening Yeoman Barnett told Carloboy that the time had come to prove himself a very alert and full-fledged s
ailor.

  ‘Von Bloss,’ he said, ‘I’m disappointed. You see before you a distressed and disillusioned man.’

  Carloboy could never fathom this Yeoman. He always talked crazy. One never knew what he was leading up to.

  ‘Von Bloss, old son, you have dashed my hopes, blighted my dreams, poked a rude finger in my arse’ole, made my nightmares come true. Patrick, just look at him.’

  Leading Signalman Patrick grinned. ‘Horrible he is, Yeo.’

  ‘Ah, Patrick, you are indeed a crutch. A shoulder to lean on. Horrible you say? Hmmmm . . . now that you mention it—of course he is! And, Patrick, he calls himself a signalman.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Patrick. The exclamation carried untold nuances.

  Yeoman Barnett dreamily inspected his nails, traced a forefinger over a tattoo on his forearm, closed his eyes, opened them, closed one eye, squinted down his nose and scratched his crotch busily.

  Carloboy decided to pitch the ball into his court. ‘Is anything the matter, Yeo?’

  ‘Everything, old man, everything. The whole world—’ sweeping an arm, ‘is on the outside looking in. Matter and form is the essence of all, is it not?’

  Carloboy blinked. ‘Oh, I thought it was something else. The way you’re scratching—’

  ‘At last! At last! A man, Patrick! Did you hear? A man! Even as we are mutually agreed that he is a horrible little shaver, a thing of indiscipline, an affront to the species, a black misery, he thinks not of his own inadequacies. He seeks no line of defence with which he may shroud the deficiencies of his baser self. What does he think, Patrick? What does he think? Why is this nice Yeoman scratching his balls!’

  He grabbed Carloboy by the shoulders, spun him around to face Patrick. ‘I see redemption,’ he intoned, ‘yes, redemption for this thief upon the cross. While the world slings mud he thinks selflessly about the itching balls of others!’

  He strode to the door and, with a patriachal gesture, exclaimed, ‘This day, Signalman von Bloss, shalt thou be in Paradise. No more shalt thou carry tea up and down the stairs and be a messenger of the gods with two-and-a-half and three stripes. Tonight, from midnight to two hours before the dawn will you be the eyes of the Royal Ceylon Navy. Patrick will elaborate. I go—I go to consult an oracle about a pimple on my mount of Venus. We will meet at Philippi . . . ’

  And he went, only to turn, poke his head through the door and say, ‘And Von Bloss, I find your concern for my private parts most touching—and personally bloody insulting!’

  Patrick grinned.

  Carloboy frowned. ‘What the hell was all that about?’

  ‘’xactly what he said. We have to keep a visual watch on those Canadian warships. Yeoman Louis said it was a good idea to give the junior sigs a duty shift. Tonight. Four hours each. You will be on from twelve to four. Right?’

  Right it was, and Carloboy climbed the stairs at ten to midnight, relieving Roy Fernando who said that the only thing interesting was the building to the south. The Canadian ships just wallowed in their stream berths. ‘Not a bloody peep out of them. But check the building behind. Here, take the binocs. There, the bedroom window. Buggers are having a pukka time.’

  True enough. A man and woman were celebrating the Kamasutra. Carloboy grinned, turned to remark on a particular posture which was immensely interesting and found himself alone. Roy, yawning tremendously, was tottering down the stairs.

  Shrugging, Carloboy swung the binoculars around. The sea, the rocks of Galle Buck, the port, the two warships wrapped in sleep. There were deck and bridge lights and a watch kept, obviously. He shrugged again, placed the long, brass-cased telescope on the signals projector and swivelled the lantern. He was disappointed. The projector could not be tilted sufficiently to take in that bedroom. He moved around the tower platform, high over the sleeping camp.

  The wind from the sea was cold and he wondered what sort of damn-fool Canadian would wish to transmit signals to the Ceylon Navy at that hour, unless it was some horny warrant officer who sought directions to the closest cathouse. He gave a small exclamation of impatience. The couple in the bedroom had decamped. Perhaps to the shower. All he saw was a very rumpled bed.

  In the port, the stout sons of the maple leaf were very much asleep. The whole Navy is asleep, he thought disgustedly. He went inside, settled down to wait out the hours. There were too many of them. Every minute, he grumbled to himself, was a bloody hour.

  Feeling cramped, he rose, walked stiffly to the shallow wall of the platform, peered down at the buildings below. A movement caught his eye. Staring intently, he discerned a figure steal into a sort of quadrangle. It was carrying what looked like a wide box.

  Wondering hugely, he tripped downstairs to the wireless cabin where Nugawira slept over the morse key.

  ‘Oy! Nugawira! Get up!’

  Gentle snore.

  He placed a mouth to the O/Tel’s ear. ‘Mayday! Mayday!’

  Nugawira kicked out. ‘Where? Where?’

  ‘Hah! Just as I thought. Sleeping on duty. Come on, quickly! I want to show you something. Hurry up, before the bugger goes.’

  ‘What—what bugger? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Come on! Hurry up!’

  They ran downstairs, made for the stores section. Carloboy had a pretty good idea where that quadrangle was. They were in time to bump into a stores assistant who was dragging two boxes along the corridor.

  ‘What the hell is happening here?’ Carloboy demanded.

  ‘Shh. Don’t make such a big noise,’ the fellow said, ‘you’ll wake the sentry below.’

  ‘Whadd’you mean wake up the sentry. Is the bugger sleeping?’

  The stores assistant who was Kariya, gave a nervous titter. ‘He was sleeping when I came. Everyone sleeps at this time.’

  ‘Not us,’ said Nugawira piously . . .

  ‘And not you, I see,’ said Carloboy, ‘what are these boxes? What’s in them?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, you’re von Bloss, no? Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Nugawira. Telegraphist. And what are you doing here this time of night? I think we should tell the MSO to call the duty officer.’

  Kariya heaved. ‘What for? I’m just doing some work I forgot to do earlier. You fellows can help me, actually. If I don’t get these boxes out I’ll be in trouble tomorrow. Nothing much in them. Old stuff.’

  Nugawira pushed his head forward. ‘Damn funny, I think. Boxes have nothing, you’re doing nothing. Only carrying nothing in the middle of the bloody night and now we must help you?’

  ‘There’s old stuff in them,’ the S/A said, ‘condemned stuff. Last week the stores officer told me to get rid of it and I didn’t.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So tomorrow the base stores officer is having an inspection. If this stuff is found I’m in trouble. I suddenly remembered and came to take them.’

  Carloboy hadn’t the foggiest about naval stores procedure, but he had his doubts. ‘So why couldn’t you move the stuff earlier? Waiting till the middle of the night. . .’

  ‘I told you, I suddenly remembered. They’re always saying take this out, junk that. Nobody bothers. Who’s to know there’ll be a bloody BSO inspection?’

  ‘We-el—’

  ‘So where are you taking this anyway?’ Nugawira asked.

  ‘The QM’s office. Or I’ll dump it in the sick bay. Anywhere. They cannot be here tomorrow when the inspection begins.’

  Something wasn’t right. Carloboy frowned. Something he had seen from the tower. The S/A had moved out of the shadow of the wall. A wall that overlooked the street. It joined the stores and led to no door. That’s it! Door! ‘You mean—you mean you have the keys to the stores?’

  ‘Yes—I mean—that is...’

  ‘You mean you’re a bloody liar! I saw you with a box over there. Near that wall. What were you doing there? The door is back here.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who asked you to come here interfering like this? This is a stores matter. And what’s your duty pos
t? I’ll report you!’

  Almost casually Carloboy put out a hand. It smacked flat into Kariya’s chest, pushing him away most scornfully. ‘So you’re going to report. Then no harm if I knock your bloody teeth out? You can make a good report then.’

  Nugawira sat on a box. ‘Yes. That’s the thing. You go and report. You took these boxes from the stores. The BSO gave you the key?’

  Carloboy tore aside the leather strap around one of the boxes. Burberrys and seamen’s jerseys. Thick, blue Royal Navy issue, only doled out to men on overseas cruises when its winter. Also, only issued to senior hands and officers when in Diyatalawa.

  ‘This stuff is condemned? Who’s the damn fool who will condemn this? All brand new. So what’s your story now?’

  The S/A swallowed hard. ‘OK, OK I’ll tell you. You think these are the only boxes in there? There are hundreds of them. Stacked to the roof. Ever since I joined, they have been there. Eight years. Full of bloody dust and cobwebs. This is old Royal Navy stuff. No use to us at all. Hundreds of boxes. You think rats won’t eat them?’

  ‘So you thought you’ll help yourself?’

  ‘No, men. You think I’ll just do a mad thing like this?’

  ‘Mad thing is right!’ Nugawira snorted.

  The S/A sagged. ‘I have some problems,’ he muttered. Next month I am going to get married also. I need some money quickly. Then I thought of this winter wear all lying here. For what does the bloody Navy want winter wear? Is there a winter here? And what ship will we have to go overseas? I got a buyer for this stuff. From Nuwara Eliya. Everyone wears warm clothes there. I’ll tell you what? When I sell these I’ll give you a thousand rupees . . .’

  ‘What? You think you’re going to take this away? And another thing, how did you get into the stores?’

  Kariya pointed to the wall.

  Nugawira rose, went to the ledge and peered out. He gasped. ‘On this ledge? You went on this ledge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you carried the boxes along this? Boy, you must be really mad. One slip and you’re finished.’

  The ledge was just a foot wide, overhanging the road about twenty feet below. Immediately below was a nasty, spiked, iron fence. The S/A had inched along to smash a window and enter the stores. And he had then carried out the boxes, one by one, along that same perilous ledge.