by Carl Muller
No wonder the Burghers were upset. Everywhere there was much debate on the employment of the Sinhalese and Tamil languages. Queerly enough, many of these debates were conducted in English! Let the Sinhalese scream at the Tamils in Sinhala, and let the Tamils cut loose in Tamil and let the Burgher sit back and wonder at this new Babel scenario.
The Sinhalese backwoodsmen were naturally delighted. They had no truck with English anyway. The pressure grew and grew and the demand was heard everywhere: Sinhala Only! We are the majority. Our language. Our country. Sinhala Only!
Parity? How can you condone parity with a 70:30 ratio? Is that parity? Die hard nationalism was rising everywhere.
Carloboy shrugged. People in Colombo didn’t seem to know the first thing about living each day to a satisfactory finish. He had vast fields to conquer and a lot of territory to operate in. But sometimes, as we will now learn, his interests were very close to home indeed.
It was most interesting to take note of the tall, fair, Sinhalese girl who lived in the house beside their side fence. The stretch of side yard looked into the rear garden of her house across an untidy fence. He had no thoughts of her whatsoever when he took his bicycle to this fence one hot morning. The MSO had been agog with the news of the upcoming Joint Naval Exercises, Trincomalee. Several ships of the Commonwealth navies would participate. Ceylon would figure with her only ship, that was certain. And, as always, a strong contingent of signalmen would be needed.
He squatted to clean his bike and the dash of water made him raise his eyes. The girl was seated at a large tub which her mother kept filing with water. Her black hair glistened down her slim shoulders. She wore a cloth that was tucked in around the top of her breasts, and used a small pannier to pour water on herself. And she was looking directly at him.
He kept rubbing at the fork of his bike, his eyes on her. The mother fussed around and then handed her a cake of soap. While she soaped her arms, her shoulders, the mother stood behind, nibbing at her back, scrubbing down her spine and kneading the back of her neck.
The girl kept her eyes on him, then ran her hands over the cleft of her breasts. As he watched, she loosened the knot of her cloth, dipped her hand inside, began to soap her body. Perhaps it was the cloth. It clung wetly to her. He could see the movement of her hand. He sat transfixed. She looked around as though to make sure she would not be noticed, then dropped the cloth to her hips. She did not move; just sat there, her breasts shining, a pale statue, willing him to look at her.
Carloboy made a slight motion with his hand. The girl’s head turned, then she began to soap herself, pushing up against her breasts, fanning her hand to her navel. Suddenly, she jerked up the cloth. Her mother was close by, then came to stand before her. He saw her rise, then stoop to soap her legs.
Carloboy swore softly. The mother had cut off his line of sight. He felt himself stirring and he hunched down to his knees, waited.
This time she stood, tall, long-limbed while the mother poured water on her. She was rubbing at her crotch within the cloth. One leg gleamed up to mid thigh where the cloth overlapped, then parted. Suddenly she was alone. The mother left, returned with a towel. She put the towel into her daughter’s hands and went indoors.
He was sure she smiled. She slung the towel about her shoulders and in one quick movement undid the cloth. She stood, naked and beautiful, long shapely thighs, slim calves, small waisted and young-breasted. Then, with a sudden shyness, she whipped the towel around her, let the cloth fall to the ground and retreated into the veranda, then indoors.
Carloboy rose and felt a tremble of excitement in his knees. He would keep an eye out for her. Getting over the fence would be no trouble but that garden was too large, too open to walk into without exciting comment. But there was a rude sort of out-building that held firewood and dry coconut fronds. From his room window, he kept watch. There were servants, he noted. An old woman and a young girl. The mother was always fussing around in the rooms that were an extension to the veranda. A kitchen, probably. And yes, she was around too, looking towards the fence. It was the work of an instant to wave a hand, show her where he was, point to the outhouse and indicate that she should go there. She made no sign that she understood, but a little later he heard the crackle of dry fronds. She was there.
With his heart beating fast, he slipped out, squirmed through the fence, keeping the outhouse as a screen to his approach. Then he whipped in, caught her, embraced her, pressing against the old, mossy brick. They did not speak. He raised her dress. She wore no underwear. He pressed his cock against her. No, he could not take her that way. The floor was dirty and a litter of old wood. Swiftly he turned her around, pressed down on her shoulders, making her bend, her buttocks arched towards him. He entered her from behind, clasping her around the stomach, heaving into her. Then she spoke. ‘Ikmaning,’ she said in Sinhala, ‘quickly!’
And quick it was, working like a dog over a bitch, and he came and clumsily withdrew, the semen daubing her backside. She turned, smoothed down her dress and smiled. He held her, kissed her face. ‘You go,’ he said, ‘I’ll wait and go when no one is looking.’
She nodded and walked out, casually enough, her bare feet kicking at a patch of lily grass. He waited a while, found no one about and darted out.
Todwell said the next day, ‘I’m off watch today. How about you? Let’s go to Mutwal in the evening. I have some friends. We can put a good booze. Have some nice girls also. Only thing can’t get them alone. House is always full of people.’
Carloboy shook his head. ‘No, men. I have things to do at home.’
Yes, he had other fish to fry.
32
History—Finding a Winning Strategy and Bickerings in the Ranks
The trouble was the Allies had too much on their plates. If it was Germany alone, they would have got together with fewer pyrotechnics. Japan was the wild card they had to also trump, while those in Europe found Hitler the greater menace . . . naturally.
On May 21, 1942, US Admiral King gave an extensive exposition of the operations in the Pacific which he intended to conduct in 1943 and ’44. He insisted that it was necessary to sever all Japanese lines of communication. He said the US would concentrate on Rabaul and Truk, and then the Marianas, the latter being the key to the situation, because the islands were located on the Japanese lines of communication.
This was all good stuff, but Churchill had his own stubborn plans for India. He wished the C-in-C India to be purely in command of India and not muck about with any operations outside India. Also, there was the need to appoint a Supreme Commander who would co-ordinate British and US operations in that theatre.
Many felt that Churchill was being just plain pig-headed. After all, the operations in Burma and Assam were also connected with the immediate defence of India. Also, the Allies were now working for the liberation of Burma, the support of China and a Japanese defeat.
The base had to be India ... so India needed its own C-in-C. Churchill did not think Wavell was the man for the job. He looked on Wavell’s long silences and quiet manner as an indication of a lack of drive. He wanted Wavell out of Burma. He then began to think of moving Wavell to India.
In truth, the one factor guaranteed to upset at any time, was Churchill. He changed his mind so often that nobody could be sure of what the global strategy for winning the war really was. At one time, Churchill was determined to win the war by bombing. Everything must be sacrificed in order to bomb the enemy into the dust. Then he called for patient self-sacrifice. The nations of the continent must be prepared to bleed themselves dry, just as the Russians were bleeding and sacrificing tremendously to drive Hitler back. Then again, he would demand that all effort must be directed towards the Mediterranean—against the Balkans and Italy. Then he would switch to Norway. He wanted to ‘roll up the map in the opposite direction’—pull the ground from under Hitler’s feet. Then he would demand that all these plans be put into simultaneous operation. The huge shortage of shipping didn’t se
em to faze him at all.
It took a long time to pound out a global statement on strategy to win the war, but finally it was accepted by all— even Churchill—and despite the many individual views the chiefs of staff held.
US Admiral King was certain that the war could be won by action in the Pacific. To him, the other fronts did not count.
US General Marshall wanted the Allies to mount a cross-Channel operation with up to thirty divisions. He was not interested in what was happening on the Russian front. He simply wanted to clear Europe his way and win the war.
Viscount Portal, Marshall of the Royal Air Force, kept demanding that England gather together the largest air force possible. Only then will there be victory, he said.
Admiral Dudley Pound, Admiral of the Fleet, RN, was all for a huge anti-U-boat war. As long as the German U-boat menace existed, there could be no Allied victory.
Field Marshall Sir Alan Brooke was certain that operations should be first concentrated in the Mediterranean. Once German forces were dispersed there, the Allies could go to Russia’s help and bring about a situation where cross-Channel attacks were possible.
Yet, they hammered out a strategy, and then Churchill, who had agreed to it all, who had passed it and had even congratulated his team, tossed it all out. He hated altercations. He wished to repudiate practically half of it, alter all the Mediterranean divisions.
This made the Americans look on the British with dark suspicion. Eventually, a compromise emerged, but Admiral King simply shrugged and set his jaw. Whatever the plan, he would continue to demand and get his ships and the landing craft he needed in the Pacific. He was not satisfied that the Allies’, first objective should be the defeat of the Axis in Europe. He was not satisfied with the assurance that after this was achieved, the US and Great Britain would concentrate their entire forces against Japan. He had a war to wage. He had, he considered, an unremitting war to wage. He would extend pressure against Japan until he had reduced her military power and forced her unconditional surrender.
And he got his way. By the beginning of 1944, despite the fact that Hitler was planning massive countermeasures against the Allies, America was allocating even more men, planes and assault craft to the Pacific. She seemed to pay scant heed to the agreement that Germany should be attacked first. There were thirteen American divisions in the Pacific, only ten in the UK and Mediterranean.
King made his claims heard, the US alone was responsible for the Pacific war. He teamed up with his military colleague and rival, General MacArthur. Together, they played a game of leapfrog from island to island. They would take some Japanese possessions, isolate others. Their first target was the Solomons—a chain of islands stretching north-west to south-east, between five and eleven degrees south latitude. Guadalcanal was the largest and southernmost of these islands, lying east of New Guinea, north-east of Australia.
King and MacArthur were very confident. Indeed, MacArthur had always been considered a superb strategist, and there is little doubt that his south-west Pacific campaign was a masterpiece.
The only hitch was that the US operations in the Pacific were planned exclusively by the Navy department. There was little or no reference to the war department and as a result, the allocation of resources, as between the Pacific and Europe, was a sort of hit-and-miss affair.
Lieutenant-General Sir Ian Jacob, in his Diaries called it a game of grab. The Navy grabbed the ships they needed, the Army grabbed whatever it could. The Navy controlled the landing craft and that caused problems for the Army. Also, the Navy always tried to go it alone, only bringing in the Army when it was sometimes too late. This was to happen at Guadalcanal. The Marines who were thrown ashore found no follow-up, no maintenance support, no transport. It was only then that the Navy called the Army in. It was very nearly too late.
33
Of Seatime and Target Tows and Frying Flying Fish
They were, Patrick said, a favoured lot. The gods had smiled. The news had made the MSO jubilant. They were to go to sea.
‘Are you good sailors?’ Barnett asked.
Carloboy never liked such questions, and Barnett had a repertoire all his own.
‘If I left my wife in your care, would you fuck her?’
‘Why Yeo, as if I would.’
‘What? You’re telling me my wife is not good enough for you?’
This left the poor signalman stuttering. A good sailor, to Barnett, could be anything—from a rum-swigging hornpipe dancer to the man who made the biggest noise in a brothel.
‘Yeo?’
‘Didn’t you hear me? Are you a good sailor?’
‘Good in what way, Yeo?’ Nothing like lobbing the ball back into his court.
‘Just look at you, my son. Kitted, booted, capped, lop-sided. So you’re a sailor, aren’t you?’
‘Yes Yeo.’
‘Sez you! Look upon the waters and weep! There, where the waves roll, the swells swell . . . hmm, I always wondered why they were called swells . . . yes, the swelling and the rolling and the crests and the troughs. Ah, my spirit rises. Do you know what I see ... an endless field of masturbating mermaids. Such frenzy . . . and have you been out there, there, where the mermaids are sperm maids?’
‘No, Yeo.’
‘Thought so!’ he snapped, ‘and you call yourself a sailor. Ye gods and little fishes! I am surrounded by fakes. They dress like sailors, they swear like sailors, they bugger the mess boys like sailors, but sailors they are not. Not! Do you understand von Bloss? You are a sham!’
Carloboy sighed. ‘If you say so, Yeo.’
‘Oh, I do, I do. But I will make of this base clay a metal of some merit. Mark well my words, signalman. A-roving you will go. You and the others who are but a clutch of lubberly land crabs. Boats will be provided. Such is the generosity of the Navy. Tomorrow, at dawn, you will go to sea.’
Carloboy stared. ‘For—for what?’
Barnett waved airily. ‘Oh, it is all arranged. The Army needs some battery practice. God knows they need it. Can’t aim for toffee. They have these big guns at the Rock House battery. So they want some target practice.’
‘So why must we go anywhere?’
‘Listen, dense one, and then will enlightenment come. It may take time because of the thickness of your skull but it should soak through. Three boats. Leading seamen will navigate so you will not be called upon to take the wheel. But two signalmen will man each boat . . . and, pay heed, you will tow a target float. Eighty yard lines should suffice. Even the Army can’t miss by eighty yards.’
This was getting stickier and stickier. ‘And if they do?’
‘Then they may hit your boat. A pardonable mistake of course. Don’t you know that nobody’s perfect?’
‘This is crazy! Those buggers will shoot us out of the water!’
Barnett wagged a finger. ‘Naughty, naughty. I deplore this negative attitude. Very unlike you. And what if they do? You can swim, can’t you? Here. This is the list, the crew of each boat. And the MTO will ferry you to Kochchikade. Take heart, oh you of little faith. I shall watch your progress with my spyglass from the tower. Doesn’t that comfort you?’
‘Comfort my arse! And I’m with Daft. Who is this Leading Seaman Sonnadara?’
‘Good man, I am told. Rammed a pilot boat last week but said he had no choice. The port commission is very upset. Very crowded, the harbour, that’s the trouble. Our leading seamen don’t take kindly to navigating in crowded harbours. The open sea, my lad. That’s what we want. That’s where you will go.’
Carloboy quivered. ‘Bugger will ram the pilot station or something and we will all drown even before we go to sea.’
‘Nonsense. How can anyone drown near the pilot station? Ah, yes ... a berthing overseer did. Fell off the pier and never came up. Very strange. The man preferred to stay under. There’s really no accounting for tastes, is there? Divers found him a week later. Caught in some struts he was, and they had to pry him loose. Such a to-do there was—’
; ‘If you’re trying to scare me—’
‘Scare you, my poppet? Me? The soul of kindliness? Even my wife says there’s no one more kindly, more—’
‘Oh, fuck your wife,’ Carloboy muttered.
‘But of course I will. Nice of you to remind me. But pray let me continue. You are a trial to talk to, von Bloss. Now, when they laid this berthing overseer on the pilot station jetty he was a most peculiar sight. His stomach was stretched to bursting point. Like a Mickey Mouse balloon. And then there was this big pop, and the balloon burst. Now what do you think of that?’
Carloboy wrinkled his nose.
‘It caused a panic. A bursting berthing overseer. Most unexpected. Drowned, yes. Dead, yes. But to explode? Went with a bloody bang, he did. Belted the boat crews with bit of his insides and peppered the pier with his intestines.’ He shook his head. ‘I tell you, von Bloss, some people behave very strangely when they are dead. I hope’ you will not be like that if the Army gets you tomorrow.’
Sonnadara grumbled all the way to Kochchikade. So did the other seamen who were to coxswain the launches that would tow the target floats.
‘Three targets,’ he snarled, ‘now the buggers won’t know what to shoot.’ At the jetty he glared at the towlines. ‘That’s eighty yards? Looks more like forty to me more like forty to me.’
‘Eighty, killick. Good grassline.’
‘So why couldn’t you make it hundred, you idiot? Just look at the sea. Big waves, no? If had an extra twenty we can keep some slack, no? Where are the bloody floats? My God, flat bottoms! Von Bloss, here, take this rope to that float. Secure at the nose, and check the target pulleys. Are there oars? See if there are oarlocks. Damn fools think we are going to pull floats through this harbour. No room to pull a coffin. Yes, yes, you stay on the float. After we secure at the North Pier you can come aboard.’
