J. E. MacDonnell - 028 Read online

  I grabbed the nearest stanchion as she heeled over. We knew what was happening up top. She was turning for another run. Back over her course, and the violent operation was repeated.

  Five minutes more and it was all over.

  "Decrease to One double O revolutions."

  A bit more than ten knots-roughly nine-revs to a knot. Throttles were eased back, two sprayers shut off, steam pressure decreased to normal. At her steady reduced speed the ship steamed on.

  I climbed up through the engine-room hatch, and ah! the blessed sunlight and air!

  Looking astern, I saw a large ulcerous patch of creamy white on the blue face of the sea. Next time I would be damn certain I saw what caused it!

  Whenever two or more are gathered together, there you will always find a gentleman exhibiting qualities which distinguish him from his fellows.

  The gunner on the bridge, for instance, who slipped the awning jackstay block on the Old Man's bare head, and then had the incredible temerity to grin. The ordinary-seaman bosun's mate who "sugared" the first-lieutenant's morning cup of cocoa with soda. And of course, the buffer, or chief bosun's mate, one Toddy Vale, the man responsible for our distinction in being the only destroyer in the Fleet served with ice-cream.

  Toddy was short, his head as bald as his thumb, and one of the few old sea-dogs who really rolled as he ambulated. He was also, naturally, a first-class seaman; he was a destroyerman, and he was responsible to the first-lieutenant for the seamanship efficiency on the entire ship.

  One would like to record that this yeoman service of ice-cream provision was performed altruistically in the interests of the ship's company, but one finds a regrettable relation between the advent of the icecream firm and the reported buzz of a spell in Durban.

  Toddy had been to the Bombay races, hence the happiness in the brown faces of Motee and Co., bookmakers, and finances had somehow to be resuscitated before going south.

  Luckily we were in dockyard hands at the time, and Indian yards being no different from Australian ones-like race-tracks-a packet of cigarettes here, a tin of tobacco there, worked wonders.

  Each forenoon would see the buffer's bald-headed figure rolling out of the tinsmith's shop with a Hindu workman, hands making intricate signs of measurements. Slowly the urn took shape, then the gadget inside which churns up the mixture.

  The outside barrel, an old vinegar cask, was already ready, though the fact that someone had hung a Ditch All Offal here sign on it while drying on the upper-deck had delayed proceedings somewhat. Many are the hands to whom credit is due. The chief stoker, with all his vast experience of water-tube boilers, super-heated turbines and reciprocating engines, was called in to alter the shape of a hole from round to square-most important, this, as it made all the difference between the churn revolving round the ice-cream and the ice-cream revolving round... anyway. Toddy explained it, and I know it was most important.

  And a host of others, from the canteen manager to the able-seaman butcher who was determined, at first, to stick to his Standing Orders to open the refrigerator only once a day. A serious obstacle, one requiring the exercise of remarkable tact (he had the Jimmy firmly on his side) and one overcome only by a promise of four absolute certainties for next Saturday.

  At last all was ready. Owing to the fact that we were already halfway to Durban, the first mixture of eggs, tinned milk (sorry, I'm sworn to secrecy here) was mixed in a hurry and fell a bit short of expectations.

  For half an hour a man under punishment had sat in the bosun's store churning away industriously, thankful he wasn't up the mast with a bucket and scrubber, and at the end of the prescribed time the bag-covered lid was removed with a solemnity due the occasion.

  The buffer dipped his new silver ladle into the depths. It came out dripping a soft, oozy, viscous mass which looked for all the world like used turret oil.

  But was he deterred? An alteration here, a slight adjustment there, and the machine was once more ready. This time a somewhat closer adherence to the recipe obtained, and one hot night a short, bandylegged figure dripping with perspiration marched triumphantly into the mess, in his hands a plate of cold, firm, snowy-white ice-cream!

  It was really delicious, and in four minutes the ordinary-seamen, pushing and fighting, had cleaned out the can at four annas a time. The challenge to Peters was firmly launched.

  Among the more established institutions in the ship, one lists the "jewing firm."

  Ours is run by the coxswain, who on his electric sewing machine (power free) will run you up anything from an overall suit to a blimp-bag. These last are comparatively recent innovations, and bid fair to become a most valuable adjunct to the well-dressed matloe at sea.

  Made of blue jean with a long shoulder strap, the blimp-bag is fitted to carry a rolled-up life jacket, red light, tobacco and matches, malted milk tablets, money socked away in a rubber sheath, and anything else in the nature of life-saving innovations a sailor can devise.

  It can be worn over the left shoulder, beach style, across the chest on the back, or, as is usually the case when manning guns in a hurry, with a round turn around the neck!

  For a slight remuneration one's initials will be stitched on the flap in red or green silk, depending on what watch one is in, port or starb'd...

  Yesterday there appeared on the notice-board a declaration affecting very closely the efficient running of the ship.

  It was typewritten-in parts-with capitals appearing, with lofty disregard for the accepted statutes of typing, in mid-sentence, and here and there a pencilled line inserted. Across the top in large block letters ran the arresting caption:

  UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

  Following was a tabulated list, which ran something like this:

  Hammocks washed 1/6

  Bedcovers , l/

  Dickey Fronts ,, 3d.

  Socks (each) ,, 2d.

  (Space forbids the complete list. One must consider also the free advertisement). This manifesto was signed by "Tug" Wilson, "Lofty" Dobell, "Bungy" Williams, and "Pinnochio" Riolo, of the "Lily White Dhobying Firm, address No. 7 Mess, Torpedomen's Mess Deck." On the bottom of the page, written in as an afterthought, was the injunction:

  "Throw your dirties in the bucket at the foot of the ladder."

  Thus are captains of industry born. The buffer and I are firm friends now, for apart from the sterling qualities I have just discovered in the little bloke's makeup (being a captain of one of his tops, his product is free), he has as good as promised me a position, possibly an executive one, in his ice-cream firm outside after the war.

  Guaranteed recipe for cockroach killer: Contents of parcel posted Christmas `43, received June `44. Mix spilt plum jam with biscuit pulp; add two sticks powdered cordite; place in kit locker.

  You've all heard, of course, of that wonderful invention, asdic gear. This is used for detecting submarines below the surface. When in dry dock the apparatus is removed from the bottom of the ship for inspection purposes, its removal leaving a large hole through which ingress and egress from the ship can be effected, though of course it was never used for this purpose-until one night I was duty petty-officer.

  Doing rounds about nine o'clock at night, I heard a scuffling and a whispering under the ship. Making my way quickly and quietly down, debating whether or not to call the anti-sabotage guard, I found two shapes bending under the hull, busily engaged in something inside the asdic hole. In my best sabotage-checking voice, I thundered:

  "What the hell's going on here?"

  I heard a stifled, "Oh, hell!" a clinking noise that sounded suspiciously like bottles being dropped, then two young asdic operators pulled their heads from inside the hole, unbent, and confronted me.

  "Please, chief," piped a voice, "I was showing my cobber here how the oscillator fits inside..."

  It trailed off, the owner no doubt realising the incongruity of instruction in anti-submarine warfare in the bottom of a smelly dry dock at nine o'clock at night.

  I poked my head up to where "the oscillator fitted," and discovered that these two enterprising youngsters were using the asdic hole, an invention devised by Britain's finest scientific brains to ensure that the life-blood of a nation flowed free, for the purpose of smuggling beer into the ship!

  The idea was so original I hadn't the heart to charge them. Your sailor son or sweetheart or husband may be lacking those feminine qualities necessary to carry out a successful shopping operation in, say, King's Cross or Bourke Street, but you should see him ashore among the needle-witted bazaar merchants from whom he buys those Eastern curios!

  Step ashore with Nutty Ferris and me on a shopping run. We're in Bombay harbour, and Nutty is desirous of buying something to raise a sparkle in his girl's eyes back in Drummoyne.

  As we step from the boat we're immediately besieged by a clamouring mob of guides, gharry boys, coconut sellers, mobile finger-cleaning merchants, and even one bloke with a tray full of betel-nuts.

  The bazaar, street after street of narrow open-fronted shops, is a seething mass of unwashed humanity. The Indian sun beats down fiercely and successfully draws up into the malodorous air the emanations from the bodies to whom bath water is a rare phenomenon.

  Above the cries and bargaining there is the experimental ringing of pots and pans, the chinking of the money changers, the tempting offers of cheapness at the old clothes stalls, the challenges of the dicers on their straw mats, the vaunting of new cottons and embroidered silks, of excellent brassware, kettles and vases and wine cups.

  There is the choking of the narrow inlets with oxen and carts, together with much uncomplimentary remonstrance in terms and gestures that would make an old Australian bullock-driver feel at home.

  Nutty's Pamela had once expressed a love of brassware, so
we head for the curio shop of one Ben Sulmein Salmadar, an Arab from Mecca. We halt outside, and at once a suave oily voice bids the sahibs enter-no buy, of course, just look. Anything the sahibs desire: cigarette trays, egg cups, suitcases, or perhaps a rug from the Vale of Kashmir.

  Very cheap, sahib, very cheap, an honest shop, this one, sahibs. In accordance with our experience of other Ben Salmadars, we feign disinterest, and cast but a cursory glance at the really gorgeous rug he is holding.

  The voice becomes more pressing as we go to walk on. Protesting that we really don't want to buy anything, Nutty and I enter the musty shop.

  The process starts. The main thing, of course, is to pick up and display interest in everything but the article you want. Then, when the shopkeeper quotes a price, cut it immediately in half and start beating him down from there.

  Nutty picked on a shining brass rose bowl, exquisitely engraved and carved by hand into an intricate pattern of flowers. Ben wanted 24 rupees-œ4/8/-Australian-for it. Nutty looks at him. He laughs.

  "I only want the bowl, not the flaming shop."

  He turns to a silk shawl embroidered with a silver Taj Mahal. After half an hour of fingering pretty well everything in the shop. Nutty looks at me, and we both turn for the door. Ben is beside us in one swift leap.

  "But, sahibs, you have bought nothing! And I have attended to you myself..." Tone hurt, conveying the magnitude of the honour conferred.

  Nutty grins. "After all, old, boy, we didn't want to buy anything." He leans casually against the counter. "Matter of fact, I rather like that rose bowl." Now the bowl's out of the bag. Now real action is joined. "But, apart from the fact that I'm Petty-officer Ferris and not the Maharajah of Nizam, the thing's not worth more than 12 rupees."

  By this time Ben has the object d'art in question out before us, and they're into it. Follows ten minutes of masterly diplomacy. If Nutty could only argue like that, one thinks a trifle evilly, at home in Drummoyne, he wouldn't need to buy his pleasures with rose bowls...

  The Arab is becoming a bit desperate as he finds himself down to eight rupees. But below eight he refuses to go. Nutty plays him with consummate skill, with horse-trading experience gleaned in Madagascar, in Mombasa, in Hong Kong and Algiers. And when old Ben wearily turns back to the shelf with his rose bowl Nutty knows he's reached the limit.

  Almost. He plays his final card, pointing to a set of brass serviette rings.

  "How much?"

  "Twenty rupees, sahib," comes the not hopeful answer.

  Nutty muses a moment. "Tell you what, Ben. I'll give you ten chips for the rings if you throw in the bowl for six."

  Ben Sulmein mops his brow and without speaking wraps up the articles, then silently takes the money.

  We stroll out into the white sunshine. Looking back, we see Ben chuckling with his assistant, and gesturing after us. Makes us feel a bit dubious.

  Next on the list is a couple of pairs of silk stockings. We march into a big European store for these. Nutty seems a trifle less sure of himself as the very pretty Anglo-Indian girl advances towards us from behind the glass-topped counter. "Yes, sir, what can I show you?" Smile, delivered from up under very black eyebrows; body leaning forward just enough, revealing a hint of Nature's bountiful endowment.

  "Ah-I want two pairs of-er-champagne stockings, size three, please."

  She reaches behind her, and, laying out a flimsy affair that I presume is silk, murmurs:

  "There you are, sir. Two pairs. Thirty rupees, please."

  I stagger. Nutty wipes his mouth. The girl smiles, flatteringly. Nutty pays over without a murmur.

  As we walk out the door, he remarks, in an apologetic tone:

  "Of course, a man must pay for the real thing. But..." false chuckle, "didn't we see old Ben off, eh?"

  "Sure, we saw Ben off."

  "Oh pack up laughing! Let's get up to the Cages."

  It was still early afternoon, and though the sailors' best friend in a foreign port is supposed to be the publican-much to our regret we didn't rate a girl in every port-Nutty and I felt like doing something other than swilling suds all day and night.

  His reference to the infamous Cages had been half-joking. But now we decided to take a taxi and have a look for ourselves. This street of brothels was so infamous that even the pock-marked cabdriver looked a bit dubious when we gave him our required destination. Until Nutty said:

  "For Peter's sake, man, we only want a look!"

  The cab rolled off. I'll omit the way to get there, just in case young sailors under the age of consent get any ideas. But it didn't take long, and then we were moving slowly down the street.

  I was glad we were behind closed car doors. It was a long street, narrow, filled with filth, bounded on both sides by one-storey mudbrick hovels. The windows were barred, hence the designation "Cages."

  But the doors were open, and through them we could see that the furnishings in each hovel were identical-a tattered and dirty curtain, held back to reveal what was meant to be an inviting bed. Neither the beds nor the intended occupants of these couches of bliss were inviting.

  They sat just inside the front, and only, door. They grinned at us, they held out dirty claws of hands, they made lewd and suggestive gestures. They were dressed in thin cotton saris that wouldn't resist a puff of smoke, and they bared themselves, each in turn, as we drove slowly past. Economy-minded, these devotees of love-they wore nothing but the sari.

  Some, especially the younger ones, were quite astonishingly lovely-at least in form. Many Indian girls are like that. Small oval faces, creamily-brown skin, shining black hair. These denizens of the Cages could have been like that, if they had washed once a week. Now, though their physiogonomy was attractive, their bodies were dirt-smudged, their hair was lank strands, their finger-nails were talons.

  They had the caste-mark in the centre of their foreheads above the nose, their tongues were bright red from chewing betel-nut, and their mouths were heavily scarlet from lipstick. And we came close to gagging at the stench of the street.

  "My God," said Nutty, "now I know why this joint's out of bounds!"

  We'd thought about that part of it; and had decided that if the patrol caught us we'd say simply that the taxi had taken us here without our knowing his route. We were right just as long as we didn't get out of the car. Some hope...

  "Let's get out of here," Nutty grunted, "makes a man lose his faith in the old what-name."

  The taxi deposited us back in the city. What now? We were still at a loose end, and yet all about us there must be entertainment for weeks. If only we could find it...

  "How about," I said, "Bombay as the tourist doesn't see it?"

  "Sure. But how? We get a taxi, he'll just take us to all the normal sights-temples, things like that."

  "Come with me," I invited him.

  Through my newspaper connections I had met an Englishman, a sub-editor of the "Bombay Times." He had been here for years, knew his way around. He was also like most newspapermen the world over, and I knew where to find him.