After a day’s near-calm the setting sun saw the prauw racing under bare poles again for a group of islands and those who could conjure up enough fatalism went to sleep with their fortunes in the lap of the gods. Navigation was impossible; we just sped along hoping for the best while the land loomed up all round. This blind rush went on until daylight when we found ourselves clear of the islands and out at sea, having passed clean through the lot! Someone remarked that he now knew why sailors are superstitious. So far we had done 300 miles in the first week. This was up to schedule and, given the steady monsoon without too much being asked of the gear, our chances appeared good.
Looking around I thought how lucky we were (though it must have been good management) in the large proportion who had knowledge of sailing. Broome was very much at home and extremely active (he would lend a hand on the bowsprit when necessary and was to shoot up the mainmast like a lamplighter when the peak halliard broke in a gale), but Ivan Lyon in particular gave one the comfortable feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing. Which he did. It came about in conversation during the long night watches that sailing, preferably single-handed, was his ruling passion. He had several outstanding voyages under his belt, solos in Malaysian waters including Singora to Singapore and Mersing to Saigon in a three-tonner and Singapore to Australia in a 12-tonner. When I asked him why he had not joined the Navy he said because he knew he could get more sailing in the Army! Ivan was worried about his wife and little son; he had sent them to Australia from Singapore but had heard nothing and feared he might have left it till too late.
The quiet-spoken but infinitely resourceful Brian Passmore was a seasoned yachtsman and a member of the Ocean Racing Club. I, of course, had sailed on and off for years, the rough justice meted out by a naval cutter not being bad preparation for Sederhana Djohanis, and some of the others had taken their yachting seriously at Singapore. It was not long before ‘Doc’ Davies was talking about starboard and port and Soon, the cook, was even tending the foresheets when his blowpipe and little wooden galley did not call. Jamal, like all good Malays, was above most menial tasks. Everyone got on extremely well (Jock Campbell was as much as anyone the avuncular architect of this, though one was hardly needed), there being only one serious disagreement the whole voyage. At this time it was a long way ahead.
Suddenly we were surrounded by barracuda jumping in dozens, like bayonets twinkling, rival theories insisting that they were being chased by sharks or that they heralded a breeze. The former appeared more likely for it soon fell calm again and very hot. With the continuous sail-making and hoisting, mostly unmentioned here for fear of boring repetition, the one pint of water—taken in thirds—was proving a minimum. For a few days the results of currents and unfavourable northerly or southerly beatings took us back to the north-west of the last island and it began to look as if we might be chained to the land after all. This was fortunately not to be as March 18 found us bowling along again in the right direction. The navigator announced that we had done 96 miles in the last 24 hours. The words were hardly out of his mouth when the drone of aircraft engines sent us all below except Jamal, who took the tiller, an unfortunate but logical procedure as our one hope of immunity was to be taken for a trading prauw about her lawful occasions. This seemed to work as the big Japanese ‘Army 87’ reconnaissance bomber flew steadily past and did nothing.
A period of several days sweltering calm now set in. Everyone, suffering acutely from the shortage of water, was listless and inclined to be short; the feeling of helplessness was depressing to a degree. The sails hung motionless and the masts creaked to a minute swell with a regularity that made one want to scream. All the while precious time was slipping away. There were still some 900 miles—in a straight line—to do. With April 1 only nine days off, we would have to do 90 miles a day, when the average to date was not 45. Looking at the deep blue sky which seemed to end only under the boat where little black and yellow fishes revelled in the only shade for miles, it did not seem as if we would ever move. Of some slight recompense were the wonderful Turner sunsets, long streaks of orange, crimson and gold firing stray clouds into banks of billowing pink. Some would sit and admire the sight as if held in its ill-boding spell, but the more practical would pick out lager, gin-sling, or burgundy from the vast salt stretch that mirrored it all with tantalising fidelity. Later the moon would be reproduced as a perfect circle.
Eventually, marvel of marvels, a steady breeze arrived. The little fish gave way to the glinting darts of their flying kin and, as the air began to circulate through the penthouse again, its cheechak lizards (pronounced ‘cheecha’ —an apt description of their intermittent cries) resumed their scampering about the deckhead; occasionally they would drop on to a surprised sleeper, himself bitten with ever more audacity by rejuvenated cockroaches. (Some of the latter had achieved a length of two inches and were the bane of life, burrowing into one’s longish hair to browse on the scalp or whatever they found there.)
The horizon began to sprout isolated black clouds and course was shaped for the nearest of these in the hopes of collecting water; but it passed ahead and it then looked as if we would be involved in a storm coming down from the north. This turned out to be a small cyclone which approached at high speed. The mizzen and jib had just been lowered in record time when someone shouted ‘Waterspout!’ And there, sure enough, was our first sight of one, a few miles away. The sea at its base was whipped into a whirling cone that dwindled to a stalk about 30 yards in diameter. This rose drunkenly to the angry clouds above which stretched down to meet it. The apparition, new to most of us, made good progress in our direction and all eyes watched with some interest. A discussion ensued as to whether the water went up or down but fortunately we did not have the chance to prove either as the spout sidled off, bending and swaying like a sleepy reptile, before dwindling to an hourglass and disintegrating in the middle.
When the storm hit us the boat heeled and moved forward as if a clutch had been engaged, accelerating like a machine. She flew in its grip for a short time and then was relinquished as abruptly. The wind then settled at west. A clumsy gybe to a later shift cost us the foot of the mainsail which blew out for a third of its length, providing a long job at daylight. The wind then headed us and an exasperating 24 hours was spent sailing NNE with our destination abaft the port beam. The navigator’s announcement that we had done two miles in the opposite direction to Ceylon brought morale back down to rock bottom. It was March 24 and a pang of real apprehension made itself felt.
On this and similar occasions Jock Campbell would come out with a carefully hoarded tit-bit. Marmite on the breakfast biscuits, marge, or greatest of all treats, a nasi goreng of rice and bully beef It was an education to watch as well as feel the effect. There is nothing like hard work and short rations on a doubtful venture to clear a man’s mind and reorganise his sense of values. Here were 18 grown men savouring every sip, or gobbling the first issue so as to be in the running for any possible ‘buckshee’, according to inclination. Or the officer accustomed to thinking nothing of a few whiskies, going to a shady corner to suck a third of a pint of water through his closed front teeth, discovered to be an excellent method of refrigeration. Extra rations were also issued after occasions of exceptional exertion, for which the burly quartermaster was always parrying jocular demands.
By this time most of us had gravitated both into habitual ‘cruising stations’ and specific jobs about the boat. The watch on deck was inevitably divided by the awkward design of the prauw into a group forward and another aft. I usually joined the after group, partly because taking the tiller passed the time, partly because I liked to be at the decision-making end (not that I took much part in decisions myself) and partly because I was tremendously drawn to Ivan Lyon.
As to be expected, some opinions aired were somewhat naive and one had to be on one’s guard against damping rejoinders. But with Gorham (who also was a bit of a pessimist), and particularly Ivan, one could discuss matters without any
inhibitions. A man of few words, the latter was always cool and deliberate. An account of his later exploits I was to read implied that he was aloof and somewhat unapproachable. I did not find this at all; he may have taken some time getting to know, but sitting cheek by jowl every alternate four hours, and many other hours too, cut this period drastically and it was not long before I had for him not only professional respect but considerable affection. In the very worst moments, when asked his opinion he would always say, ‘I keep an open mind’, and this is how I shall always remember Ivan Lyon, with the ghost of a smile puckering the edges of very blue eyes.
But the forward end of the boat was undoubtedly the jollier with the ebullient Rowley-Conwy in a dreadful old ‘deerstalker’ usually the centre of a story-telling ring, from which appreciative guffaws would be wafted aft from time to time. He was by no means all banter, however, having got his battery away from Singapore in a junk—just like Crawley—to some islands where it had run aground. Splitting up he, Fraser and the others had pushed on separately, Rowley eventually securing a motor boat with which he picked up his men and a lot of other refugees as well, before finally making Padang a little before I had. Fraser, a big, bespectacled, cheery young ex-planter and member of the Malayan Volunteer Air Force until it ceased to exist, had been taken on strength by Rowley just before the end. ‘Holly’ Holwell was yet another in demand for’ard as a raconteur. Though not more than 40, he had a white beard. On first acquaintance I had taken him to be about 60 and solicitously helped him through the bulkhead door, much to his and Richard Cox’s amusement. Holwell, from the Naval Offices at Fort Canning, had originally worked on a plantation and Cox in a shipping company. Both had spent ten days in two of Trang’s lifeboats—Cox was her First Lieutenant—before getting to Sinkep and then the Indragiri.
As my specific job was setting or shortening sail I chose the bowsprit, from which the jib was handled. One ran out along the frayed wire footrope that was suspended by ‘stirrups’ beneath, one arm over the thick spar. Being by nature pretty agile I enjoyed it, not too different from manning one’s boat over a boom or other naval antics. Rowley did the same in the starboard watch, a little more sedately at first.
A new trouble arose when everyone began to go ‘busok’ as Jamal called it, coming out in sores, and it was well that we had the Doc and his small stock of medical equipment. Two enthusiasts jumped into the water as an advance on the dipper bucket, but that was the last time anyone did; a 12-foot shark was on the scene in seconds though he may have been there unobserved all the time. We were visited by an exhausted swallow, considered a sign of luck; he proved quite tame, eating out of the hand. Yet another natural history lesson was provided by two immense blue-nosed whales, rolling and spouting in concert. They came straight at us and rifle bolts had begun to chatter nervously before they passed close astern.
By now we had got the measure of the prauw’s and our own capabilities. Nevertheless, seven minutes was considered a good time for getting off all sail! This was mainly due to the care necessarily lavished on the mainsail, with spare hands stationed at notorious tearing points as the canvas descended. With the penthouse roof at an angle of 45°, this had taken a lot of getting used to, especially in heavy weather. In the end everyone discarded footwear and developed toes with the tenacity of crabs. A complication was that the main boom was so long that, when going about or gybing, it was necessary to hoist it over the mizzen by a topping lift from the mainmast head, a full-time job for two men and one which seemed to get heavier as the days wore on. If a sea was expected that would not permit the main boom to be projecting astern, its ‘tack’ had to be unrove (a bight of rope securing the boom to the mast) which, when eased away, allowed the boom to slide forward, becoming more and more unwieldy for those cursing and slithering on the sloping roof. The jib also provided rare entertainment since the bowsprit was nearly as long as the boat and in heavy weather the locus of its end would have defied any mathematician.
At last, on March 28 a steady breeze arrived. The north-east monsoon at last? And then from the heights of hope we were shot to the depths of gloom. ‘Aircraft!’ We dived below and Jamal took the tiller as usual. The bomber approached slowly from astern but with any luck … Ratatat … ratatatatat!
The bullets crackled on the water, on the hull and penthouse roof, and a few smacked around inside. There was a pause while we got to our feet, swearing volubly, and quickly piled any useful material against the side. Then someone remembered Jamal and Soon and called them in. They had sat still at the tiller while bullets sent wood slivvers flying and lashed the surrounding water for seconds. ‘Jaga biak! Tuan, dia balek!’ And sure enough, it was back again. We got down feeling bloody. To have to lie and take it like this was infuriating as well as frightening, and one was much tempted to be up and doing.
He circled the boat three times, giving us in all five long bursts. A heartfelt oath brought an agitated ‘Anyone hurt?’ from the doctor, but it was only someone who had been missed by inches, the bullet splitting one of the big ballast stones. A bomb could be expected at any second and the suspense of waiting blind while the noise of those engines approached was indescribable. But no bomb came and when the droning eventually died away it seemed too good to be true—no one had been hit. Nor had the hull been punctured below the waterline or any of the water containers damaged. The sails suffered considerably, one theory being that their large expanse had drawn the gunner’s fire high.
The next day was a test of nerves indeed, as doubtless the blighter was on patrol and would come back for another look. By astonishing chance there was low cloud overall. When the dreaded engines were heard we froze to a man, as if it could help. He flew back and forth unseen and eventually went away, Sederhana Djohanis sending up a long corporate sigh. For a period only one man was allowed in the open, to prevent surprise, the congestion below adding to our discomforts. I was never more thankful to be a non-smoker. Proper cigarettes had given out, the most addicted unfortunates relieving their nervous cravings with some dreadful native tobacco, rolled in lavatory paper.
‘Easter Day’ I heard with surprise; only three days short of a month out of Padang. The watch on deck were entertained by a big swordfish jumping, its great silver body flashing like a torpedo and tapering to a gnarled spike with which they fervently hoped to have no closer acquaintance. Jotted notes about this time read ‘Night, squall to squall. 12:00 calm after big squalls. Rolling. Exhausted and seasick. G’s wireless check on the time put us back 110 miles. Bad!’ That was worse than being shot at, wrecking the gear, or suffocating in calms. As mentioned, the navigator had to know the time exactly and while the old radio gave the time signal this was all right. Then the battery began to fail so that the radio only worked for a few seconds and a wristwatch pool was set up to help him switch on as near as possible at the right moment. He had had no luck for days until hearing on this occasion ‘Colombo had its first air raid yesterday’. This was bad enough but anxious calculations, based on the fact that the announcer was well on With the news, revealed that the watch time was minutes out, putting us back 110 miles. However, we were spared the shock of arriving at the estimated position of land with none in sight.
The breeze varied for a few days, though coming mostly from the right direction. It was exciting when frigate birds wheeled overhead, their split tails forming encouraging ‘V’s, but as usual the fates did not permit anything on the credit side for long. The shout of ‘Aircraft!’ produced, for the first time, a thrill of delight. We were 250 miles from Ceylon (based on a snatch of ‘Roll out the barrel’ which always preceded the time signal; when carefully resung it indicated a minute before and proved a good guess). There was a scramble for something to wave at this single-engined and obviously friendly aircraft; but as it banked to come at us, the sun caught the ugly red blob on its side. Down again, cursing, among the ballast. He roared down in a shallow dive, pulled out, flew round a few times and then disappeared westwards. The solution to the air r
aid announcement, he was clearly from a Jap carrier. Unless Ceylon had fallen to the enemy!
It was decided that the time and place were more suited by a decoy helmsman of Indian appearance. We were all dark brown and a plain sarong plus the best beard left little to be desired; for the first time there was little rivalry for the latter distinction, and I do not remember that this particular beauty contest was actually accorded a winner. To ensure our return to practicalities the peak halliard parted when hoisting the mainsail one evening, with the result that the gaff fell from half way up the mast, to be brought up just short of three cowering members of the fo’c’s’le party. The halliard was spliced, turned end for end, found rotting and spliced again. Looking round one had to smile: here was a rare copy for Heath Robinson. Both booms were broken and mended; the spare bamboos still reclined on the penthouse roof, getting entangled with main and foresheets at every opportunity. The sails were mosaics of patches and stitches: hardly a rope could not boast a splice or join. The fishing line had been sacrificed to do its bit in a more productive capacity and was in evidence here and there. A little ‘squaring off’ would have to be done before sailing into Trincomalee under the White Ensign!
All at once the question arose whether, shipshape or not, we could count on the White Ensign being received with the respect expected. The distinct rumble and crump of gunfire and bombs was heard, just over the horizon. It went on for an appreciable time. Obviously a naval battle was in progress, perhaps the prelude to invasion.
I caught my wrist on a rusty nail and the next day felt a bit off colour. This was followed by dizziness and the surprising discovery of a red line running from the small cut up to my armpit. It was shown to ‘Doc’ whose eyes widened momentarily before he reached for a bottle of pills. ‘You must have a course of these’, he said in a matter-of-fact tone and I started in on them. The next 48 hours were not pleasant, the effects of M & B seeming worse than the ailment. But after about the third day I woke up with a clear head. Having gone well and truly septic I do not know what would have happened without the Doc and his M & B (then fairly new). Ivan Lyon was also under him about this time but it was a measure of the man that one did not know this till later.
Alarm Starboard!: A Remarkable True Story of the War at Sea Page 25
