Spit and Polish

by Carl Muller

  It is always a manoeuvre that needs to be executed to a nicety. Tilaka had a lot of textbook knowledge. Approach bows on, reverse engines with a hard to port or starboard, churn up a lot of water and swing the stern, all the while keeping an eye on the drifting bows. The thrust to port or starboard will make the bows swing and the engine room commands must be timed precisely. The man on the bridge must know the way his ship swings and how much sweep room his bows need. Unfortunately Tilaka didn’t.

  ‘Stop engines! Hard astern! Stop engines! Stop, I tell you . . . Why won’t it stop? Stop!’

  The Vijaya had no use for such idiotic orders. She was a determined young lady who, given the slightest provocation, raised her skirts and said ‘Follow me!’ The port engines blew, and her stern swung, but it was too late. On the Comus captain Merry held up imploring hands.

  ‘Back! Back, oi say!’ And with an oath, he scrambled down the ladder, screamed to the deckhands to stand clear.

  Fuelling crews gaped, then dropping the large pipes, leaped away just as the Vijaya’s bows struck with a screech, tearing at the side of the Comus, raising a shower of paint chips, sparks, and a commotion that was unbelievable. Guard rails twisted and as it was said later, it was fortunate that the boat davits had been swung inwards.

  Captain Merry’s eyes bulged. Shaking his fists, he danced in rage. ‘Take any fookin’ thing,’ he howled, ‘but leave me bloody lifeboats!’

  Tilaka collapsed. Signals buzzed around him, over the disaster area like hornets, and from NHQ Lieutenant-Commander Shan wanted to know what. ‘What the fuck?’ he asked and it was Louis who finally got on the projector to inform him that the Vijaya was now alongside but the side it was along was more like his great-aunt’s backside. Merry sent out a long, sweary, damage report but apparently this was not too serious. Only fooking irritating. Only fooking irresponsible. Only fooking umbrageous. He then threw his dictionary into the sea. There weren’t any words he could find to express his feelings.

  Shan took a fast jeep to the oiling jetty, walked across the Comus and stood at the snapped guard rails and the tangle of broken brackets. The Vijaya had shaved a large swathe of paint off the sides and there was denting of the plate. He stepped across with an oath, raced to the bridge.

  ‘See me in my cabin, Number One,’ he said, ‘now!’

  When Shan cleared lower decks three days later to tell the men of his departure, he also announced that Lieutenant Tilak was to assume duties elsewhere. ‘It is not usual that a Commanding Officer leaves his vessel in the middle of JET but circumstances demand it.’ He gave the men a ‘make and mend’, in other words, a day off, and left that evening when many of his crew were ashore. Tilaka went too, and not in the best of spirits.

  It was only the duty watch that saw the arrival of Lieutenant Commander Victor and Lieutenant Walid. Victor sprang up the gangway, shrugged off his coat and eyed the quartermaster.

  ‘Don’t you pipe the captain on board?’ he asked frostily.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Forget it!’

  The officers went to the wardroom, rang for the steward.

  ‘Whisky,’ Victor said, ‘and a tin of Gallaghers. Have you any Glenfiddich?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Get some from the NAAFI tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Carloboy heard it all on his return. He was in a state of deep contentment. He had spent a very satisfactory and satisfying evening with Abela and looked forward to a whopping supper. ‘New captain? Who?’

  ‘Victor,’ the QM said. ‘Burgher bugger. Like you.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  The QM shrugged. ‘Don’ know. We’ll see tomorrow.’

  Lieutenant-Commander Donald Victor was a blue-eyed, rugged seaman who looked every inch his two and a half gold stripes. He was as restless as a parcel of polecats when in harbour. He would stand at the bridge rail, twirling a forelock of his hair with his finger and scowl at the sea slopping lazily around the anchor chain. But those eyes would light up with blue fire when putting to sea. Action at last . . . and he would break into a boyish grin that endeared him to all the men.

  The month sped on and they began to spend more time at sea, conducting bigger and more complicated manoeuvres. Even re-fuelling was done on the run with the Vijaya heaving to alongside tender vessels, shooting lines across and heaving in the heavy fuel pipes.

  Suddenly, it was a matter of challenge. Ceylon’s only ship needed to do its best before the rest of the fleet. Everyone seemed to look on the Vijaya with a patronizing air. Since she was not capable of high speeds, she had to always leave harbour first and, after exercises, chug in last. During manoeuvres in column, she always trailed at the end of the line. But sometimes ships were ordered to reverse order of column, and all those trim destroyers and frigates would be forced to cut revolutions until the Vijaya took her place at the head of the line.

  This would always be a big moment for the crew, and they would pass the other vessels at 500-yard distance, beating pots and pans and metal cauldrons wrested from the galley and cheer madly. Many would also turn their back on the deck crews of the other vessels and drop their trousers. This being a much-favoured practice, the Indian, Pakistani and Royal navies soon became very familiar with the shape, colour and general aspect of the backsides of Ceylon!

  On high-speed manoeuvres, however, sleek destroyers would cut behind the Vijaya’s stern at 25 knots, and the quartermaster would race for the boat deck as the bow wave swamped the quarterdeck.

  But the Vijaya could ask for no better skipper. It was a delight to trail in after a gruelling day and receive a congratulatory signal from NHQ. Victor, all agreed, was tough, and fair, and an exceptional seaman. And he knew what the men needed. When he cleared lower decks on his first morning of command, he stood on the pom-pom platform, looked down at the company on the boat deck and said: ‘I am Lieutenant-Commander Victor. And this is your new Jimmy, Lieutenant Walid. I expect the best. No more, no less. Supplier officer, splice the mainbrace!’

  Caps flew in the air as the men cheered themselves hoarse. By the time the shouting died, the stewards were ready with the rum. There was a rush to the messes for tin mugs, for a Navy noggin is no mean measure.

  It is not often that the call goes out to splice the mainbrace. The mainbrace is the main yardarm-wire brace that is of stout grassline. Should the brace snap, or the sea air weather it to a point where strands begin to rust, it is necessary to splice a new length of grassline that would replace the weakened area. And this is no kindergarten task. In the days of the old wooden ships, the mainbrace was rope as thick as a kangaroo’s thigh. Splicing that would take many hours. With fist-thick grassline it would take hours too, and longer if the vessel was at sea. Reward for such arduous work was a noggin of rum to the crew.

  Oh, tradition was everything. The Navy must have been told what a noggin was, but who would bother to measure out a noggin of rum? The men grinned as the rum was liberally sloshed into their mugs. Nathali contrived to hold out his mug for seconds, which he received. Jamaica Red Heart, no less, and gulped down at eight in the morning, it did wonders for morale.

  Victor was listening in on the B-28 receiver on the bridge. It was the captain of the INS Ganga who seemed to be celebrating something or another.

  ‘Yes, this is Captain Victor. How can I help you, captain?’

  ‘Ah yes. Captain Victor? Why, what is the matter with captain Shan?’

  ‘I’m in command now, captain. Shan had to leave to—’

  ‘My gracious! Such a nice man he was. Why, why? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. He is due in Dartmouth.’

  ‘Aaah. For a minute I was thinking . . . But that is now never mind. Captain, I want to invite you. Now we are half-way over. Two weeks to go home. On Ganga for this JET I always give a half-way party. Good for the men.’

  ‘A grand idea, captain.’

  ‘Grand? Yes, yes, so I am thinking also. This is third JET for
me. So boats also I will send. From here I see you have one painter at the jib and one launch. Not enough. Not enough.’

  ‘You mean a party for all?’

  ‘Yes, yes. ‘Allo, ‘allo? Suddenly having interference. Ah, yes, OK now. Lunch party for all and send all the men you can. We are having all mess tables on boat deck under canvas. Can’t otherwise with crows. Captain, you having these crows on the yardarm? Having many here.’

  Victor grinned. ‘Lunch it is, captain. But duty watch will remain.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But when you come you can say how many you keep back and we will send them food also. You like samosa, captain? Good with whisky. And bara khana for all. Best basmati. My cooks make fine chawal; and keema and mutton korma. So you will come. At what time I can send the boats?’

  Victor gazed out to sea. He didn’t like the sound of those dishes. Bet there’s a lot of oil and curd. He knew that the Indians take much milk curd. Oh, what the hell, samosa and whisky sounded good. ‘Any time convenient to you, captain. I will have the men assembled. Number ten dress is OK?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Even UK eights never mind. Send all you can. My launch will come for you and your officers at eleven. That is OK?’

  ‘That is OK. Thank you. Will a case of malt whisky help?’

  ‘Malt whisky? What you have got?’

  ‘Glenfiddich. Same Grants distillery.’

  ‘Ah, excellent. Excellent. Scotland’s best, no?’

  ‘Nothing better.’

  ‘OK captain, I will be waiting.’

  The Ganga was a big ship. Her sister ship the Godavari was also in port, and the men of the Vijaya found many of their fleet canteen boozing buddies from both vessels lining the afterdeck to give them a vociferous welcome.

  Captain Chowdhary had been right. Trestle tables (from where the hell had they found trestle tables?) stood in row upon row on the boat deck. The breeze oo-ed between the canvas that stretched over it. Carloboy found the messes sparse but everything else very orderly and very spick. Brasses glittered. Even the funnel flue shone with its new lick of black paint.

  There was beer—a bottle each per man—and a meal they would not forget for a long time. The rice was garnished with peas, cloves, cinnamon and caraway seeds. There was chicken with curd and potatoes, a korma with sweet peppers, tomatoes and onions, a curry of prawn and potato and another of mushroom and egg, pappadams, bowls of dahi or milk curd, mint chutney and lime and lemon pickle, and banana halva. They found it all so different, so satisfying. They simply ate, and ate, and ate.

  Maybe it was not Nathali’s idea of a party. He kept murmuring about ‘one bottle of beer and that’s all?’ But when the boats took them back at four he was unaccountably merry. So were a group of Indian stokers who had invited Nathali to the engine room where they had produced mugs and two bottles of French Polish.

  ‘French polish!’ Nathali had hooted, ‘you fellows are crazy?’

  ‘Shoo! Only label is French Polish. This is good rum.’

  And good it was, and Nathali’s day had brightened considerably.

  It was not such a pleased bunch of signalmen who were told to take the duty boat to HMS Superb the next morning. There, Yeoman Louis told them, they would listen to a lecture on Asdics—anti-submarine signals and manoeuvres—and be treated to a demonstration of the latest echo-sounding apparatus. ‘As you know, we estimate the range and distance of an enemy submarine by reading the time it takes for an echo to bounce back off its hull.’

  ‘We know, we know,’ said Yusuf grumpily, ‘but Yeo, what for going to that big ship? I don’t like it. Can’t understand anything those white buggers are saying.’

  ‘Then listen better, and look bright!’ Louis snapped, ‘don’t just sit there like a bloody aborogine who does not know what a commode is!’

  ‘I know what a commode is,’ Yusuf said, ‘a commode has four stripes.’

  ‘Will someone tell me what the fuck he’s talking about?’

  ‘A commode, Yeo. Why, you told us in Colombo that the captain of the Navy is a commode.’

  ‘A commodore, you idiot!’

  Yusuf blinked. He didn’t see much of a difference. The rest of the men whooped.

  They would be taken like a bunch of nursery kids on a Sunday school outing, to the flagship of the Commander-in-Chief, East Indies, where they would be suitably impressed at its size, its two funnels, its big guns and its complement of 560 men. The bridge would be as big as a church and the flagdecks to port and starboard big enough to throw a rowdy party. They would actually visit a charthouse and the telegraphists were expected to take stock of what a good sea-going wireless cabin was really like. The Vice-Admiral’s flag would be at the top gallant, and they should try, above all, to look intelligent. They would be treated to elevenses and they should eat with dignity and not the way they reached for the korma on the Ganga.

  ‘So what you’re saying is that these guys are better than us,’ Carloboy demanded.

  ‘I’m not saying anything like that,’ Louis said crossly, ‘all I’m saying is make a good impression. Don’t let the Vijaya down.’

  ‘Oh that? Don’t you worry, Yeo.’

  But Carloboy did make an impression. With a bucket. He had to return a much chastened man.

  The lecture on anti-submarine signals was interesting enough and the tour of the big cruiser something that made them think of their own ship with some misgiving. And then, they were led to the long afterdeck where a bunch of Goanese deckhands grinned and told them to park themselves and brought out a large pail of tea and a heaped plate of sandwiches.

  So this was British hospitality. Carloboy fumed. Sent to the stern to sit on the deck and take tea with the Lascars. Not that he minded. Indeed, they didn’t mind at all. Not Yusuf and not Daft either. What riled Carloboy was the way a Brit chief petty officer strode the deck, sniffing superciliously.

  Carloboy had just given Sims a mug of tea when the CPO strode up, looked at them nastily.

  ‘What are you bleeding black buggers doing? What’s in the bucket? Tea!’ He spat the last word as if it was Epsom salts. ‘Drinking on deck! Haven’t you black bastards bin told to go below? You!’ He shouted at a Goanese cook, ‘Who asked you to bring this tea here?’

  The men of the Vijaya gaped.

  ‘Who are you calling a black bastard?’ Carloboy asked.

  The CPO glared. Then, with a hefty kick he sent the pail of tea skittering. ‘Tea on deck!’ he bawled, ‘who told you to have a tea party here? Fucking black bastards!’

  Whump! It was the work of an instant. There was no time to take the situation to higher authority. The bucket, slopping tea, clattered at Carloboy’s feet. He seized it, swung it, and then slammed it full in the bloodshot CPO’s face. The man croaked and went down, a large gash opening out across his nose and one cheek. Blood streamed from his mouth as well. On the quarterdeck a duty officer squawked and the turmoil grew as men rushed to carry the stricken chief to the sick bay and surround the ‘black bastards’. A master-at-arms stood, rifle at the ready. They were marched to the boat deck, placed under guard until a fussy warrant officer marched up, told the men of the Vijaya to follow him. Below the bridge, they were lined up outside the Captain’s cabin.

  ‘And he called you a black bastard?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Who slung the bucket at CPO Baird?’

  ‘I did sir,’ Carloboy said.

  ‘Hmm. What are you, sailor?’

  ‘Signalman, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but what are you? Are you a Ceylonese?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘But you are not black.’

  ‘No sir.’

  The Captain was told of the invitation to visit, the lecture by communications, the break for tea.

  ‘But why were they told to take tea with the Lascars? Who gave such an order? Dammit man, if we invited these men here they are our guests. Summon the men who were taking tea!’ Turning to Carloboy, ‘You don’t like to be called black, eh?’


  ‘I’m not black, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Any fool can see that.’

  ‘And we are not bastards, sir.’

  ‘True, true, too much of this rushing to conclusions. But you cannot come on my ship and hit my non-commissioned officers with buckets. What does the Navy teach you, signalman?’

  ‘I’m sorry sir.’

  ‘I dare say you are. So you say. Ah, cook Ranji. Yes. Don’t fidget, man. Tell us what happened.’

  Cook Ranji swallowed. ‘We drinking tea, sir. Leading Signalman Guffey he said have some fallows from Ceylon to give tea. Said will send them to where we are and to give some tea.’

  ‘Guffey, eh? Get Guffey here. And then?’

  ‘So we give tea sir. We give sandwiches also. The CPO Baird come and telling me cannot take tea in the stern.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But always we take tea there sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why don’t you take tea in the mess?’

  ‘Sir, we are natif peoples sir. Others don’t like too much when we are eating-drinking with them.’

  ‘I see’ Are you aware of this, Nuttall?’

  Warrant Officer Nuttall gave a faint ‘No sir’.

  ‘Very well. So what did Chief Baird do?’

  ‘He come up and shout and then he kick the tea sir.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘N-nothing sir. What to do. I am only Lascar sir. That’s what everybody saying. Nothing I can do.’

  ‘And this man hit Baird with the bucket?’

  ‘Y-yes sir.’

  ‘Very well, you may go. Nuttall, arrange a boat to take our visitors back. Ah, Guffey, was it your decision to have these men take tea with the Goanese?’

  ‘I was told to give them tea, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that. So you sent them aft?’

  ‘The Goanese were having tea, sir.’

  ‘And what about you? Where did you have tea?’

  ‘In the mess, sir.’

  ‘I see . . . well, signalman—what’s your name?’

  ‘Von Bloss sir.’

  ‘Von whatever. You will be detained. The rest of you may go. Guffey, you will take Signalman von Bloss to the wireless cabin and keep him there. Give him tea. I must know of Baird’s condition.’