Open Writing

When HMS Vengeance sailed clear of the Sydney Heads in late August 1946, then for the first time in her sea-going life she turned right rather than left. It was a unique experience for me also, since I had become quite accustomed to sailing north into the ‘Land of the Rising Sun’ or that territory marked on old charts which read, ‘Here be dragons. There were, but to me they had been the Chinese celebratory variety.

On the Vengeance, however, it was right turn and south on a trip down under and across the southern part of the island -- Australia, that is.

The Tasman Sea presented no problems, nor did the Bass Strait, that bit of water between Australia and Tasmania. But when we entered the Great Australian Bight, then conditions, in the words of Charles Dickens, “Hinted dismally at rolling seas and heavy weather.” We were shortly to learn that in that area only two kinds of waves exist, big ‘uns and whoppers.

Skirting the northern fringe of the Roaring Forties proved what a ragged and scalloped edge that was. For those crew members prone to a certain seagoing digestive indisposition, then six warm meals were available each day -- three down and three back up again. Indeed, it was whilst in that wild and wavy water that the ship unwittingly dropped into a deep wave trough with a force sufficient to drive one of the anchors through the port bow. One began to think that Australia and its watery environs were bidding us a forceful goodbye, all the way across some 1200 miles of the stuff, an area where, as the song has it, ‘the big seas roll’.

We ploughed on though, quite literally, and at the end of the continent made a right hand turn up into the Indian Ocean on a northerly course to skirt Indonesia, Java and Sumatra and the Malaysian Peninsula, at the bottom of which we found Singapore. During the voyage deck-landing trials were carried out by the aircraft we sported, these on a basis as regular as wind and water would allow, presumably a successful series since there never appeared to be a scarcity of planes, suggesting a minimum of write-offs.

Singapore made no fuss when we arrived, even though it was still under British control -- just. Our stay was short presumably, since the events of only one shore run remain with me. Who could ever forget the Sweet Water Canal? It was anything but sweet, running through the city providing the local inhabitants with their main sewage disposal unit.

One did, however, possess a certain sensation of affluence and prestige as one entered the Raffles Hotel, despite neither Noel Coward or Somerset Maugham being in residence. Nevertheless, our regal poise and aloofness remained firmly ensconced as we ascended a marble stairway which led to the dining room, there to be waited upon by Malaysian girls in their traditional attire. We continued to maintain our sang-froid afterwards, even when relegated into the hotel’s nether regions, there to patronize the beer bar since our presence in the cocktail lounge was deemed unwelcome, that area being reserved for officers and their -- ‘companions’! Yet we were happy, celebrating the joyful pleasure of drinking beer from pint glasses ‘with handles’, sheer luxury after months of being served with Australian schooners and middies, then Asian tins or draught in beer bottles cut down to make drinking vessels.

Turning our backs on Singapore and its bog-water canal, we slipped back along the Malacca Strait, clipped the southern end of the Andaman Sea and entered the open atmosphere of the Indian Ocean, the ship then being aimed for Ceylon, 1,000 miles distant -- Sri Lanka came later. That island, as pompous English history books would describe it, hung like a pearl from the ‘Jewel in the Crown’ -- India -- and contained then a Royal Naval base, Trincomalee, situated on the northeast coast. It was there that Vengeance took up semi-residence. Semi-residence since between monotonous -- to non-participants -- sea excursions, she would pay periodic visits to the island’s main port Colombo, this possibly as a show of Britain’s sea power -- a dwindling commodity at that time -- acting, it was hoped, as a warning to the local inhabitants that good behaviour was expected from those who dwelt under the shadow of the ‘land of the free’ -- or else! This was known as ‘showing the flag’, a diplomatic term for ‘waving the big stick’.

However, no such jingoism concerned myself. Duties continued, and for reasons I can no longer comprehend they continued to vary, not quite reaching the point of another day-another duty but, as it seems with hindsight, frequent rapidity nevertheless.

I belonged to the quarterdeck division of the ship, the blunt end, an area reserved for use by officers only on big ships since the vessel’s movements are less erratic or severe there, and on an aircraft carrier it is covered by the flight deck. Thus any breeze can waft gently across the open space, creating a welcome event in tropical waters. In that division then I painted and polished, swilled and swept until I was appointed officers’ bathroom sweeper -- cleaner, that is. An easy enough occupation where I learned from the black, greasy tidemarks around some of the baths that there were officers equally as scaly as some of lower deckhands.

Another time I acted as keyboard sentry, a duty which called for 24 hour surveillance, hence watch-keeping routine -- four hours on, four hours off, 24 hours about. Such guarded continuity was much needed since amongst the keys under protection were those to the small arms arsenal, and also the rum store, a heady combination.

It was whilst on duty at that post when it became ironically noticeable that after my many previous encounters with cockroaches the only ones I ever met with on the Vengeance should be a small colony which had taken up residence in a lower corner of the glass-fronted keyboard, the one which I dutifully stood guard over. I suppose I could claim I acted as babysitter to a family of flat-backed brown bugs. What a claim to fame!

Another move and I was gangway sentry, a lonely job with the ship moored out in the harbour, especially on night watches. There the harbour patrol boat would attempt to glide alongside the lowered gangway, its crew intent on boarding the ship, thereby demonstrating a lack of vigilance by the sentry and thereby endangering the ship. I was never caught unawares.

The vessel, being off shore, was in need of a liberty boat. For the Vengeance this took the form of a small drifter with a crew of three or four drawn from the carrier. Again, for reasons I cannot recall, I became one of that crew. The one in charge of the watch I was on was a little muscle-bound leading seaman and as crafty as any one of a box of monkeys, a long-serviceman, possibly for twelve years. But he was efficient and ever cheerful, easygoing. We got along quite well together, for a time.

The shore amenities at Trinco’ were quite sparse, a beer bar, a cinema and a native village. There was probably a shore-base also, but I never had reason to visit it. The all-important beer bar provided beverage in crown-capped tins, and it was of a high voltage, so much so that we were rationed with the stuff, four cans per man per each run ashore. These were obtainable at the bar by presenting money and tickets, which were issued upon one leaving the ship. A certain amount of illegal trafficking went on with a high demand for tickets, one system of barter in which I became implicated.

Amongst the commodities on sale in the ship’s canteen was talcum powder, ‘foo-foo’ in naval jargon at the time. This was long before liquid deodorants were available. How the little leading hand of the liberty drifter hatched the plot and when a bargain was struck I have no idea, but one night when we were off duty he informed me that he had acquired additional beer tickets and ‘arrangements’ had been made with an Indian barman that for a certain number of tubes of foo-foo our intrepid sailor would receive eight crown caps from beer cans. The idea then being to replace the caps onto respective tins, then smuggle them back on board, there, presumably to be sold at a profit or some other nefarious transaction. Which or whatever, it was highly illegal, but it seemed a good idea at the time, and it worked -- almost.

The deal was carried out, the metal tops obtained and the cans re-capped. I took possession of four of them when they were surreptitiously stowed, one on each side of my legs, held in place by my socks and hidden from sight by trousers which were compulsory wear after sundown as protection against mosquitoes. They also acted as protection against prying eyes. So far, so good. It was what followed that caused the plan to fizzle out, almost completely.

The liberty boat moored at the end of a long wooden jetty. The caps on the beer cans I may not have replaced securely. Thus the beer, enlivened by my leg movements, became quite agitated and fizzy, so much so that by the time I boarded the boat all four caps had been blown off and the can contents had erupted into my shoes, leaving only the merest traces of beer in the containers. My shoes stank for weeks of stale ale. Needless to say, I was never invited to repeat the exercise, and shortly afterwards my duties ceased as a member of the ship’s liberty boat crew.

Each day whilst in Trinco’ harbour the off duty watch on Vengeance was given the opportunity to go swimming over the ship’s side. The pipe would be ‘Hands to bathe on the starboard side’, or it may be the port side. Whichever, the side stated meant the opposite one was out of bounds, purely for safety reasons. The pipe was the signal for bodies to leap, drop, jump or dive into the warm and welcoming water where, once in, the options were various -- swimming above or below the water, floating, treading or, in desperation, sinking. There were no refinements, no Lilos, rubber ducks or rings, no inflatable arm-bands. Those hadn’t been invented.

A safety boat always patrolled at a distance, unofficially in case anyone decided to make a swim for it, officially for the protection of bathers against attacks of cramp or any denizens of the deep. As if to prove the possibility of such creatures being present, swimming was suspended when a manta ray took up residence in the harbour and stayed for three days. Even from the height of the flight-deck it looked big, and I for one wasn’t anxious to swim in its vicinity, even if, as was said, it was harmless.

Another time light relief was gained by leave being granted to one half of the crew which departed. I was in the half who had to wait for their return. When they did so, we put to sea for a further week, so the persistent flight trials might continue. During this spell we who had remained on board were regaled with stories of the rest camp where leave was spent. This was in the mountains some 5000 - 6000 feet up, where it was pleasantly cool, as opposed to sea level where the steel flight-deck burned one’s feet if they be unprotected.

Diyatalawa was the area visited. Our transport was by bus and a route which took us through Kandy, the island’s capital, then up the side of a mountain, from the top of which on looking down seven sections of the road could be seen snaking its way skywards. Wooden crosses dotted the steep slopes, evidence of some who had tried a quick descent and had never quite fully succeeded.

The mountain slopes were terraced and given over to tea plantations where, despite the miserable mountain mist, tea pickers continued with their labours in the dismal conditions.

The camp was termed a rest area, and that was so. We were obliged to rest. The most strenuous activity was on the tennis court, that is if the beer bar was discounted. Still it was pleasant to sleep in a bed between cotton sheets as opposed to a hammock with wool blanket, and to be awakened by a char-wallah dispensing early morning tea.

I don’t imagine we acquired a higher state of mind and body whilst atop the mountain, but it made for a pleasant change from tedious sea-going routine, a routine which began all over again on our return to the ship.