Fiction

The Comet lifted into the air almost vertically leaving the suburbs and surrounding boroughs of the Home Counties far below .At thirty thousand feet the aircraft levelled out and the seat belts came off. We were headed east towards the Asian landmass situated beneath steaming tropical clouds. Somewhere beneath the cumulous was the English Channel. The plane was half full and as no one occupied my row I was free to let my mind go over whatever it felt like going over. I gazed downwards at the minute white waves of the English Channel My earliest recollections of the sea occurred during the austere post war years when rationing in England was still in effect, eggs, chocolate, meat and fish needing a stamp in the green ration book, a stamp inserted after every purchase. There were three of us, my mother and two brothers. Looked at in retrospect we were doing better than the average civilian kid of our parent’s social level. We lived on an Island, the Isle of Wight, of holiday destination for millions of toiling factory workers.

 

 

My father was posted to Malaya where at the time the emergency was on (but somehow ignored in the paper work as  unimportant). The first stage of the process of relocation overseas was for my father to go off alone to live in the Far East in the Sergeants Mess. The next stage was the arrival of our boxes, huge black painted wooden things, our family name stencilled in white. My mother every day would slowly place our least needed items in the boxes leaving out the bare essentials. It was a process to be repeated over the years accompanied by our cries of 'where is this and where is that ' regarding items nailed firmly into boxes divided into categories: not wanted on voyage; wanted on voyage.

I remember the boarding at Southampton and then gazing down the side of the ship at the tugboats far below. The day was pleasantly sunny with a slight breeze. There we were, the two of us wandering about the immediate companionway area intermingling with newly embarked troops. I seem to remember that compared to the soldiers I would meet in the future these were different, their gallant respect for women and children reminding me of my grandfathers WWI generation. One of the soldiers, wondering no doubt about his supper, had asked me if I would go below and look at the clock. Down the flight of steps I went to gaze with no comprehension whatever at the clock face. My new found friend asked what time it was. I gave an idiotic response, he at first thinking I was joking then when he found out that I really could not tell time taught me how.

 

The first thing I had noticed when entering our cabin was the funny window. It was round and had four great brass screws with curved turning handles. The next thing I noticed was the bunks, upper and lower with long wooden retaining walls. Air vents softly blew air onto white sheets and brown blankets bearing the logo of the P and O line. A black Lascar dressed in a neat white uniform politely entered, informing my mother that he would be our steward. While he and my mother were conversing I began to unscrew one of the port hole’s retainers. The steward made dash towards me, pulling me down, and then explaining that the ocean was just five feet of so below and could ship aboard if the port hole was opened. This was the first of many lessons regarding the difference between land and sea. These Lascars were very knowledgeable fellows performing menial functions throughout the ship, no doubt fulfilling a contract made with Ceylon during the days of Sir Stamford Raffles'.

 

Up on deck again we went to watch the casting off of shore lines and the nudging about of the great white ship by the tugs. In the dock was the black painted Queen Elizabeth- her Blue Peter flying -smoke trailing from one of her stacks as she waited to cast off for New York. Great ropes six or so inches thick were taken off the ships great iron bollards to be lowered into the sea by thinner ropes retrieved by the dockyard workers. As the gap between ship and shore widened the band played a farewell, the crowds of wavers becoming smaller and smaller, soon to disappear completely.

 

Soon the land formed a faint green and grey smudge on the horizon giving one of my many last looks at England. The sea soon became rougher but nothing like I was told to expect as we entered the Bay of Biscay, an inundation of the French and Portuguese coast. I think that only once did I see the dreaded weather of the Bay, and that was on one of the return trips. Through the Pillars of Hercules we passed, actually now named the Straits of Gibraltar, and on to that promontory on the southern tip of Spain, (captured by the British during the War of the Spanish Succession) separating the orient from the occident. From the ships rail we were to view a sight that was to come very familiar, the steep rock of Gibraltar signalling entry into the Mediterranean. On shore for a few hours I was impressed by the neatness of the place, the straight rows of white washed stones around gardens, sign posts and pathways; the white seat covers on the army land rovers, the smart turn out of the soldiers wearing white web belts, even their puttee straps blancoed white suggesting a tidy European presence. The next day we were in the ‘Med’, so beautifully warm and blue, its soft winds caressing the body, dissipating its sweat.

 

My first view of the orient was at Alexandria, a small flyblown town on the coast of Egypt just west of the entrance to Suez. It was founded by Alexander the Great as he moved east towards the Indian subcontinent via Persia. Passing this Trans shipment point of Roman bound grain we arrived an hour or so later at Port Said. Hot and dusty docks dotted with black skinned white robed labourers and venders of fruit drinks mixed with chipped ice greeted us as we went ashore, the basic principle of the thing probably a continuation of the days of the East India Company. Then the descent to the motor launch chugging alongside where we would each gingerly step from the wooden platform on to the rocking boat, one of the Egyptians holding out an arm to assist as we stepped onto the deck and then disappearing beneath the roof shelter. There was laughter and conversation among the gathered families, some familiar with each other before boarding ship as many were married to husbands belonging to our unit. Eagerly we looked around at the sights from the small boat as closer and closer we came to North Africa.

 

Again an assisting arm as we disembarked from the launch onto the jetty, a process that was to be repeated until we reached Singapore. We took a look through the bazaar teeming with foreign looking objects never seen in England. Strange shaped vases, Xylophones embedded with ivory, flowing bolts of Egyptian cloth into which exotic patterns were sewn. Pop was available, stored in ice boxes and covered in broken ice which the vendor would replace periodically as the old stock melted in the burning sun. Then there was the 'gullee gullee man' at the outdoor café who would work magical wonders as he pulled rabbits out of our ears or placed solid objects on a table under a cloth to make them disappear as we sipped those small cokes or ice chips covered in some kind of fruit flavour.

 

Back on the ship again the entertainment continued as we watched naked native boys dive alongside the ship for coins thrown by the passengers to awake the next day in the Suez Canal, seemingly floating through desert until you looked directly downwards and saw the water below slowly lapping away from the sides of the ship to make small waves on the canals concrete walls. It was a wonderful feeling to eat lunch on a white table cloth with P and O embossed silverware watching the sand and dates palms slowly passing by under which were the odd camel or, camel and Arab, the camel looking at us disdainfully, the Arab hardly aware of our presence, his mind tuned into the endless desert. Soon the canal disappeared to be replaced by the Bitter Lakes, miles of stagnant water which held great amounts of salt, the shore now many miles distant highlighted by growths of marine vegetation and flocks of birds. Eventually the shore receded even farther as we entered the Red Sea, on our right the barren coast of Somalia on our left the equally barren Sinai desert which was soon to become part of Israeli territory.

The entrance to the Indian Ocean introduced to me the sea in its turbulent state. Great waves as high as small hills topped with white caps roamed about, sometimes crashing into each other to both disappear, sometimes one would win the contest and carry on towards the horizon, itself a small jagged line of white caps. I would stare downwards for hours fascinated by the spectacle. What made it even more fun was the fact that most of the passengers were sea sick and so we had the second class deck to ourselves.

 

We played table tennis on the deck of a rolling ship, the ball going where we had last aimed it, the table moving with the ship. Another great deck sport in a gale was tobogganing using the deck chairs as thy moved easily on the spray swept decks. Where it became really hilarious was when wind caught in the canvas giving us extra speed. Looking through the deck facing windows of the second class lounge we would see but one or two dinners as most of the passengers were sea sick missing breakfast leaving their kippers, poached eggs, or kidneys on toast to us were only going to thrown away. So much waste onboard a ship. Immediately after the breakfast from the deck we would watch as the unconsumed breakfast bread rolls were thrown through the galley port hole, the swarms of seagulls waiting patiently for their breakfast each morning wheeling and crying as the devoured this feast handed to them hundreds of miles away from the nearest land. There were the Dolphins following the ship mile after mile, day after easily matching our fifteen to twenty knots. Flying fish even in a gale would sometimes appear out of the sea to skim across the flat places with their tiny wings. I even heard reports of one of them flying over the ship. Seagulls were constant companions making me wonder how they survived hundreds of miles out of site of land. Not only did they survive, they seemed to enjoy themselves, wheeling and screeching around the ship.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soon however this part of the trip ended with our arrival at Colombo, (Mumbai), a brief trip ashore to view this city still showing signs of colonization; nineteenth century buildings, the uniformforms of the soldiers, Brithish pattern dated by a few decades. This city is situated on the west coast and subject to the full force of the sea as there is nothing between it and Egypt, this being the route of the ancients using their Skylex navigation tables in order to cross the Indian Ocean, sometimes in the teeth of the monsoon gales, more often however going out with the easterly winds and returning to Africa with the westerly’s. To this day the dhows used since ancient times our still built in India and Pakistan plying back and forth between Africa and India.

 

There were many trishaws about intermingled with traffic which constantly sound their horns. Everywhere there were roadside stalls selling everything from sliced pineapples to japatees and curry to sati sticks (shish kebabs). As in Egypt there were the hustlers selling their produce to those happening to be passing by and of course the occasional con man. What was different to Egypt was the amount of beggars piteously holding out their tin cups, some hobbling using a stick for support or even scooting along on made wheeled contraptions. Even the trishaw drivers had a look of desperation upon their faces suggesting that a failure to get a fare would result in dire consequences. On board the ferry again approaching the huge white painted ship, the thick horizontal blue line indicating a troopship , different ways of life in place for eons, existing side by side like oil and water, never to really blend despite grandiose schemes to the contrary.

 

A few hours later we pulled away and a day later the sighting of the palm fronds of Ceylon (Sri Lanka)The air was moister hear and again a brief trip ashore. Less poverty and the same entruprernurial spirit of the east contrasting with the (then) socialist bent of Britain. anything can be bought and no questions asked regarding payment by cheque, even if the instrument backing it had its head office in Bristol,Leeds, Manchester, London, or even in Scotland come to that.

The next day we were in the Straits of Malacca moving down through the landmasses of Sumatra on the right and Malaya on the left passing the beautiful Island of Penang festooned with jungle interspersed with coastal villages. Further down we passed great fences of bamboo set far out to sea a solitary hut situated on their seawards end as they guided in schools of fish to be caught up in nets. A strange sight for us boys straight out of England, over the years to became a familiar sight.

 

Finally Singapore hove into sight, the first indication the ships awaiting their turn to either dock (not much chance unless you were a passenger liner or your owners had a lot of pull) or to anchor out in the roads. We of course docked in Keppel Harbour, Singapore to the north, various islands to the south. Looking up from the dock was my father come to greet us. He looked different from the time I had seen him in England. His uniform was green rather than khaki, and of a lighter material. His stripes were smaller and white. On his shoulder were strange badges, two palm trees and a lion, sweat steaked the front of his uniform and unfer the arm pits, a fact of which he seemed unconcerned, as if this was the normal state of affairs.

I was to see the harbour for the next two and a half years from the balcony of row house in which we lived. The most prominent feature was the great white mast on a hill across the water from us towering above a sort of control tower. On the mast would fly various flags giving instructions to the ships regarding conditions in the harbour etc. At night we would look over this balcony at the open air cinimma bellow us watching for nothing as John Wayne caught the bad guys or Audi Murphey one World War Two single handedly. The island on which we lived besides supporting water transport companhy also had a factory which we for want of any kniown name called the tin works. Are only inkling of its existence was a long wall at the back of the row houses and the shrill none whisle. There was also the waste product slag which paved the lane leading from the road to the hill on which we were situated.The slag was hard and sharp and so unsuitable for road material as it would cut the tires of any vehicle.

We spent our time going to school on Singapore island at seven until it was too hot in the day,twelve oclock, returning by ferry and fifteen hundred weight army truck . A diner and then the mandotory after nap for all icluding my father.Afternoons were spent either swimming at the beachs on the other side of the island . One was a regular public beach and the other 'pagar', a fenced of beach stirctly speaking the property of the commaning officer who occupied the house on the hilll directly above; however it was commonly agreed that when not it use it was open to NCO's and their families.

 

As the afternoon waned we would make our way home making side trips into the jungle to explore the Japaneses fortifications now crumbling in the torpical vegetation, green slime and dripping water making for an odious experience as it attracted mosquitos. The public beach trail had two japanese pill boxes still intact. We would like through the slit out on to the harbour and imaginie we were a Japanese machine gun crew.

 

If swimming was not possible because of the low tide it was a matter of finding other entertainment or just staying home for a few weeks utiil there was a reasonably high tide. Sometimes we hacked through the nearby jungle. Some times we woudl descent into a great pit abuting the wall of the tin works in search of what, I dont know. Once however in a small gulley in the pit I found a biscuit tin. Inside were multicoloured currency bills showing the head of the Japanese emporer or a sword bearing Samuri. I excitedly took my trove home only to be told as it was 'banana money', military money issued to the Japanese forces. Some enterprising soul during the occupation had hid this thinking that when he got back to Japan he would be rich. Often I wondered who the guy was and what happened to him that was so drastic that he left his treasure trove behind without telling a soul.

 

The only Japanese I saw was a tourist of about middle age. It was at Connought jetty where he was hastilly boarding as he appeared to be in great danger- a crowd of middle aged to elderly Malays murmering in low pitched ominous voices as they slowly surrounded him. .Obviously the Japanese were not liked on this island and I wondered what they had done. Never ever heard of the British recieving similiar treatment, in fact we had a good friend from the Malay community our own age and who had his own sampan, albeit only kid sized.Often we would meet at the pagar, he coming in his boat, us walking over land . He would tie up at the fence, climb up to dive into the water, his face enraptured as in those days there was strict segregation of the races, expecially in the C.O's pagar. If anyone saw us no one said a thing. In return for the breaking of the colour bar Atan would take us out in the strait aboard his boat. It was about eight or ten feet length and maybe eighteen inches beam. He would use a single paddle expertly dodging in and out of the tidal stream .Once  we were appoaching a red and white marker beacon. I could swear that we were going to drift right down on it but Atan with a nonchallent 'ti dapa' brushed our fears aside, the sampan clearing the great concrete sturcture by a yard or two.

 

After two and a half years it waas back to England. The culture shock was great. Consider: a few weeks earlier I shared a bright, airy, sunlit, classroom with other British kids somewhere in the Far East. We would share experiences. Some had been out there once, twice or even three times before, others had been to Cyprus, Kenya or whatever. There was a German kid. We accepted him with no qualms despite the fact that the war had only just ended, but , as his father was in the British army and had never served in the German military, treated him as a an equal .It galled me at the time that these fellow Englishmen could not accept me just because I had lived oversees. Soon however the hue died down, my foreign back ground fading to the status of a fishy story and then, as the months went by, generally understood that I lived all my life, if not in Yorkshire, somewhere in England.

Slivers of silver filled the sky; somewhere below moonlighted clouds. I became weary, falling into that somnolent state between asleep and awake where I was what I truly was, a consciousness happening to occupy this particular part of the universe, unconnected to a corporeal body.

The Train made its way up the Malayan peninsular. A soldier, jungle boots propped upon the table, gazes out the opened window as atap huts drift slowly by interspersed with cleared stretches of jungle, chickens, ducks darting back and forth in their quest for food. Around the opposite bench lounge the rest of the squad.  I had introduced myself as being with Air Force Intelligence and left it at that in order to put to rest the inevitable questions regarding what type of aircraft I flew, which I didn't.

 

My seat companion asked whether I had had a good sleep and then after a pause," you couldn’t get a sleeper either sir"?

"Noo" I had answered awkwardly, " had a ticket for a berth but none were available."

"That's a load of bollocks sir, there were tons of berths, that rascally conductor sold them off long before we got on board," he answered in a Midlands accent, bringing to mind the gaseous air of Birmingham.

"How do you figure that?"

"Stands to reason doesn’t it, see the rush when the train pulled in, those who had sleepers claimed them fast so as to get their spoke in before the porter sold them off.?"

He held out a bronzed hand which I took, the grip was firm, his blue eyes gazing into mine in a slightly insane manner. Brummy, Brummy Mahone, I’m in charge of this lot"

"Where you bloke of to if you don’t mind my asking"? I asked more for something to do than anything else.  Brummies  pricked up my attention as he  had become a wall of silence which  was strange as  it was doubtful he could be on a hush hush mission in a public Malaysian Railways carriage.

 

The conversation turned to soldier banter one of the lads telling of a squadie who had been in Malaysia for two years and still couldn’t speak a single word of Malay. The squadie then stated  that he did speak some works, for instance he knew the Malay world for snakes which he claimed as being batu, to which his friends had burst in to uproarious laughter as it was obvious that he had just read the roadside sign featuring the world batu and a curving line which signified the fact that there were curves ahead .Ominiously the green slime streaked decaying sign below informed those who were no longer present that they were now 'entering a black area where emergency regulations were in effect' above  a silhouette of a man with a rifle on his shoulder,the muzzle pointed forward,his head laid along side the rifle stock.

 

Somewhere down the carriage situated among old women carrying ducks in wicker baskets lounging Malay spivs and middle aged Chinese came the sound of American English. Three fairly young whites  casting disapproving looks our way in the traditional peace corps way seeming to impy we were  criminals . I at first resented the inference then I let it go as I surmised it was not their fault as it had been drummed into them since the age of four that colonization was the greatest sin to be inflicted upon man by man: British colonization doubly so. Soon however I began to feel sorry for them as it was obvious that they had been travelling for a long time with no chance to change their clothes or shower. My pity soon dissolved as they put on superior tones discussing the ties and shirts they had bought following advice read in a Play Boy column. I suppoase I resented the fact that these plebians were now spreading their culture throughout the world, Playboy the harbinger of MacDonads, Still I couldnt see what these Americaans had to be so snooty about . PlayBoy articles are hardly the work of intellectual giant