by Carl Muller
Major General Alexander A. Vandegrift was their divisional commander. He was worried. What opposition would there be on the island? And where was the Japanese fleet?
At sea, Vice Admiral Richmond Kelly Turner was just as worried. But he was also certain that the Japanese fleet could not react immediately. What was important was to get the men ashore, quickly.
As the landing craft ground into the shale, the men leaped out. They crouched, arms at the ready as they waded out of the waist-deep water. There was no opposition. If there were Japanese on the island, they were not on the beach. The Marines began to advance inland.
August 7,1942. The Marines had landed in Guadalcanal.
It was agreed that this would be, primarily, a land battle. It was the first move in the King-MacArthur island-hopping campaign. But to the north-west, Japanese Vice Admiral Unichi Mikawa knew of the American move. He readied all ships close enough to Guadalcanal. To him, there was only one thought. The Americans were landing troops to destroy the Japanese airfield that was there. And, for this landing, the Americans had sent ships—and ships were what Mikawa wanted. The Marines would destroy the airfield, then pull out. So the US ships would be waiting for recovery. This, to Mikawa, was a golden opportunity. He must destroy the US Navy vessels before they got away. He ordered the cruiser Aoba to close in, also the heavy cruiser Kako, and other vessels.
The Marines moved inland. In the bay north of Guadalcanal, near Savo Island, American and Australian cruisers patrolled anxiously. They had received submarine reports of Japanese fleet movements. So did the heavy cruisers Quincey, Astoria and Vincennes. They were alert, but did not believe that anything could happen suddenly.
Night fell. All was quiet. The Japanese closed in, ships darkened, slipping like sea snakes through the water. Suddenly, the Quincey was held in a blaze of light, the searchlights of the Aoba. There was no escape. A close-range salvo took her even as she began to swing her guns. She just rolled over, mortally hit. The Astoria and the Vincennes followed and the Australian cruiser Canberra took the full venom of torpedoes even as the Japanese ships executed high speed turns to leave the bay. Four proud ships. That stretch of water came to be known as Iron Bottom Sound.
On Guadalcanal, the Marines blanched. They heard the thunder of the cruiser’s six- and eight-inch guns, the hard claps of the destroyer’s five-inch burst.
Mikawa was happy. His raiders steamed northward along the slot, and no US planes followed. He had destroyed the US naval force. His ships headed for New Ireland, their Northern Solomons base. He didn’t reckon on US submarine S-44 which was hovering around the New Ireland harbour of Kavieng.
The S-44 was at periscope depth when its skipper, Lieutenant Commander Moore saw and could scarcely believe his eyes. Japanese ships! Four cruisers, a screen of destroyers. He selected the biggest cruiser, the Kako, and closed in. Four torpedoes, and fired from as close a range as 700 yards, could not miss. The Kako sank, its boilers exploding as the water closed over them.
The Marines in Guadalcanal looked at each other helplessly, then soldiered on. They slept in the forest and walked on the next day until they broke through to the airfield. They had no naval protection. The Japanese knew this too. They began to run soldiers and supplies in. A large force of the 17th Army was despatched with orders to drive the Marines into the sea.
The first land battle took place on the night of August 20. It was a disaster for the Japanese. Their Commander shot himself when he realized how badly his detachments had fared. More than a thousand of his men died. The Marines lost 35.
Again, Japan poured reinforcements in. This time, on September 12, it was the famous Battle of Bloody Ridge. The Marines held on grimly. A very bloody pattern had been established and the hapless Marines knew that without help, they would soon be whittled down, killed to a man.
The Americans began to pour in ships and planes to prevent the Japanese rushing troops to the island. It was on November 11 that a huge US fighting force was sent out. A large convoy carried them, among the ironclads being the cruiser Atlanta and the destroyers Monssen, Cushing, Laffey and Juneau. A bitter action followed and many of these vessels were sunk. Then came the battleships Washington and South Dakota. They ploughed in, 16-inch guns blazing. The Japanese fled, many of their cruisers smashed.
On Guadalcanal, the Marines fought on. They had fanned out all over the island. The Japanese, with no help coming in, began to pull out. Some got away in transports sent to fetch them. Many died. It was six months before the last of the Japanese left.
February 7, 1943. A lot of mistakes had been made, but finally, Guadalcanal was in US hands.
35
Of a Wardroom Rear Action and Canteen Carouses and the Hula Girl of Jail Road
The old Navy joke used to be the one about the young cabin boy who was the darling of his ship. When the captain was not labouring over him, other officers were, and being a very obliging fellow, he did not object to the attentions paid him by the lower deck. His fame spread, and when the Navy found him too hard to countenance they drafted him to another vessel where the skipper was a fierce Methodist and who tolerated no hanky-panky.
The cabin boy found this rather off-putting. He knew he was looked upon with much longing, but the men kept themselves to themselves. Came the day when they put to port in Singapore and liberty was allowed. The captain addressed them on the quarterdeck. He warned them of the horrible fate that awaited those who sought the pleasures of the flesh. He promised to do very nasty things to them if they were reported in any of the red light areas. He also advised them that he had alerted the military police of the Singapore shore base, HMS Terror. And terror is what he promised those who offended him. Also, he reminded them, he was easily offended.
The liberty boats shoved away and among the libertymen was the cabin boy who was seeing Singapore for the first time.
As was customary, the first boat to bring the men back left the ship at eight. A few returned. They apologized for keeping the boat waiting, but they had been busy.
‘Ho! Busy, were you?’ said the duty officer, ‘twenty minutes late!’
‘We went to Mount Patrick, sir.’
The nine o’clock boat was also late. Again the plea was that the men had gone to Mount Patrick. A count was taken. The cabin boy was missing. He returned promptly on the 10 o’clock boat, whistling cheerfully, and was bawled out by the duty officer.
‘Don’t tell me you also went to Mount Patrick!’
‘No sir. I’m Patrick!’
Food for thought indeed!
Able Seaman Mend is was not the only deviate the Vijaya held. There were many others, both of a passive and active bent and this, in the Navy, was accepted on the principle that a sailor is entitled to make for any port in a storm. The chronicler makes no comment. When there is little, practically no sight of the opposite sex, men will turn to those who can give them relief. This was considered reasonable enough and all on board were placed in the category of consenting adults should they care to consent.
The first news of such carrying-on was conveyed to the captain who told the master-at-arms that he was not the custodian of a sailor’s morals.
‘But sir, if we allow this sort of thing to go unchecked . . .’
‘I know, but they were in the shipwright’s store and doing whatever it is in private. What made you go barging in?’
‘It’s that Jambong, sir. I saw Mendis give him a wink and then both went aft.’
‘And you followed?’
‘Yes sir. I waited outside a little . . . then I pushed the door. They were—’
‘Tell me, who was buggering who?’
‘Mendis, sir. He was landing Jambong. You know Jambong, sir? Fair Malay boy, curly hair, very nice-looking . . .’
‘I see. You noticed that, did you?’
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t think you should worry yourself, chief.’
‘But sir—’
‘I’ll talk to Jambong.’
‘Only Mendis? But there were two men involved.’
‘But Mendis was doing it sir. Jambong was the victim.’
‘And did he say he was?’
‘N-no sir.’
‘Then forget it. There are some things we have to learn to live with.’
‘But sir—’
‘Forget it, chief. Be like Nelson. You know of Nelson, don’t you?’
‘Nelson who, sir?’
‘You may go, chief.’
The engine room officer who was with the captain and was grinning at this exchange, said, ‘He wanted to put Mendis on a charge. . . you know the whole story, sir?’
‘I can guess.’
‘The master-at-arms tried it on Jambong. The boy refused. Engine room hands were talking about it the other day.’
‘I thought so. Not a nice man. Shall we draft him ashore?’
‘Well ... he is a good chief. We’ll need him for JET.’
‘I suppose so.’
Sub-Lieutenant Hugo was yet another port in a storm. He didn’t look for ‘victims’. All he wanted was to cultivate a strapping young sailor who could give him the satisfaction he craved. He waddled around ship and decided on Sims, who was startled at the blunt proposition.
‘Come with me to the wardroom.’
Sims went.
‘Close the door. Now . . . how do you like my arse?’ Hugo did have a very pronounced backside.
Sims stared at the man in disbelief. ‘Sir, what—what?’
‘Oh come, men, as if you don’t do these things. Here,’ dropping his trousers and leaning over a table, ‘you fuck my arse, then you can go.’
The sight of that smooth brown bum roused Sims. It certainly was a welcome sight. Just like the cook woman’s at home.
‘So hurry up, before somebody comes.’
Sims took out his penis. ‘My God, I’m screwing an officer,’ he thought, and closed in.
Seemingly, Hugo enjoyed it very much. Sims heard him grunt, ‘harder, harder, push it in, men,’ and all the while his hand was busy, masturbating furiously. Sims spent himself.
‘Don’t take it out. Wait like that till I come.’
Glued to the officer, Sims stood, breathing heavily as the man jerked, then ejaculated. ‘Aah, that’s good. N,ow take out. There, use the washbasin. You come again, right? I’ll see you are let off all deck duties. Here, take this.’
Sims took the one hundred rupees. Why not? Payment for services rendered. He left the wardroom slightly dazed; but he felt fine. Really fine. That was a relief he had badly needed. He was quite cheerful in the mess.
‘What’s the matter?’ Carloboy asked, ‘You’re looking very pleased.’
‘Oh, just thinking of something.’
‘Bet it’s some cunt,’ Electricians Mate Koelmeyer said.
Sims nodded. ‘Yes, a nice big hole.’ The man had found a new dimension—one he had never thought he could be in. This there’s-a-first-time-for-everything business was quite satisfactory.
Which, as has been said, is what the Navy can do to the best of men.
No, there was no seasickness. The old mal-de-mer that the men thought would seize them, convulse their bowels, scorch their insides, could get no grip on them. Carloboy and company acknowledged how right Barnett had been. A small boat performs ever so badly in a running sea. That gunnery target exercise had done its damndest to beat the stuffing out of them.
The Vijaya was small, and it slithered, weaved, ducked and bobbed terribly, but it was a stout ship and larger by far than an oily boat. She rose and fell in the water with dignity. In short, it was ‘plain sailing’ as far as they were concerned, although there were times, especially in the incredibly rough seas off the Basses, when there would be some threatening belches and a wooziness that came and went although it did not push their stomach contents up the tube.
And then they were pushing against the currents to Foul Point, steaming bravely into Trincomalee. The harbour was a splendid Sight. Littering it were the warships of the Indian, Pakistan and British navies. Every one bigger than the Vijaya, true, but the Pakistani destroyers Tariq and Taimur seemed but a handsbreadth longer and no more.
Alongside the NHQ jetty was a long cigar—a submarine—and the lights began to flash from the two-funnelled cruiser, HMS Superb. They were ordered to tie up at the oiling jetty. The Superb was the flagship of the Fleet Commander. She had a skipper who liked to have fun, and the man had to be taken off in disgrace as JET progressed. That will be dealt with at the appropriate time. What was of signal importance was that the men of the Vijaya could go ashore.
It was a goodly lot who did: Stoker Mechanics Arnie and Dyan, Telegraphists Nugawira and Yusuf, leading seamen and able seamen in heaping quantities and signalmen forming their own boisterous brigade. Those in the know said that there was only one place to go—the fleet canteen situated close to the Admiralty House pier. Indians, Pakistanis and Brits had the same thought. Here, then, was a naval gathering of the clans.
The fleet canteen was as large as a cathedral, and it sprawled in much the same way its occupants would sprawl after copious draughts of beer and brandy. Carloboy favoured arrack and Ribena which he found a wonderful combination, very like wine that had the wallop of a soft-headed mallet.
The barkeep raised an eyebrow. A little man with a moustache two size too large for his face. He slapped down the bottle of black currant juice and the pint of arrack. ‘This is a new one on me,’ he said doubtfully, ‘what does it do?’
‘Nothing much,’ Carloboy grinned, ‘But you’ll see.’
‘I can wait,’ he grinned back. ‘I’ve been behind this bar two years. Thought I’d seen everything.’
Men of all hues. Red-nosed Brits, quite superior because they had been brought up to believe Britannia ruled the waves. They did not rule the fleet canteen however, being hopelessly outnumbered by hordes of thirsty Indians and Pakistanis who drank with much ceremony and told amazing stories of their lives to all who would care to listen.
Carloboy looked around, and there, against a wall between two bracket lamps was a piano. A piano! Who would have believed it? A beefy British marine was punishing it with one finger and seemed quite put out that it gave him no harmonious response.
Carloboy took a long draught of arrack and Ribena, smacked his lips and told his companions, ‘Let’s make this place jump. C’mon, grab that table near the piano. Let’s get the Indians jumping.’
They swarmed around the piano. The marine was sure he had found the lost chord. ‘Out of tune it is,’ he squinted, ‘dandy do oi play me muvver’s peeyano.’
Carloboy clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll make it talk. Here, get that top lid open. Must be all choked up inside,’ and he sat and suddenly there was a crash of chords, a crazy bass and the Indians swayed to their feet as Dil Deké Dekho—a rollicking film number of the times burst out.
It was a riot. The men of the Vijaya who had never known of the talents each other possessed (save, of course the necessary and obvious ones such as skirt-chasing, hard drinking and other pursuits of the flesh) became too jolly for words. Shouts sped across the hall like bullets. The Royal Navy wanted ‘Genevive’ and the old parody ‘Ethelred the Unready’. Many converged to plonk glasses around. ‘Avadrink!’ they roared, ‘play Luv’s ole shweet shong!’
‘Waddabout God shave th’ queen?’
‘Shave her your bloody self!’
‘What you are drinking? Achcha! Rum a little you will have?’
A hulking sergeant of marines seized Nugawira. ‘Walts! Walts!’ he bellowed. ‘You waits with me, right!’
This was a sight to paralyse the most stout-hearted. Six foot four and five foot four. Nugawira was grabbed, lifted off his feet and swirled around while Carloboy grinned and belted out ‘Cockles and Mussels’ which dragged on and on because each time he tried to stop, a little Brit stoker with a piercing voice would wail, ‘soshe weelder wheel b
arooooo . . .’ and everybody shouted the chorus again and again.
There was too much booze. Everyone wanted the pianist to wet his whistle and the hall boomed to:
Rooll me oooover—in the clooover
Roll me over, lay me down an’ do it again
Arnie held the floor with a brilliant rendition of ‘Sweet Violets’ and Nugawira, quite dazed after his mad caper, swallowed gin, upchucked and had to be rubbed on the back and given more gin. Soon, there was too much liquor for the good of any damp soul. Yusuf solved the problem by tipping assorted drinks into the piano until he was hauled away and sat upon. Simply not done, he was told sternly. And at last, staggering out, one eye closed because he was seeing double, Carloboy was gripped by a man who said, ‘Pukka time, men, pukka!’
‘Who—who’r’you?’
Able Seaman Binkie grinned. ‘This is Arthur. Goodole Arthur. How are you?’
‘Who’s Arthur?’
‘My fren’ Arthur.’
Arthur wrung Carloboy’s hand. Old man, white-haired, wiry and lean. ‘You mus’ come home. Jail road. Nex’ time you are out come home. Binkie knows where. Come with him.’
‘What for?’
‘My home, men. ‘aver piano. You come an’ play.’
Binkie said, ‘We’ll come. Don’worry.’
Arthur beamed. ‘Anytime you like. Girls will be pleased.’
Carloboy was too drunk to mind that last remark. He saluted the quarterdeck as best as he could and ignored the QM’s glare. All he wanted to do was to lie down. Why the devil was the ship turning in circles?
But their ox-like constitutions and an ability to consume enormous breakfasts had them all up and about the next morning. There was much work to do.
Exercises at sea followed an ordained course. The combined fleet would steam out and play merry hell in the open sea, anywhere between the Andamans and Singapore light, or the Andamans and the Nicobars, or, if there was little Admiralty enthusiasm, around Foul Point and the deep water outside China Bay. As a signalman, Carloboy began to relive the days of his training, hands blistered by hoisting and hauling down flag signals, eyes red by straining to read Morse flashed from tiny yardarm blinkers, his brain buzzing with the many cryptographic systems since each message had to be in one of the many signal codes.
