Open Writing

The Hong Kong I knew during the mid 1940s was a fascinating place. Indeed, it was the only one in all my global wanderings where I could have settled. I found the atmosphere there captivating. Life for a Britisher could be very comfortable, and it didn’t take a fortune to maintain a good living standard.

Transport in that city at the time of my visits posed no real hazard amongst the crowded streets. Exhaust fumes created little threat as a main pollutant. There was insufficient quantity. British style trams clanked their way along the centre of the roads, whilst rickshaws were in profusion, hauled along by their owners who ran hot-footed wherever space permitted.

Comfortably ensconced in such a vehicle, secluded beneath the large canopy, sheltered from rain or sun, one rode, as it were, in state, drawn along by the muscle power of one’s personal chauffeur. With a good road surface the ride was silent, smooth and surprisingly swift. The wheels were tyred, albeit with solid rubber. Yet neither they nor the bare feet of the rickshaw man made any noise as one was transported along. It was most pleasurable indeed to sit and leisurely watch the panoramic scene passing by.

The cost of such a transport of delight was not expensive, although I cannot recall the exact amount. Having said that, one shipmate would probably have a different viewpoint on the cost of rickshaw riding since, following a shopping expedition and after taking such means of conveyance back to the docks, sadly he inadvertently left his purchases in the conveyance, which had disappeared into the night before he realized his loss. He was sober too! Unlike some crew members whose revelries rendered them legless, in which case their customary mode of transport were wheelbarrows.

Carousing, however, played surprisingly little or no part in runs ashore for the trio which made our way around Hong Kong. We found the shops and workplaces sufficiently fascinating. It must be said, though, that the meat shops did nothing to whet our appetites, with their flattened and waxed ducks hung in rows like so many white porcelain dinner plates, or chicken carcasses bisected to display their internal cavities in glorious Technicolor.

The craft workshops, however, were a different matter. All the retail premises were of an eastern style, their fronts unencumbered by doorways or windows. All interiors were in full view of anyone who chose to watch, and it was the methods of production of the individual craftsmen which were found intriguing. None of them employed power tools. All work was carried out by hands and feet. Beautiful workmanship it was too -- carved boxes of sandalwood with their aromatic fragrance. The one I purchased still carries its scent as deeply rooted in these modern times as when it was created more than half a century ago.

There was entertainment also watching metal workers produce dishes and woks from discarded oil drums, turning the material in a dished block with their feet, thus leaving hands free for hammering and engraving, all with a natural precision.

Then there was the ubiquitous array of jewellery, watches and trinkets, all glitter and sparkle in the shops’ strategically placed illuminations. Leather goods aplenty, or apparent leather. Close examination, however -- and it had to be close -- revealed that in reality the bags and suitcases were discreetly covered compressed paper.

Within, amongst and around such artistic displays there swirled the seamlessly never-ending flow of society -- shuffling, trotting, running, criss-crossing in every direction, chattering, shouting, screaming -- a panoply of humankind, each individual concentrating on his or her own goals, ignoring entirely us blue-clad visitors as if we were non-existent. These multi-coloured masses had seen it all before, many, many times, just as they had seen and learned to ignore the funeral cortege which slowly paraded along the roadside, the pallbearers and mourners dressed in decorated headdresses and flowing robes, their progress being made to the accompaniment of what to our ears was a discordant dirge.

On a lighter note, there was the time when a visit was made to the local cinema where the dialogue was in English whilst subtitles in Chinese were displayed on an illuminated screen at the side of the main screen.

There was also one other view in that cinema which, for me, was unique at that time. Whilst sat at the end of a row of seats, I chanced to glance across the aisle where I saw a young Chinese girl. Nothing remarkable in that, but it was the manner of her attire which riveted my gaze. She was wearing the traditional female outerwear of a mandarin-collared tube-like dress which reached down almost to the ankles, when one was standing upright, that is. To assist freedom of movement when walking, the garment was provided with a vent along one side, one which appeared of a discreet length whilst mobile. Sitting, however, and an extensive portion of the wearer’s thigh was exposed to full view, and it was this which magnetised my eyes.

Today such exposure would create little or no interest, being a regular accepted occurrence, but 55 years ago it was a rarity, at least in a public place. Consequently, I don’t suppose it is a cause for wonder that I remember the incident and yet have forgotten completely the title of the film, the one I watched in snatches.

Came the day when our presence in Hong Kong was no longer required, when it was time to bid goodbye to the pleasures of the Orient and put to sea once more. We were southbound for Sydney, and since Vengeance was an aircraft carrier, it seemed logical that she should fly her planes in a series of take-off and deck-landing trials. It helped pass the time and gave the young pilots something to do, along with the rest of the Fleet Air Arm members.

We carried several trainee pilots, and it was from amongst those that mishaps occurred. When attempting a deck landing, it was always advisable for a pilot to lower the plane’s deck-hook, an attachment which trailed behind the plane on a wire rope, the idea being that this would connect with one of seven arrestor or trip wires stretched across the flight deck.

For myself, not being implicated in such manoeuvres meant I could observe, from a safe distance, and by so doing on a daily basis, I realized that the deck landings fell into three categories. First, the operation was performed as per textbook and all would be well. Second, the pilot forgot to lower his hook, this despite what would certainly be instructions to do so being bellowed over his radio by the deck officer. And third, although hook down, the plane overshot all seven arrestor wires by its not being low enough.

In the second and third instances a second line of defence literally sprang into action -- crash barriers. These were quickly raised across the deck, stout wire-mesh screens, one behind the other, the second one rarely being required. The first barrier apprehended the plane securely, but it didn’t half make a mess of its propeller and regularly caused it to try and bury itself in the deck.

Unfortunately, there were times when such combined precautions were insufficient. One such I watched as a pilot attempting his first deck landing for some reason slewed off and went over the side. He was only 21 years of age.

There were also exciting moments with planes approaching at irregular angles, necessitating a quick rev, fly round and try again. Take-off was also risky: no launching catapult, no jet propulsion, only a prayer calling for sufficient power to achieve lift-off since every plane dipped once the flight deck had been cleared. It must have been disconcerting to know that failure in that exercise meant ditching in the water whilst immediately behind one was 13,000 tons of unstoppable ship.

Perhaps it should be made clear that accidents such as those described above were in the minority where deck landings were concerned. Otherwise there would soon have been a dearth of both pilots and planes.

So the miles slid by as we nosed our way south. Crossing the line was by then becoming a regular event. There was no call for ceremonies to celebrate the fact since there were no ‘first-timers’. The entire crew were well initiated in that respect, so much so that reference to the equator crossing was never made. The Sydney Harbour Heads also became a familiar sight. Indeed, passing them came to be an almost daily occurrence when Vengeance acted the role of scrap transporter in the weeks ahead.