Military Life on the Malabar Coast of India in WWII.

[Danny42C]

In my Post: p.409 #8179 on the "Gaining a R.A.F. Pilot's Brevet in WWII" Thread ("Ah yes - I remember it well"), I wrote:
...Through the good offices of our mutual friend Petet, who is well known on this Thread, I've been able to gain sight of copies of the whole wartime F.540 (Operational Record Book) for No. 1340 (Special Duty) Flight, Cannanore...

It occurs to me that, for all the Posts I put in here describing the twelve months of my tenure, I've given only scant details of the day-to-day life we led there. Memory jogged by the F.540 (in my own fair hand), I'm going to remedy the deficiency insofar as I can.

Where the officers were concerned, we had it good ! The Mess was the old Army Mess, properly built in the '20s on the assumption that the Empire would last for ever. But there were very few officer's quarters (amply sufficient for those days, I suppose), and now the Chemical Defence Research Establishment had to accommodate not only their own Army medical, veterinery and administrative officers, but a whole gaggle of civilian experts ("Scientific Officers") as well. The RAF contingent was small: (Wing Commander Edmondes, a Squadron Leader Austin (of whom I have not the slightest recollection), myself and one or two others (on my unit) plus (after VJ day) a varying number of RAF supernumeraries (billeted on us until they reached their turn for repatriation to the UK - from which they might just as well never have been sent out in the first place - but who knew our war was going to end so suddenly ?).

The military solution was - as always - the tent. You can forget the tiny, flimsy, uncomfortable litle apologies for tents in which hardy souls brave the elements in this country (but not this child !). Ours were rectangular mini-marqees with much more floor space than in a junior officer's room in an "Expansion Pattern" RAF Mess. The floor was covered with sand, with two or three Afghan rugs this was comfort indeed. It was furnished on a lavish Indian Army scale: a "Cot Newar" in place of the bedbug-infested charpoys which had served us for the last three years, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers with mirror, and a table and chair. What more could we want ? (an individual "punkah" ? - no, that would have been too much to ask).

In any case we were only 100 yds or so from the cliff edge; the tent wall was rolled back in the middle of each (long) side to provide a doorway with a hanging rattan screen which allowed the gentle sea breeze to pass through while excluding most of the insects, inquisitive rats, goats and s/hawks). Permanent ablutions were over the road in the Army camp, but you would tell your "bearer" (when he brought you your morning tea) to bring you a bowl of hot water to shave.

There were communal showers over there too, which the service people always used (but the older, more diffident civilians preferred the privacy of a "camp kit" [folding canvas] bath in their tents). Sanitation was by "thunderbox" - there were no Deep Trench Latrines. No electricity or running water in the tent lines, of course but the permanent camp had both.

Cannanore town did not offer much in the way of attractions, but there were the usual bazaars where there would be tailors, shoemakers, barbers and most necesities of life on sale - but not razor blades (or gramophone needles) ! These were like gold (shortage of high quality steel), and many and various were the 'Patent' devices to re-sharpen safety razor blades (some of them worked - after a fashion !)

What the town did have was a Portuguese RC Church. I cannot remember its name then (and now there seems to be a Holy Trinity Cathedral [for a Diocese of Kannur has been created], probably on the same spot. But in my time, there was just a Church with a Portuguese priest; he could speak only Portuguese and Malayalam (which was all that was needed for his flock). But we could attend Mass there on Sundays, for of course it was still the old (Latin) Tridentine Mass, then the absolute standard throughout the world, and as soon as he swung onto the altar, handed his biretta (not beretta !) to the server and intoned the "Introibo ad altare Dei", we were off, and might as well have been in our family church back home. (Wiki tells me that: "In 1505, the Portuguese Viceroy, Francis de Almeida, established the famous fort of St. Angelos and built the church of St. James there", and a good deal more).

Now, in British India, when two or three Englishmen were gathered together anywhere, the first thing they always did was to build a Club. Cannanore was no exception. At the top end of the (then) town, a wide laterite bluff overlooked a tiny, secluded beach to the north. If today, you look up "Cannanore (Kannur) beaches", you'll find a "Baby Beach". I am fairly certain that this was the Club Beach. It was something like a mile north of Fort St.Angelo. Above it, on the top of the bluff, were two or three small hotels and the Cannanore Club.

This was a spacious bungaloid construction with a large horseshoe shaped bar; there must have been a main lounge and several smaller rooms. Certainly there would have been a billiard room (for what Club worthy of the name would be without one), a Music Room and a Card room, though curiously I never remember these. The Club was too small to cater; and had no bedrooms, but that did not matter: both were available at the nearby "decent hotels" - (ie places at which a European would stay).

EDIT: When I last looked at the Google satellite pictures of the area, the whole space looked to be bare brown surface; there was no sign of any building remaining on the site. But as the place now houses an important and extensive military establishment, this may now be (?) a small arms range.

There was a skittle-alley (I think nine-pins). The skittles were re-erected by a little Indian boy, perhaps 10-12 years old (it's not easy to tell). His limbs were terribly deformed by some disease (and there was always a grim possibility, that his family had distorted them deliberately in childhood, so that he could serve as an adjunct to their begging business). Effectively, his limbs were useless below the knee and ankle joints, so that all he could do was to scuttle around (with surprising agility) on these four points. He went by the name of "Coochie"; we assumed that was his name, or a nickname, and it was only at the very end, as I was leaving, that I was told that in Malayalam it was a word of contempt and disgust (as being the name of a common beetle, whose movements his resembled). That weighed on my conscience for quite some time.

On the other hand, the two or three annas we threw to him after each game would amount to a respectable sum at the end of the day/night (he seemed to be around the Club all hours). He was probably the breadwinner for his large family.

This account has grown, (like Topsy), too big for one Post. I'll stop now. More in a day or two.

Greetings to my new readers (if any)

Danny42C.

[BEagle]

Danny42C, with the greatest respect, do you think that this thread might be better in the 'Aviation History and Nostalgia' forum?

Due to the direction which the 'Military Aviation' forum sadly seems to be taking these days, perhaps you might attract more readers / contributors in the historical section?

[ian16th]

Danny42C

Lovely posting, as for patented devices for sharpening razor blades, I remember my father using the inside of a wet pint beer glass, to sharpen the standard safety blade.

[Fareastdriver]

Danny42C, with the greatest respect, do you think that this thread might be better in the 'Aviation History and Nostalgia' forum?

Keep it in the Getting a Pilots Brevet forum. That's where we can find you and people with similar memories. People like Beagle and Pontius Navigator have only just arrived; ignore them.

[ACW418]

I concur with the above - stay where you are.

From a fellow inmate of L-o-O 1964.

ACW

[Tankertrashnav]

Danny, your bit about attending mass in Latin jogged a few memories. As soon as I read "Introibo ad altare Dei" I automatically responded "Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam" - something I haven't said since around 1965!

Your post also reminded me about the incident in one of Evelyn Waugh's Sword of Honour novels (I forget which) where the central character, Guy Crouchback, a Catholic serving overseas as a British Army officer goes to confession, and confesses in Latin, as it is the common language which he and the priest share.

[Danny42C]

BEagle, Fareastdriver and ACW418,

Beagle, I see the force of your argument, but I would prefer it to stay on the "Military Aviation" Forum (Moderators permitting). This new Thread of mine will only run to three or four more sections, then I intend (and expect) it to fade into the mists as did (for example): "Will the real EZ999 please step forward", when its work is done.

It may serve as a useful background to a larger and more ambitious story of those times that I have in mind, but that will not appear for some time (or ever !) Don't hold your breath.

And, frankly, because I like it here ("j'y suis, j'y reste !").

----------------------

ian16th,

Almost spot-on ! The device I had in mind was a small, stubby glass block, into the top of which had been ground a curve (left unpolished). The idea was exactly the same as your Dad's beer glass. Like him, you lubricated it with soap and water and slid a blunt safety blade to and fro with a finger tip to put a new edge on.

I recall that, about '60, Wilkinsons put a very clever thing on the market (I forget what they called it). Here a shallow rectangular case (perhaps 6in x 3) had a section of leather razor strop fixed into the bottom. A section of "cut-throat" razor (some 2in wide) was fitted into a handle which rode in side tracks to and fro, at exactly the right clearance for the blade to "flip-flop" on the strop..... Worked like a dream....... £2/2/0, I think.

NB: an electric razor can give you a shave to go on parade - but you need a proper shave to go out for the night !

-----------------------------


Tankertrashnav,

Bet you can't rattle off the Confiteor (and get all the case endings right !) I still can !

I was always a bit suspicious of that Waugh story. I think the only people who could actually converse in Latin were a few specialists in the Roman Curia - and they've forgotten it all by now !

Ite, Scripta mea est.

Salutations to all,

Danny.

[Danny42C]

Part II

That more or less covers the indoors entertainments. But of course, the main attractions of the Club were outdoors. They had one (or two ?) hard tennis courts on the landward side, and then there was always the Club Beach. Reached down a rather rough and dangerous flight of narrow steps cut into the rock, it gave us safe swimming (I don't remember any history of shark attacks - but then ignorance is bliss). The Club kept, in the changing rooms, a selection of surf boards for the free use of members. These were nothing like the boards you see in Hawaii or Newquay today. They were thin, strong wooden planks only four or five feet long by about fifteen inches wide , but adequate for the surfing on offer.

I'm not sure about the size of the waves, but five or six feet (top whack) would be about right (except in the monsoon, and you wouldn't be there then). If you caught your wave correctly, and it was a big one, you might be able to get into a kneeling position on the board. But usually the most you could hope for was to plane ashore lying prone. Of course, small as it was, it could still give you a hammering if you got your timing wrong and had the "washing-machine" experience (spun round inside a big wave with a very hard board for company) familiar (I suppose) to all surfers. Bruised ribs were not uncommon, but I don't remember anything worse than that. Nor jellyfish stings, now I come to think of it. It was pleasant, lying out on the sand (not sunbathing, after a couple of years out there we were mostly varying shades of mahogany anyway). Don't remember much seaweed.

It was a good idea to be on a towel, for in their burrows in the sand there were thousands of minute crabs (from memory, about ¼ in across) which would pop out and give you a tiny nip before popping down again. Really, these were just a nuisance. Back up to the Club, a fresh-water shower, and you were ready for tiffin or dinner at one of the small hotels nearby (made a change from the Mess cuisine, which was generally good). And the beauty of this sybarite life was that it cost you next to nothing.

Full board at the "Grand Hotel" in Calcutta was only Rs10 a day then: on Rs600-700 a month you could live like a king. I'd guess that the little hotels by the Club would do it for less than half that. Mess bills and Club subscriptions were peanuts. War is Hell (well, not always)

Now who were the Club Members who were the beneficiaries of all this ? I would say that there were very few Europeans permanently resident in Cannanore. A Police Officer, I suppose, maybe a Magistrate or two, a Forestry officer or a high-level railway official. All these would be ipso facto memners of the Club. And in the "cool" season (say November - February), their numbers were increased by a strange reverse of the "Hill Station" summer exodus. What about the other Europeans (Retirees, Planters, Teachers, Hoteliers, Officials etc., who lived up there all year round ?) It gets cold at 6-9,000 ft agl (Bangalore is cool at 3,000 ft) in the winter, even in India. Snow is possible, but unlikely because of the dryer air inland.

Why stay up there shivering if you don't have to ? The Sahib had to stick it out at his desk in the Nilgiris, of course, but Memsahib, Chota-Sahib(s) and Miss-Sahib(s) could relocate for a winter month or two's holiday down on the Malabar Riviera. What's not to like ? Well, the older Miss-Sahibs, for a start. Just out of pigtails, they had other fish to fry: Cannanore was (normally) full of old, (as they saw it) married men. The bright lights of Bangalore, on the other hand, twinkled; as a major garrison town, there would be plenty of dashing young subalterns to choose from. The rest of the family went on to Cannanore and would be granted Temporary Membership of the Cannanore Club during their stay.

All this was changed by the wartime arrival of the CDRE; immediately the number of Service officers (and civilians of officer status) doubled or trebled: all would be eligible for temporary membership of the Club. Curiously, not many applied. I suppose the majority were married, older and staider men, who were quite content with a comfortable life in the Mess, enjoyed the warm sunshine, and a stroll along the Moplah beach in the cool of the evening. Surfing did not appeal.

There was another community of Britons who were, in a sense, "lesser breeds without the Law", and we shall talk of them next time.

Danny42C.

[50+Ray]

Great stuff Danny. Please keep it coming.
Ray

[Tankertrashnav]

My enjoyment of this thread is augmented by the fact that I have been watching the re-runs of Indian Hill Railways on BBC4, and can now picture a lot of the places you mention. Looking forward to further posts.

Ite, Scripta mea est.

Nice touch! I can remember that after a long, and dare I say tedious solemn mass, when the priest intoned "Ite, Missa est" I would respond "Deo gratias" with some feeling! And you are right, I doubt if I could ever rattle off the Confiteor with any accuracy - I usually just mumbled my way through it.

[Danny42C]

Part III


In Part II, I spoke of: "lesser breeds without the Law" (Kipling: Recessional).

I am, of course, referring to my troops, who were "Other ranks" ("Enlisted Men" in US parlance). This quote from my Post p.128, #2545 (...Pilot'Brevet...Thread) paints the picture:
..."A Service officer would be accepted without question as a temporary member of any British Club in India. These Clubs were the hubs of all British social life, and until near the end apartheid was the rule; no Indian would be allowed in even as a visitor (except Maharajahs!) Before getting too hot under the collar about this, remember that there was nothing to stop Indians forming their own Clubs (and keeping us out), if they so wished. But then their Caste system would require an infinity of mutually exclusive Clubs.

There was a hierarchy of British Clubs, the august Bengal Club of Calcutta (think Athenaeum) granted temporary membership only to officers of the rank of full Colonel or equivalent. I got in for lunch once, with an Assistant (RC) Principal Chaplain (who rated as a Group Captain), whom I'd met on leave. The rules allowed him to bring me in as a guest, and we smuggled in my gunner, Keith Stewart-Mobsby, who was still a Warrant Officer, disguising him as a Pilot Officer with one of my caps and a pair of my old rank cuffs. This was very reprehensible, of course, and the padre would have been drummed out of the Club had it been discovered, but Keith was commissioned soon after that anyway, and we had had a good lunch into the bargain.

The status of enlisted men - British Other Ranks - BORs -was markedly lower. Again this stemmed from pre-war days, when an officer would be upper-class, relatively well educated, probably public school and Sandhurst. His troops would all be working-class lads, apart from the rare "gentleman ranker". My father (who had spent the better part of his life in the ranks of the Army) told me once that the troops of his time were quite happy with this as the "proper" state of affairs, preferring it to serving under an officer who had risen from the ranks, and whom they regarded as being "just one of us", however good he might be.

The BOR was treated as a second-class citizen. He was paid only the rupee equivalent of his UK pay. He travelled second-class on a Warrant. No profit in that. And he was barred from the Clubs. This was not pure snobbery; the numbers involved would have hopelessly swamped them; it was simply impracticable.

This meant no social life for the troops outside barrack and canteen. In the larger towns Service Clubs were set up for all ranks and did their best to entertain them, but in smaller places this was not possible. In Railway Institutes (effectively Clubs set up by the Anglo-Indian communities who ran the railways) our troops were welcome. BORs sometimes bitterly referred to themselves as "the White Wogs"; there was some truth in this; any Indian, no matter how high his caste, came below us in the pecking order"...

So it was in Cannanore - and everywhere else in India. There is no use railing against the injustice of this; it was simply the way it was and always had been. So my chaps could get no further than the front door of the Club (if, for example, they had an urgent message for me). One tiny concession is on record: from the ORB it appears that the Club organised a Christmas party for the ORs (Army and RAF) in '44 (in McInnis's time). But the offer was not repeated in '45: I suppose because the numbers, both Army and RAF, had greatly increased by then.

My people were housed in the permanent Sergeant's Mess and in the Army barrack blocks (not in tents, as the number of "other ranks" had not increased in proportion to the number of officers and civilians of officer status). They were luckier (?) in that they had slow-turning ceiling fans, which just about stirred up the hot air without producing much cooling. The food in the Army Messes was reasonable - which did not stop the eternal grumbles, but that has always been 'par for the course'.

But what amenities could I offer my people ? Well, the Army had set up the "Clover Club" in what had originally been the Regimental Institute, but a piano, a billiard table and a couple of table tennis tables don't take you very far. The ORB records that we organised inter-service football and hockey matches on the airstrip: neither are my games (so I did not take part, but later some of my supernumeraries did). Incidentally, the "Clover Club" name carries an unfortunate connotation: the original expression was, it seems: "As happy as Pigs in Clover"- but we now know it with a slightly different ending ! Either way, it was not very complimentary to the "Pigs".

Apart from that, there was always the sea to splash about in. Off the airstrip, the beach was too narrow and rocky, the only safe beaches were the Club beach (from which they were excluded) and the Moplah Bay beach (the other side of the Fort), where there were miles of sand.

Cannanore was an attractive place, golden sands, soft breezes, whispering palms down to the high-water mark - everything a Hollywood producer would want as a location for a 'Tropical Island' film. Indeed, you'd not be surprised to meet Bob Hope and Bing Crosby strolling along. There was one noticable absentee - there was no Dorothy Lamour ! But that problem was standard in most overseas assignments. And it has never been put into song better than by the Sailors' Chorus in "South Pacific" ("There is Nothing like a Dame").

"Taking one consideration with another", it was better than being in a basha in some Godforsaken, unpronounceable hole in Burma.

That's it, folks,

Danny42C.

[Warmtoast]

Danny

I recall that, about '60, Wilkinsons put a very clever thing on the market (I forget what they called it). Here a shallow rectangular case (perhaps 6in x 3) had a section of leather razor strop fixed into the bottom. A section of "cut-throat" razor (some 2in wide) was fitted into a handle which rode in side tracks to and fro, at exactly the right clearance for the blade to "flip-flop" on the strop..... Worked like a dream....... £2/2/0, I think

You're not confusing it with a Rolls Razor? I bought one of these self-sharpening razors from the "Edinburgh Castle" gift shop as I was on my way to 5FTS (RAF Thornhill) in Rhodesia in 1951 - it worked superbly well. The idea was to place a normal safety razor blade in the Rolls and it automatically re-sharpened the blade against the leather stop - this could be done dozens of times and saved a fortune in not having to buy replacement blades from Gillette or whoever.

[Union Jack]

You're not confusing it with a Rolls Razor? - Toastie

As demonstrated by an admiring "cousin"!:ok:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6w1IxGeVNow

Jack

[binbrook]

Never got to try it myself but my father had one before the war. In the 60s the company was taken over by a John Bloom who made twin-tub washing machines somewhere in the Balkans. There's more on Rolls Razor (http://www.gracesguide.co.uk/Rolls_Razor). Sorry about the drifting thread.

[Danny42C]

Warmtoast and Union Jack,

Fair Cop, Guvs ! Of course it was the Rolls Razor. Apologies to all concerned.

Warmtoast,
..- it worked superbly well. The idea was to place a normal safety razor blade in the Rolls and it automatically re-sharpened the blade against the leather stop...
This has me foxed. Mine came with a section of "cut-throat" blade permanently fitted, and I cannot think how a normal razor blade could be fitted in its place. Perhaps there was a different model designed for the purpose ?

binbrook,
...somewhere in the Balkans. There's more on Rolls Razor. Sorry about the drifting thread...
No apology necessary, my dear Sir. This is exactly what has made "Pilot's Brevet..." great, and there is an obvious association between the Threads. There is a tale which may make this even more obvious - but its keel has only just been laid. Watch this space.

Danny.

[Wander00]

I recall my dear old Dad having a Rolls razor - nearest he ever came to having a RR! ISTR it came with a box about the size of a pencil case with a strop built in. He fitted the razor into the box and flicked razor up and down the box to sharpen the blade. I guess it was an attempt to fill the gap between a cut throat and a safety razor. He swore by it.

[Warmtoast]

Union Jack's link and Wiki show I was wrong about the Rolls-razor using standard safety-razor blades. I put it down to memory after 65-years - Sorry!
But it was still a useful piece of kit that worked well and saved me pounds at the time.

[Stanwell]

I have a Rolls automatic razor strop as mentioned above - formerly belonging to a WWII RAAF airman.
If anybody would like it in exchange for a suitable donation to charity, PM me.

[Fareastdriver]

This meant no social life for the troops outside barrack and canteen

In my experience of Asia I would have thought that there was quite a lot of social life available; and quite cheap, too.

[Pom Pax]

Danny a question about repatriation what factors determined priority. I ask because my Uncle must have been nearly the first demobed. I know he was not in the mob but the rules must have been much the same.
He was a junior NCO, TA in the R.A., he would have been near the upper age limited when becoming full time in 1939. He went East in the summer of '42. initialy to Ceylon. Later to Chittagong and eventually down the Chinwin and Irrawaddy via Mandalay to Rangoon. Now he was on demob leave by VJ Day and probably had been for several weeks already. So he must have got a very early boat back even if they now came via Suez.

[Danny42C]

Stanwell (#18), old son - I think you're on a hiding to nothing there ! The only Rolls Razors left now will be in some museum. The electrics have taken over (although there are still some hardy souls scraping away with Gillette' s finest).

I like the Philips (rotary) myself.

Danny.

[Danny42C]

Pom Pax (#20),

...He went East in the summer of '42. initialy to Ceylon. Later to Chittagong and eventually down the Chinwin and Irrawaddy via Mandalay to Rangoon. Now he was on demob leave by VJ Day and probably had been for several weeks already. So he must have got a very early boat back even if they now came via Suez...

I am a bit puzzled about this, too, but hazard a guess as follows:

As he went out in summer '42, he may have got lucky and been repatriated before Japan surrendered in August. The normal rule was "THERE'S NO DISCHARGE IN THE WAR". But as he had nothing to fight in the UK, and as an "old soldier" would be in an early Release Group Number, maybe the authorities had decided to "jump the gun"'.

Another possibility: was he on disembarkation leave on VJ Day ?
...what factors determined priority...
Your Demobilisation (Release group) Number depended on how many "points" you could amass. You got so many for age, so many for being married, for number of children, for overseas service, and for everything else you could think of.

The more points you had, the lower your Release Group number, and people were called for in order of that number. Or that was the idea, anyway. Worked fairly well.

Danny.

[Danny42C]

Fareastdriver (#18),


...In my experience of Asia I would have thought that there was quite a lot of social life available; and quite cheap, too...

(Seventy years ago, in towns) Cheap - but nasty, and you might come away with more than you bargained for ! :=



In the bundu villages, not in your worst nightmares ! :eek:


Danny.

[Pom Pax]

Thanks Danny,
I think you got it "was he on disembarkation leave on VJ Day ?". Such matters were not explained to a 7 year old.
I was staying with my Uncle and Aunt in Cricklewood when I was woken at I think about 10.15 p.m. by train whistles, vehicle horns, shouting (and fire works?) whether I dared get up or waited until breakfast to ask what all the noise was about. Anyway the answer was "its all over", dim me needed more explaination.
I remember my Uncle took me everywhere and he was very smart in his uniform. On the buses we generally traveled free or for the minimum fare (I expect this was so there was a ticket to flash at an inspector)

[Danny42C]

As I hinted, in the "Military Life on the Malabar Coast..." Thread, I have a (true) story to tell, worthy of the the imagination of a Somerset Maughan, although told with only an iota of his skill. So now, if the Moderator will allow me, I am going to read you a Play ("wot I have wrote", as Ernie Wise used to say) based on it. And it will not be a Play, nor even the Book of a Play, but rather an extended reviewer's synopsis of a play, as it were. And it will be written almost all in the third person, with very little dialogue. It will be in the form of two Acts and and a number of scenes, and I shall call it "Interlude", for that is what it was. And I can assure the Moderator that I appear in the second Act, so it deserves a place in this Forum.

And it is the story of six months in the life of a (then) young lady of my own age in India in the final year of the war, and its immediate aftermath. I shall call her June (which was not her name, as the lady may yet live, tho' it is doubtful). And those looking forward to a bonkbuster or bodice-ripper are going to be sadly disappointed.

Danny42C.

[gopher01]

I remember lusting after the device as described for sharpening the razor blades, it belonged to my grandfather, ( a retired QMS in the R.A.) and hoped to acquire it one day but on his death it went to his son and then down to his sons so it was lost to me for all time. However I still wet shave, it seems more real some how.
And the Latin mass was still of use in my times, detachments in Italy and around the world meant you could attend and join in the local congregations worship, a small thing but of comfort when away from home!

[Danny42C]

I begin with a quotation from Kipling:

"Lived a woman wonderful,
May the Lord amend her !
Neither simple, kind nor true,
But her pagan beauty drew
English gentlemen a few
Hotly to attend her".
(South Africa)

and a caveat:

In relating her life and loves, a young lady (like Johnson's "Man in lapidiary inscription") is not upon oath.

June was the only (I think) child of a prominent British family in Bangalore. Coming to marriageable age in the early years of the war, she had been wooed and won by a young Army officer. He must have beaten off considerable competition, for she was a very attractive girl indeed. Not conventially beautiful, with rather a Slavonic cast of countenance, with wide grey eyes and high cheekbones (think Linda Kozlowski in Crocodile Dundee). To this was added a perfect figure and a sparkling personality. It was the Wedding of the Year in Bangalore, and in due course a baby boy arrived to make the picture complete.

Then her Captain was posted away up North. It must have been somewhere civilised like Delhi or Calcutta, for it would have been possible for them to accompany him. She (knowing herself far better than he knew her) pleaded to do so. But he decided that they would be better and safer staying behind with her parents in Bangalore.

(And so precipitated the disaster which was to follow. Yet in his place I would have done the same. The enemy was at the gates, there was no certainty that they could be held against him. If he did break through, then they [a thousand miles to the south] should stand a good chance of getting out in time).

Now she could pick up her social life pretty well where she left off . Her baby would be no hindrance. He would be cared for, 24/7, by an ayah and her family. The British mother out there could spend as much (or as little) time with her offspring as she wished. Some spent little indeed. It was not unlike the nursery arrangements in well-to-do villas at home in late Victorian or Edwardian times. Children were to be seen and not heard (and not seen all that much, either). You might suppose that these expatriate children would grow up emotionally crippled by the experience. Not a bit of it. In later life amost all would recall their childhood in the East as a time of warmth, light, colour and adventure. They bonded with their ayahs:

"To our dear dark foster mothers,
To the heathen songs they sung,
To the heathen speech we babbled, #
Ere we came to the white man's tongue"
(Kipling: "A Christmas Toast")

Note #: (Every expatriate family knows the truth of this: the youngsters pick up the local lingo far faster than their parents).

Bangalore was full of young grass widows like June, and as a major garrison town, there were plenty of dashing young subalterns about. Lightweight illicit romances * sprang up all over the place. Mostly these were of short duration, the young man being posted away before any damage could be done. These temporary affairs were generally tolerated, so long as they didn't get out of hand. The young ladies deemed it almost a duty to "maintain morale": after all she * might be the last white woman he'd see in years - or ever. The more mature matrons who presided over Bangalore society turned a blind eye. It had always been so out there, and pots do not call kettles black.

Note *: (In the original 1970s "Upstairs, Downstairs", there is a similar, innocent affair between Hazel and a young RFC Lieutenant),

"Send me somewhere East of Suez, where the best is like the worst, An' there ain't no ten commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst"
(Kipling: Mandalay)

(and a woman, too; and there are all kinds of thirsts)


*********%*********

[Niceredtrousers]

Consider our appetite well and truly whetted (whet?) Danny....

NRT

[ricardian]

Those who hanker after the Latin Mass can find the Tridentine Rite still in daily use by the Transalpine Redemptorists of Golgotha Monastery on Papa Stronsay (http://www.papastronsay.com/index.html)

[AtomKraft]

As a pilot in India, with a beautiful and somewhat younger local girlfriend........;)

[Danny42C]

Into this shopsoiled Eden came, as usual, the Snake. This particular serpent took the form of a young American civilian, an aeronautical engineer on contract as a consultant to the Hindustan Aircraft Company. These people were setting up to build a light aircraft for (hopeful) sale to the nascent Indian Air Force.

Some enchanted evening...these two met, and June fell for this man "like a ton of bricks". Throwing caution to the wind (yes, that old cliché agian!), she dived into a torrid love affair. It did not help that he was a (relative) fixture there: she would not be "saved by the bell". Things rapidly grew serious, then turned nasty. Her husband divorced her. @ This was not the almost casual affair that it appears to be today. There it was the Scandal of the Year. June cared little, but looked forward to a new life with her new man in the New World. It seemed a reasonable expectation.

Note @: (What happened to the boy? Who got custody? June never spoke of him and no one was so crassly tactless [or cruel] as to raise the matter).

"The best laid plans of mice and men
Gang oft agley"

(Burns)

********%********

[LowObservable]

I am already at work on the TV script.

My Dad had a Rolls Razor (we were never going to have the other kind of Rolls) and I was fascinated by its solid construction and mysterious operation, but it never occurred to me what its practical advantages might be.

And all the Kipling - Dad was a fan, as am I - and Danny's reference to Gentlemen-Rankers... That is one of Kipling's most powerful verses, although American readers will recognize it from the Whiffenpoof Song, which was adapted from K's original.

Left unsaid is what the G-R's had done to earn their exile and why it could not be hinted at. But not too hard to guess.

Poems - Gentlemen-rankers (http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/poems_gentlemen.htm)

[Danny42C]

On a sultry August night, Bangalore slept fitfully. Four thousand miles East it was bright morning as Colonel Paul Tibbets settled his B-29 into a bombing run on the hitherto unremarkable Japanese town of Hiroshima.

Three long years of Churchill's "blood, toil, tears and sweat" had passed since Air Marshal Harris had declared: "People say that aerial bombing alone will never win a war......I would say that it has not been tried yet, and we shall see". Now we saw.

The war was over. All bets were off. The Hindustan Aircraft project folded. Our Lothario hightailed it back to the States. June waited eagerly for the call to join him.

"Il y a toujours l'un qui baise,
Et l'autre qui ne soulève que la joue"
(Proverb)

As the French so charmingly put it: in every pair of lovers, one loves, one is loved. June, it seemed, was on the wrong side of this equation. The call would never come. She was left high and dry in Bangalore. She would not be alone in her misery, for now was heartbreak time. In the weeks and months to come, and in every former theatre of war, versions of "Madame Butterfly" were being played out. "One Fine Day" would be sung in many tongues. Many a Cho-Cho-San would weep for a faithless Lieutenant.

Worse was to come, for now she had really blotted her copybook. She had betrayed her gallant soldier for a civilian, and a foreigner at that, had got herself divorced and had now been dumped. She was the Scarlet Woman du jour. I will not say "of the Year", as there were too many contenders for the title. All round the world (not least in Britain), "Discretion Statements" were being hastily penned against the return of a vengeful warrior (himself virtuous from lack of opporunity). Tearful confession would be the order of the day, for his mother would surely "shop" you even if no one else did.

In Bangalore the knives were out. Tongues wagged viciously. The First Stone Brigade were out in force: they had their Woman Taken in Adultery. Life grew increasingly unpleasant: she was defenceless. "Why not get out of town until this blows over ?", suggested her few remaining friends.

It was good advice and June took it. As a companion, she chose another grass widow of her own age, whose husband was (I suppose) stuck half way round the globe, waiting for a ship. Now the pair had to decide: "where to ?" Ootacamund, the popular Hill Station, would be no good. "Ooty" was Bangalore-on-the-Hill; good news travels fast; she would be every bit as ostracised there. But way over on the coast there was a little place with a few decent hotels and a British Club with its own bathing cove.

Just what the doctor ordered.


********%********

[Wander00]

For the other side of the coin, read "The Fishing Fleet" by Anne de Courcy. A friend borrowed my copy, and found reference to her aunt!

[Danny42C]

The two girls hopped off the train in Cannanore, booked-in at the "Beach" Hotel, had dinner, and trotted round (as one does) to the Club next door. One lone woman would have raised eyebrows: two were perfectly acceptable. There they added greatly to the Gaiety of the Nations - in particular to my little group of RAF officers, which formed most of the junior membership of the Club, and into which they were promptly assimilated. (Finders, Keepers).

I do not remember the Friend much. I've forgotten her name, or what she looked like. She seemed a pleasant young woman, and behaved impeccably, earning much silent approval as she always addressed our Colonel as "Sir". What I do remember about her was the small Pomeranian she'd brought with her. About the size of a Jack Russell, it was of a similar (choleric) temperament. Fiercely protective of its mistress, this sagacious beast could easily divine the intentions of the young gentlemen who clustered around her. To echo Bertie Wooster (?) in his misuse of Holy Writ: "It Biteth like the Serpent !"

But it did not stay long, returning to Bangalore with its mistress after a week or two. For it was becoming obvious that June no longer needed moral support. She had settled in comfortably at the hotel, found congenial non-judgmental friends (us!) and was Doing Quite Nicely, thank you - with me !


**********%**********

[MPN11]

Having just returned from holiday, and catching up on my web-reading, I'm delighted to find Danny's quill in top form [as usual]. A delightful collection of tales, Danny42C ... thank you, as always.

And, on the subject of shaving, I used one of these (http://www.ebay.com/itm/SUPERB-VINTAGE-BAKELITE-HAND-CRANKED-DRY-SHAVER-by-ROLLS-RAZOR-BOX-1938-shaving/351653853616?_trksid=p2047675.c100011.m1850&_trkparms=aid%3D222007%26algo%3DSIC.MBE%26ao%3D1%26asc%3D353 89%26meid%3Dcef91f519014495d8cc864ec552c0a88%26pid%3D100011% 26rk%3D1%26rkt%3D1%26sd%3D351645773622) for many, many years. Extremely reliable and easy to use once the handle-pumping technique had been mastered. I wonder whether my father used it in WW2?

[Danny42C]

"There was a Fool, and he made his prayer,
(Even as you or I)
To a rag, a bone and a hank of hair,
But the Fool, he called it his 'Lady Fair',
(Even as you or I")
(Kipling: The Vampire)

[extract from - but it wasn't as bad as that]

Why me ? I wasn't much of an Adonis, even then, and certainly no Fred Astaire (as Mrs D would feelingly testify). Perhaps it was that I was in command of our little group, and power is supposed to be an attraction. And I have often noticed how it is, that when a girl's Good Fairy has made her unusually attractive, the Bad Fairy will endow her with a hopeless taste in men. For whatever reason: "Danny's the boy I'm crazy about" murmered June to the Friend, sotto voce, one night in the Club. Danny (just within earshot) lapped it up (Even as you or I).

You must not imagine steamy nights under the mossie net. It was Not Done in those days - certainly not on such short acquaintance. The Permissive Society was still twenty years in the future. It was all very innocent and decorous. For a start, we were always in the crowd at the Club, the hotel or in the Mess, but never alone. (And there were weightier bulwarks against any hanky-panky).

On her part, June knew all too well that she was deep in the social mire of British India. The very last thing she needed was yet another tin can tied to her tail. And I had been brought up a devout Catholic. "You can take a boy out of a seminary: you cannot take the Seminary out of the Boy" (you can, actually, one such, Josef Djugasvili by name, is rather better known as Stalin).

So in my case:

"His honour rooted in dishonour stood,
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true"

(Tennyson: Lancelot and Elaine).


In my ample free time (for now I'd farmed out all my routine tasks to one or another of my supernumeraries), and together with the rest of my people without duties that day, we played tennis at the Club, or swam and surfed off the Club beach (she swam like a fish). After tiffin at the hotel (the Club being too small to cater), we'd laze the afternoons away until the sun was low in the western sky, swim again, then lounge in "planter's chairs" on the Club verandah with our sundowners, watching the silent coasting dhows sliding across a golden sea until sunset.

Then she'd return to her hotel, we back to the Mess, for the invariable evening ritual - shower, change into clean KD (in her case, long-sleeved shirt or blouse and slacks). Later we'd rejoin her at the Club for a quiet noggin before dinner in the hotel, or took her back to the Mess with us.

Full dark now, we'd return to the Club, dance to a wind-up gramophone, played skittles or, (most popular of all), endless games of "liar dice" * round the horseshoe bar far into the night. There were moonlight parties on the beach, where she'd dance, "flashing sea-fires in her wake" # (dripping with fluorescencse) out of the warm Arabian sea.

# (Kipling: Song of the Wise Children)

* The Prince of Bar Counter games, (it also has the effect of greatly slowing down the rate of drinking).


Christmas had come early that year.


**********%**********

[Danny42C]

Of course, it couldn't last. How it might have ended I don't know, but I was already beginning to think that it could be in tears. Then Fate, as always, was ready with the next spanner for the works. You may recall that, some time before, I'd applied for a place on the RAF Ski School in Kashmir. Now my number came up.

There was no point in my attempting to "con" her that this was a Service Duty, and I couldn't get out of it. As a Daughter of the Raj, she was quite well up in military matters. All DOTRs had been chased around by young subalterns from the time they were out of pigtails, and were well able to recognise a "jolly" when they saw it. My choice was stark.

I could call off the Course and stay with her. There'd be no trouble in putting in a substitute from half-a-dozen eager volunteers ! The war was over, Group wouldn't object, I was sure. Or I could leave her and go off to Kashmir (about ten days before Christmas). This would be a renunciation, and we both knew it. My little group waited in delighted anticipation. It could go two ways. Either I would ditch the ski Course, in which case one of them was in line for a month's free skiing, all found. Or I would ditch the girl and go off to the snows: she would then need consolation, and that was available in spades ! Which way would the cat jump ?

I hesitated for a day or two, then Kipling (as so often in India) pointed the way:

"A Woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke"
(The Betrothed)

And a month's free skiing is a momth's free skiing ! You do not pass up a chance like that ! "I wish I were coming with you", said June wistfully. So did I, but that was clearly quite impossible. One of our band, whom I shall call Alan (which is not his name as... etc) was with us. Of course he knew her well. "Look after her till I get back", I told him. They smiled.

"What a chance - and what an idiot !" clicked the vicious tonga bar"
(Kipling: As the Bell clinks)

(The Tonga was a one [or in this case, two] pony trap. The traces jingle on the draw bar, the lovelorn passenger of the poem makes up self-mocking couplets to the rhythm of the ponies' trot).

Off I went to the snows of Kashmir, and spent a pleasant month scrabbling up and slithering down a Himalayan mountainside, then "pony express" down to Srinagar. I didn't hurry back. June might still be in Cannanore, or she might not. On balance I thought not. Even before I left, her mother had been bombarding her with letters: "Come home and show yourself !" (for of course her absence from town had been noted, and the [wrong] conclusion drawn).

I stayed in Srinagar for a couple of weeks, having a good look at the place, had a silversmith make me little silver identity plates for my watch strap (they fell off after a few weeks !), and found a bookbinder who bound my logbook with some very fine-grained dark green leather. It was/is a lovely job, my name incised in gold leaf (good as new still), and a nice little set of pilot's wings embossed in the centre. All the gold leaf has worn off these over the years, but you can see a very faint trace of the outline if you hold it to the light in a certain way.

You might wonder why I would have my logbook with me on a skiing trip: I have wondered about this myself, but I suppose you'd have your log always with you, as it was your most treasured possession, and you couldn't afford to lose it.

Then a terrifying ride in a country bus down the mountains to 'Pindi, and after that I plodded down the stepping stones of the Indian railway system down to Yelahanka, booked in at the RAF station there, and got a signal away to my Unit. Next morning a VV flew in to pick me up.

"I don't know whether I ought to tell you this", said the pilot uneasily, "but June and Alan are engaged".




*********%*********

[Fareastdriver]

Phew! and again, Phew.

[Wander00]

A book, a book....................

[Molemot]

Ahhhhhh......the "What ifs?" of life......paths diverge by accident or design.

[Danny42C]

Fareastdriver and Wander00,

Thanks, chaps - but no book, I'm afraid ! (Final Scene soon).

Danny.

[MPN11]

At least June wasn't [technically] "soiled goods" thanks to Danny's innate gentlemanliness :)

[Danny42C]

It stung a bit. "Well", I said at last, gloomily, "I can't compete on those terms ". Nor could I. I would be returning to the UK soon, and leaving the RAF. I could not keep a cat, much less a wife *,on the salary I would be going back to at home.

Note *: There was in those days a curious convention that the husband went out to work and "earned the bacon"; the wife stayed at home, did the housekeeping and looked after the children. This arrangement, which had served humanity well since the dawn of time, is of course now completely non-PR, passé, and generally regarded with derision.

And in any case I'd no intention of marrying June or anybody else. I was not in love with her - nor she with me ! Really, when I came to think of it, this was the best of all outcomes - and I was "off the hook".

I could not blame her. "Tout comprendre, c'ést tout pardonner". A girl must look to her future. Now that she had successfully "gone to ground", her next priority had to be a new husband to restore her position in British Indian society, to "make an honest woman of her". As I'd proved a non-starter, she'd had to go for Plan B. So everything went smoothly when I returned to Cannanore, we all accepted the changed situation gracefully and there were no reproaches. "This has so much against it that it will probably work", I mused to June. Gravely, she agreed.

Privately, I thought Alan a fool. Not on account of her recently displayed "form", but rather from the fact that, of all the young ladies that a man out there could bring home to Mum, a Daughter of the Raj was about the worst possible choice. These girls had never had to lift a finger for theselves in their whole lives, everything had always been done for the Miss-Sahibs. They could not boil an egg, and had no idea which end of a broom to pick up - there would always be someone who could and did. From the time they were out of their convent schools they had been besieged by ardent young men, regarded this as their natural right, and saw no reason why it should not continue. In short, they were spoiled rotten. It was not their fault, but that of the system which had made them so. Now imagine such a creature brought back to cold, grey, war-weary Britain, probably packed into a small semi with her in-laws - for housing was desperately short. It's not a pretty picture, is it ? You might as well shove a bird of paradise into a hen coop and expect it to settle down.

In any case I was far too busy to worry about my loss. My airmen and officers were vanishing, day by day, for repatriation on release, while I had to organise the disposal of the CDRE's remaining gas stocks, then was involved in a bitter altercation with 225 Group over the destruction of my remaining three Vengeance. On March 12th we flew them to Nagpur for scrapping. I would not sit in a cockpit again for nearly three years. At the end of April I was on my way home myself, after handing over to Alex Bury who would have the task of closing the unit down.

It would have been nice to know how they got on, but it is far too long ago and far away to be worth bothering about now. Nothing remains but an old man's fading memory of a few week's idyll by the shores of a tropic sea.

And the Fool ? Well, to reverse Kipling:

"Most of him lived, but some of him died"



THE END

[Danny42C]

MPN11,

Thanks for the compliment ! But she was already "soiled goods" from the circumstances of her divorce. Her concern now was not to make her bad situation worse.

She was not a "bad" girl - merely one who had made a single terrible mistake. She had staked everything on this man - her happiness, her child, their future, her reputation and her position in British Indian society. And he had let her down.

It was impossible not to feel sorry for the girl - even though she was the author of her own misfortune.

Danny.

[Danny42C]

Wander00 (your #34),

Have not read the book, but the "Fishing Fleet" was, pre-war, a well known part of the social life of British India. The attractions were obvious - an oversupply of eligible British bachelors with princely salaries; tales of a life in a large and luxurious bungalow amid wide lawns; no more manual work, for Indian servants would take care of every need; an immediate leap in social status almost to the top if the tree; a lovely climate for most of the year (and when it got too hot), three months up in a "Hill Station" where (unencumbered by a husband) the opportunities for a bit of infidelity were on every side. What's not to like ?

In consequence, many spinsters in their mid-twenties, who suspected that they were (or soon would be) "on the shelf", cast about until they found a member of their (or a friend's) family out there, and wheedled out of him an invitation to come and visit "for the Season" (the optimists only booked a single passage).

And if their optimism was justified (for it would have to be an unfortunate girl indeed who could not "make a killing" in those circumstances), then they wouldn't need a return passage. The remarkable thing was, however lowly a setting they left behind in Britain, how quickly they morphed into "mem-sahibs", almost indistinguishable from the "real things", the ex-Daughters of the Raj, in their assumption of natural superiority and authority.

Danny.

[Danny42C]

molemot (your #41),

Couldn't have put it better myself ! Que serà, serà !

Danny.

[Fareastdriver]

Should you have watched that TV show about those aged celebs visiting India as an option for retirement things haven't changed a lot.

[rlsbutler]

For a young bachelor arriving in Singapore in the early 1960s, friendly advice would be offered about the pool of young ladies that he might meet. Some were succinctly categorised as FMFE.

That would be Failed Marriage Far East.

[Danny42C]

Fareastdriver (your #48),

Yes, a good programme, wasn't it ? I would suppose, for an active retiree, that it could be a good bet. Even now, your money would go a whole lot further. Do our pensions get indexed out there, do you know ?
...things haven't changed a lot...
Except that everything looks much cleaner (and probably smells much sweeter !) than in my day.

Bit late for me, though !

Danny.

[Danny42C]

rlsbutler (your #49),
...the pool of young ladies...
He was fortunate ! The War stopped the "Fishing Fleet", as all shipping space was needed for troops. And it multiplied tenfold the number of young unmarried British males in India. The Memsahibs and the Daughters of the Raj had the field to themselves. "Pool ?" - you were damned lucky too see even one at a distance !

There were no British women's services in India (apart from QAs and our PMRAFNS). (Mountbatten had Wrens in Ceylon). The Government of India recruited local WACs (?), who wore a kit similar to the US pattern, for service in the larger cities. As these attracted a horde of Anglo-Indian girls, the DOTRs did not volunteer, as a rule.

Danny.

[MPN11]

For a young bachelor arriving in Singapore in the early 1960s, friendly advice would be offered about the pool of young ladies that he might meet. Some were succinctly categorised as FMFE.
That would be Failed Marriage Far East.In the later 60s, the daughters on the Station seemed to be the preferred option for us young ones.

Although in today's world I suspect there would be howls of protest ... I regularly picked up my squeeze at the end of her school day in my Sprite, before heading to one of the many swimming pools! ;)

[Rossian]

....and possibly a good read, would be "Plain Tales from the Raj". It was a radio programme a few years ago and all these quite old Memsahibs talked about their lives in British India. Absolutely fascinating.

The Ancient Mariner

[Danny42C]

Rossian,

Don't remember hearing it, but sounds like a good idea. It was a society of its own, now vanished for ever, might put in a few words about it myself some time before I pop off.

The title, of course, is borrowed from Kipling's "Plain tales from the Hills" (in the sense of the "Plains" of India). I believe it was this collection of cheap little "paper-backs" which made Kipling's name; they were supposed to be intended to while away the hours on interminable rail journies; they were for sale at all main rail stations and you would leave them in the compartment when you got off.

As I've said before, you need a good working knowledge of India (or rather of British India, which is no more) to really appreciate Kipling's genius - and in return, if you read him, you get a feeling for those days.

Danny.

[rlsbutler]

Now that was a very good series.

It came out in (as I remember) the early 1970s. Late on Sunday evenings, at fifteen minutes a time, it gave you something to think about every time.

Perhaps there were a dozen episodes, only one of which might have dealt with the fishing fleet. I do not remember any aviation topics, but lots of "other peoples' shop".

Still with me is the narrative of the marine pilot on the River Hooghley between Calcutta and the sea. The post was reached through a fiercely competitive exam. The work was exceedingly tricky because of the shifting sands, the stress of which usually meant early retirement. The pilots had a very superior life, operating out of the equivalent to a millionaire's yacht. Ashore they were aware of awful things - cholera, riots and massacres - but were safely carried out of their reach.

All in fifteen minutes.

[Rossian]

.....from the Raj. My aside remark about it being a good read was an aside - however I've just found and bought it for my kindle from you-know-where.

Will see me through the quiet hours.

The Ancient Mariner

[Brian 48nav]

The radio series spawned a trilogy of books, 'Plain tales from The Raj' followed by 'Tales from the Dark Continent' and lastly 'Tales from the South China Seas'. The second was about Brits in Africa and the last, Brits in the colonies scattered around the South China Sea.

Then in 2000 a similar book appeared entitled 'Out in the Midday Sun', the British in Malaya 1880 - 1960, by Margaret Shennan.

All are absorbing reads if like me you are particularly interested in our forebears in the days of empire.

[Danny42C]

rlsbutler (your #55),
...Still with me is the narrative of the marine pilot on the River Hooghley between Calcutta and the sea. The post was reached through a fiercely competitive exam...
They were greatly respected in the Calcutta community, and (rightly) very highly paid, I believe.

The "Plain Tale" which I can never forget is: "At Twenty-Two" (not an age, but a level in a deep coal mine). One shift at that level is trapped by rising water in the flooding mine; they are doomed to certain death; but an old, blind miner remembers from his youth that there is a place where it should be possible to break through the coal wall to reach a higher, worked out level from which it might be possible to escape.

In the total darkness, and relying only on touch, the old man finds the place; they cut their way through and manage to get back to the surface before the waters reach them.

India has vast reserves of coal; in the North there is a wide area where the land surface itself has been burning for decades; there are uncontrollable fires in the old pits below.

Danny.