These articles are about the Army when I did my National Service. They were written with the aid of a five-year diary and later between working hours during early morning shifts.
A SOLDIER'S TALE (9)
So we rolled into the capital of Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) like seamen finding their shore legs. In a shop in the filthy main street leading from the harbour I bought an alleged moonstone necklace for my girl friend. That transaction settled, I had time to note the street surface was stained red by the juice expectorated from the mouths of the many betel nut chewers, and stared horrified at a legless beggar in the gutter. So this is the wonderful British empire I am supposed to protect, I thought.
It was a depressing experience touring the city. I well remember walking through a dusty square in which near-dead trees lifted their branches to heaven - perches for a myriad croaking crow-like birds. After a cup of tea three or four of us took a taxi to a dance in an amazingly palatial building, containing some enchanting hostesses. Only much later did it occur to us that this was one of "Yorkie's" famous brothels. Oh how green and wet behind the ears some of were in those days!
Back aboard ten of us were told that, owing to the activities of China's leader, Mao Tse Tung, we would not disembark at the ship's next port of call, Singapore, but stay on board for Hong Kong. So it really was a "Slow Boat to China"! I think we were quite happy at the thought. Hong Kong seemed infinitely preferable to the Malayan jungle, and we savoured the Oriental mystery which seemed to shroud the very name of Hong Kong.
So we thumped on across the Indian Ocean. I read a book in a day, which was a measure our boredom, and then tackled an illegal, almost indecipherable, dog-eared copy of "Lady Chatterley's Lover" which was doing the rounds of the troopdeck. Printed by one L. Muhammed in Port Said it spelled (or frequently mispelled) the four-letter words still to be banned from Britain's literature for another ten or twelve years.
Suddenly, we were steaming down the coast of Malaya and it was at that moment that the cliché "mystery of the East" burst upon me in an almost spiritual experience:
I was up at dawn about some duty or other on the day we put into Singapore. During a break for a mug of tea I leaned on the port rail. The ship was asleep. The only noise was the hum of the dynamos and fans: even the thump of the engines was absent as "Lancashire" slipped silently into the warm dawn light. Against the orange and green sunrise, shrouded in haze, was the coast. In the port bow a buoy winked intermittently, a silent rival to the morning star beyond. In the dead calm the lifeless sail of a junk was silhouetted, and the black water beneath me slid by without murmur. Above all was an indescribable smell. A sort of pleasant, mushy combination of sandalwood, spices, vegetation, and forests... It was an exciting moment, still imprinted in my brain like a flashlight photo. I began to see why the east held so much attraction for westerners.
Too soon the idyll was broken and we were starting a third spell ashore, in Singapore. It was literally stinking hot under the palms and we spent most of the time at a services club keeping cool under a slowly revolving fan. The main foray was to a bank to collect some cash cabled from home, which enabled us to indulge in steak, egg and chips, and delicious, liberally spread drifts of tomato sauce.
Our departure from Singapore was delayed by a small incident when the stern of the ship swung against the dock and snapped a steel bollard like a mushroom. As it buckled "Lancashire's" plates, she was re-moored and checks were made. My diary then noted that while idle in the harbour the following day, I had a good over-all wash, a haircut, sunbathed, had a political discussion, and lost 1,000 cigarettes at pontoon.
At Singapore we had taken aboard a large number of troops from the Leicestershire Regiment, a Gurkha Regiment, the RAF Regiment and a number of sailors, one of whom became a new standee neighbour. How I coveted his daily tots of rum for which he was issued, until one rough and windy day he had a brainstorm! He sat down next to me on my standee, proffered his mug and said "Sippers, mate?". Unaccustomed to the naval jargon, I hesitated.
"Go on, John, have a sip."I sipped, gently and with reverence. I felt it slip happily deep into my guts.
"Bin saving it up John, mate. A li'l bit a day. An' as I like you, you'd better 'av gulpers now."I gulped delightedly. And he gulped. And I gulped. And suddenly it was all gone. Jim turned the mug upside down with sadness.
"Better start saving again" he announced, lay down on his standee and promptly went to sleep.No such luck for me. I had to be dressed for fatigues in shorts and gym shoes in the hold into which I reeled half-an-hour later, not entirely in unison with the ships violent movements. "Right", said the sergeant in charge. "You see those sacks, well that's flour. They've got to to be shifted to the galley storeroom, right? Move then". And he went to have a quiet fag under the stairs. The white, lumpish, heaps which weighed about about a hundredweight each had to be carried up from the hold and along companionways in the humid heat. The rough weather and the rum "gulpers" just made things just that much worse. Yorkie, who was coming with us to Hong Kong looked old-soldier suspiciously at the pile and scratched. "What a ruddy awful job", he remarked and then collapsed half-way up the steps with his first sack, as "Lancashire" lurched gently. I lurched behind him and collapsed laughing.
"It's not funny" he admonished.We itched terribly. The sweat and flour on or backs combined to form a doughy mass, through which rivulets of sweat made their way down to our buttocks, and our hair was white. I felt the whole troopdeck shy away from us as, exhausted, we tumbled into the blessed relief of a sea-water shower.
I said "Yorkie, you haven't seen your sack, have you?". It had burst and covered the smoking sergeant with flour.
"Driver Bradford, you are a flaming idiot. Now... come and clean it up"! he fumed, looking like the ghost of sergeants past.
Poor old Yorkie spent hours on the task.
To be continued...