by Carl Muller
‘Crusoe, sir?’
‘Haven’t you read the book?’
‘Robinson Crusoe, sir? Yes sir.’
‘Good. He liked goats, you recall. Even made clothes of the skins,’ and he would go away grinning.
‘Hey, mutton man, what did the CO say?’ Poopala would sing out.
‘You call me mutton man again and the next bugger I skin will be you.’
It was mandatory, customary, whatever, to send the next door inspector of police a choice cut of haunch. This made everyone happy, and especially Van Heer who liked going over to chat up the dark-eyed Carmencita. Nobody—and certainly not the police—would initiate any sort of inquiry into the alarming depletion of the goat population. Naturally, the animals had owners but who or what they were was anybody’s guess.
Well-fed on cost-free mutton, the victualling store naturally turned a handsome profit. So did the canteen, and Carloboy, who presided over its affairs, said, ‘We have over a thousand rupees profit, sir.’ It was the day when he was checking accounts with the regulating petty officer.
The CO shook his head. ‘My God, let me see . . . it’s all beer! Do you realize that we have to drink about five thousand bottles of beer to show a thousand-rupee profit? Impossible. Check the figures again. And the stocks.’
RPO Thomas said he had checked.
‘Impossible. Thomas, are you telling me that this camp has consumed five thousand bottles of beer in three months? It’s—it’s incredible!’
Thomas chewed a lip. ‘We-ell sir, there are twenty men. Ninety days, five thousand bottles. Why, that’s not much, sir. Each man drinks three bottles per day. More than five thousand.’
‘Yes, yes, that may all look good on paper, but five thousand . . . my God, if Colombo hears about this. We can’t show this profit, do you hear? The sole objective of this base appears to be to drink beer. Don’t the men do anything else?’
‘Why sir, they do all that is detailed.’
‘Humph! Then they don’t do enough. Five thousand bottles! I don’t believe it. Von Bloss, we must break up this profit. I don’t want calculations. Any way you took at it it must be a bloody world record.’
‘We could throw a party, sir.’
‘Party? Party, you say! To drink more beer? Everyone will be crawling around with their bladders full and in the morning this camp will be standing in a pool of piss!’
‘But sir, it’s a good idea,’ Thomas said, ‘We pay for the beer. Welfare expense. And that’s the end of the profit. Outpost regulations allow welfare parties to boost morale, sir.’
Gunasakes melted. Yes, even in this nowhere place, morale was important. ‘Hum, you have a point there, RPO.’
‘Sir, we can throw a good party,’ Carloboy urged, ‘get some chickens and a goat or two. That’s no problem and no cost either. And we can invite the police and customs men . . .’
The CO snorted. ‘No sense doing things by halves, eh Crusoe? Here, use the bloody thousand rupees and have your party. I’m taking the train to Colombo. I’ll come back in a week when it’s all over!’
24
History—The Receding of the Japanese Menace
The Japanese did not have it easy over Trincomalee. Admiral Sir Geoffrey Layton ordered the remaining Hurricanes and six Fulmer fighters from the fleet air arm to repulse the raiders and defend, at all cost, the naval base. This they did with a vengeance, inflicting so much damage that three of Admiral Nagumo’s carriers were forced to return to Japan to refit.
This was not really registered to its real effect in London, where Churchill was trying to get Anglo-American unity to work in an ordered way. The Americans were all for attack. The American people, that is. Their forces in the Philippines were in bad shape and German U-Boats were sending many of their ships to the bottom. They wanted revenge. They wanted the war to end.
England wanted to save India from the Japanese. America’s General Marshall wanted the invasion of Europe. On April 14, 1942, the chiefs of staff pressed for American assistance in the Indian Ocean. Eventually, some agreement was reached. Churchill accepted America’s intent to treat Germany as the main enemy, but he also got America to acknowledge the importance of safeguarding India. If the Japanese advance in the Indian Ocean was not stopped, it would be disastrous. Indeed, many things could happen. The Middle East could be cut leaving India at Japan’s mercy; Turkey could be hemmed in, and oil supplies in the Caucasus threatened. Both Persian and Iraqi oil could be lost to the Allies. Yes, the picture was not a nice one. America decided to give air support in India and the Indian Ocean.
It was the best anyone could do, especially with General Marshall disagreeing with the American Naval Chief of Staff, E. King, who kept insisting on more US land forces to capture bases in the Pacific; and MacArthur in Australia making like demands in order to launch an anti-Japanese offensive.
One could sympathize with the see-saw manner of the many chiefs of staff pow-wows. The Japanese forces in the Indian Ocean had sunk two cruisers and one aircraft carrier on April 7 and 8. Japan had to be contained. By the time Somerville’s battleships had swept away to the African coast, Burma had fallen and over half a million refugees were fleeing to the Indian border.
Panic swept India. Many fled the eastern cities. There was stark fear in Calcutta where much British shipping was holed up. Wavell was bitter. He questioned the need to send two hundred heavy bombers to attack a single town in Germany while all he had were twenty light bombers to meet a Japanese onslaught that had already claimed three warships and much merchant shipping. Australia was also jittery and demanded an increase in troops and aircraft. This was the bedevilment of the Allies—how to keep the balance.
It was in this atmosphere of Allied fluster and flurry that Admiral Nagumo turned back. A reprieve, certainly, for the centre of gravity swung back to the Pacific. The British were relieved. They felt that Japan, after overrunning Burma, would turn on China and thereon operate in the Pacific, moving east, no longer to concentrate on India or Australia.
Come to think of it, it was the gutsy Ceylon reaction to Nagumo that turned the tide. The Japanese fleet turned back and the waves of panic on the subcontinent spent themselves. Even MacArthur wrote to Wavell on May 8 , 1942, opining that Japan’s soundest course would be to move south, securing her hold over New Guinea and other island groups, then extend her presence in the Pacific before attempting any large operation against India1.
Yes, the tide had turned. Japan lost its advantage and would never recover it. The Americans were ready to scream in. The Pacific would become a cauldron and the most dramatic battles would soon be fought.
25
Of Parties and Roast Chicken and Raising a Headman’s Hackles
Initially, there was little enthusiasm.
‘Party!’ Daft snorted, ‘What party without girls?’
This was a snag. The only female would be Carmencita and that, too, if she came. Chances were she wouldn’t, because even the most broadminded of police inspectors could hardly be expected to bring his niece into a camp where the men would soon descend into various depths of alcoholic stupor.
Carloboy had the one persuasion. ‘Free drinks. All you want to drink. We’ll invite the Army and the customs and get some arrack—and—and crabs and chicken . . . and no CO!’
That made everybody interested. ‘No CO? You mean we don’t have to sit around like bloody Englishmen and say “cheers”?’
‘Zactly’. We can do what we like and have a pukka time.’
Everybody cheered up. Percy Nathali said, ‘We’ll go to Mannar and buy what we need.’
‘You? Why?’
‘Why, to buy chickens and crabs. I know the villages here. You want to buy chickens in the market? You’re mad?’
Carloboy sighed. ‘OK, lets’ go.’
They took the jeep and hurtled off in a cloud of dust, purring back three hours later with two dead goats, a sack containing thirty pullets that had been practically commandeered from the tiny villa
ge of Erukkalampidi, and a large string bag which held a hundred crabs. As crabs, they were whoppers. The jeep was bloodied with the fresh- killed goats, smelt of crab and chicken shit. Percy leaped out, spat, and yelled to the cooks.
Amazingly, he had been most helpful. Having wrested the chickens away from nonplussed villagers, and the crabs from the Mannar lagoon fishermen for a song, he had then said, bluntly, ‘You owe me money.’
Carloboy stared.
‘Two goats. Eighty pounds of mutton. Two bucks a pound. That’s a hundred and sixty bucks.’
‘But I killed those damn goats. We didn’t pay for them.’
‘That may be, but the whole idea is that we buy mutton. Then what about the chickens? Four bucks each we paid. What was the asking price? Eight bucks. So you owe me four bucks per chicken. Let’s see . . . that is—’
‘Not a bloody cent! So that’s why you came, to take money off me?’
He had grinned. ‘Nice try anyway, no? But you can buy a drink at least; and what about the arrack?’
That was in order. They downed a pint each at the Mannar tavern and carried twenty bottles to the jeep. Percy set two bottles aside. ‘They’re for me.’
Carloboy shrugged. ‘Now I suppose you’ll be crawling all over the mess, high as a bloody kite.’
‘Tell me of anything better,’ he said solemnly, ‘but this arrack is medicinal. It’s good for colds and stomach pains and fever and catarrh . . .’
‘Balls!’
‘If you say so, must, be good for the balls also. How about a few bucks to pay the toddy tavern?’
‘You still owe money there?’
‘What else? What’s the use of money if you can’t owe it? You give me thirty and I’ll square the account. Then I can start again in a big way.’
Carloboy had shaken his head dazedly. There seemed to be no earthly cure for this sailor, except, perhaps, the arrack, which he insisted was an universal panacea. They had called at the toddy tavern and were welcomed to stay. Percy paid his bill and the man had beamed and pressed two pattays on them. After the arrack, the toddy made them belch gloriously and the hot sun made the road almost disappear before their eyes. But they made it to base anyway.
In the afternoon, Carloboy was rudely disturbed by Cook-steward Jinasena who announced that all the chickens were dead.
‘Dead?’
‘Shitting, shitting and died. All gone,’ Jinasena said sepulchrally.
Percy did not turn a hair. ‘So? We can buy some more. Have money, no?’
‘You and your bargains,’ Carloboy stormed, ‘They unloaded sick fowls on us. I’ll buy the fowls this time.’
‘OK. You go then, I’ll bury this lot.’
Carloboy glared at him suspiciously. It was not like Percy to volunteer to do anything. But the man looked the picture of innocence. When a new batch of chickens were brought in, there was no sign of Percy.
‘He said he will bury the dead fowls?’ Poopala asked, ‘what to bury. He put all in a bag and took and went.’
Carloboy refused to think of Nathali’s strange ways. Trust the man to find an easy way out. He must have simply tossed the chickens into the thorn scrub. He set about getting the party organized. The RPO had been on the blower and was pleased that there would be many thirsty guests. Army men from the Thoddavelli camp, a few customs officers, Inspector Paul from next door (sans his niece) and an assortment of police sergeants who had a post at the jetty.
Everybody pitched in, and the cooks had many willing helpers. By six that evening, Elara smelt divine—roasting chicken, curried crab, barbecued goat, beer to overflowing and pale-amber arrack to work up a storm. The party was a hit from the word ‘go’.
John was ecstatically excellent in a floor show with Poopala. They sang their own renditions of selected nursery songs. There stood Poopala, his beard bedecked with coloured ribbon, his fly wide open and his eyes searching for some distant meadow.
‘Little boy Blue, come blow on my horn,’ he cried, and Johns pranced up with a bicycle pump and puffed diligently through his open fly.
Amid howls of encouragement, they obliged with several encores and received a standing ovation for ‘I love little pussy’ where Johns stripped, tucked his penis between his legs and stood, for all the world, like a very hirsute maiden while Poopala stroked his bush and crooned, ‘I love little pussy, her coat is so warm . . .’
Songs were robustly sung, and the liquor flowed. And the songs! The Royal Navy had taught the boys well. What ship would ever sail without the songs! Songs that would always live, wherever there was a deck and the lower deck men to sing them.
The old shanty about the North Atlantic Squadron made the moon blush and, at the fence, where Carmencita crouched, and to where the men of Elara took turns to dally, the words were a fitting accompaniment to what went on in the inspector’s garden.
For forty days and forty nights
We sailed the broad Atlantic,
And never to pass a piece of cunt,
It drove us nearly frantic.
That was the first verse, to which the sailors roared the chorus to the consternation of every kallathoni creeping by.
Away, away with fife and drum,
Here we come, full of rum,
Looking for women who’ll peddle their bum,
On the North Atlantic Squadron.
The rest of the verses made the moon dive for cover and the cloud that obliged was applauded by the men who went to the fence. Ah, this Carmenicita could take it. A regular trouper, she certainly was!
The cook she ran around the deck,
The captain he pursued her:
He caught her on the afterdeck,
The dirty bastard screwed her—
The cabin, boy, the cabin boy,
The dirty little nipper,
He filled his bum with bubble gum
And vulcanized the skipper—
The captain loved the cabin boy
He loved him like a brother,
And every night between the sheets,
They cornholed one another.
The second mate did masturbate,
No cock was higher, wider,
They cut it off upon a rock
For pissing in the cider.
We’re off, we’re off to Montreal
To fuck the women, fuck them all,
And pickle their cunts in alcohol
On the North Atlantic Squadron.
There was a whore from Montreal,
She spread her legs from wall to wall,
But all she got was sweet fuck-all
From the North Atlantic Squadron.
There was a whore from Singapore
Hung upside-down inside a door,
And she was left split, worn and sore
By the North Atlantic Squadron.
The boys were at their best. Full-throated, full-bloated, and making most disciplined disappearances to the fence. Nobody really noticed the way a man would rise, leave the circle. If RPO Thomas did, he made no comment. Frequent visits to the heads were to be expected. Carmencita must have spent many nights dreaming of one such as this. Her uncle, quite slurred of speech and dripping crab juice on his lap, could hardly be alerted to the fact that his niece was now under her fourteenth man. He had more pressing things to do—like listening in glee to the rousing song about the harlot of Jerusalem.
Carloboy sauntered away when the others were telling the Army about the seduction of Mary Jane of Drury Lane—a ballad that was always belted out, whatever the occasion.
Once there was a servant girl
Whose name was Mary Jane,
Her mistress, she was good to her
And kept her free from blame.
She knew she was a country girl
Just lately from the farm
And so she did her bloody best
To keep the girl from harm.
Carloboy pushed down the barbed wire, wriggled through. Carmencita sat on a path of cemented floor that extended from
the kitchen drain. She smiled when he squatted beside her. ‘They’re singing real dirty songs, no?’ she said.
It was the first time he had heard her voice. ‘There are others waiting,’ he said, ‘so we must hurry.’
‘I know, but you can wait a little? Or you want to do now?’
He pushed her back, placed his hand on her vagina. ‘It’s all wet. How many came so far?’
‘I don’t know. Thirteen, fourteen, I think.’
‘And they all put inside?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you allowed? If you get a baby or something . . .’
‘You don’t worry about that . . . ’ she caught his penis as he slipped down his trousers. ‘Mmmm it’s big. Come on top.’
Carloboy straddled her. He was quite drunk, he knew, and nothing else seemed to matter. He entered her with ease and plunged back and forth while she clasped his buttocks and pressed against him, nuzzling at his ear, his neck, the side of his face. The cement hurt his knees but he was too caught up in the frenzy of the moment to mind the discomfort. And he would not come. The liquor held him in a vice. Hard and demanding for release he thrust in, deeper, as deep as he could go. He heard the slap of his flesh against her abdomen and then her quick gasps as she climaxed, tightened her knees against him and caught at his lips with her teeth as he rode on until suddenly, he was panting and all the stars in the northern sky above seemed to explode. He burrowed into her, streamed into her. Months of continence had made him a sexual engine. He felt the semen pumping into her, the head of his penis throbbing, ejaculating, firing into her full-barrelled.
He kissed her. ‘How do you feel?’
She lay back, her mouth slightly open, her breath hissing softly. ‘Only with you it came. I thought you will never stop.’
When he withdrew, she reached for her skirt, mopped at her crotch with it, then stretched out her legs slowly. ‘Any more are coming?’ she whispered.
