Coming Home

  My love. Take care of yourself

  Biddy

  1945

  Trincomalee, Ceylon. HMS Adelaide was the depot ship for the Fourth Submarine Flotilla, a converted merchant cruiser, broad-beamed and with wheel-house aft. Her permanent berth was Smeaton's Cove, a deep inlet enclosed by two jungly promontories, and sitting low in the deep water, her steel decks simmering in the heat, and with a trot of submarines tied up alongside, she resembled nothing so much as a huge, exhausted sow, newly farrowed of a brood of piglets.

  The Officer Commanding was Captain Spiros of the Royal South African Naval Reserve, and because his ship served in a purely administrative capacity, two shore based Wren Writers were ferried on board each day to work in the Captain's Office, type out the Submarine Patrol Orders and Patrol Reports, deal with Admiralty Fleet Orders, and amend the Confidential books. One of these was a languid girl called Penny Wailes who, before coming out to the Far East, had spent two years in Liverpool, in the Headquarters of the Admiral, Western Approaches. When she wasn't working on board HMS Adelaide, she spent much of her spare time in the company of a young Royal Marine captain, based at Camp 39, a few miles north of Trincomalee. One of his attractions was that he was possessed not only of transport (a Royal Marine jeep) but as well a small sailing boat, and he and Penny spent most weekends in this little craft, scudding, close-hauled, across the wide blue waters of the harbour and discovering inaccessible coves in which to picnic and swim.

  The other Wren was Judith Dunbar.

  Because of the apparent glamour of their job, they were much envied by their fellow Wrens, who were left to make their way, each morning, to humdrum establishments ashore. Naval Headquarters, the Offices of the Captain, HMS Highflyer, the Pay Office, and the Base Supply Office. But, in fact, Judith and Penny found theirs a fairly demanding existence, both physically and psychologically.

  Physically, because their day was very long. The seamen worked in watches, on a tropical routine, which meant that the off-duty watch was finished by two o'clock in the afternoon, to doze the sweltering afternoon away in bunk or hammock or some shady spot on deck, and then at four, when it had cooled down a bit, to go swimming. But the two girls came on board at half past seven in the morning, having already breakfasted and made the journey across the harbour by boat. And they did not return to Quarters until the evening, with the five-thirty Officers' Liberty boat.

  The long hours would not have been so bad had they had access to a shower and been able to freshen themselves up during the course of the day, but for reasons of space, close quarters, and the fact that the ship teemed with men, this was not possible. By the time they were done with their typing and duplicating and tedious amendments to Secret Orders, they ended up sweat-stained and work-worn, with white uniforms — pristine each morning — now crumpled and grubby.

  The psychological problem stemmed from the fact that they were the only two women on board, and as well, ratings. This rendered them neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring. They were not expected — and indeed had no wish to be — on intimate or even informal terms with the Upper Deck, and the Lower Deck, starved of female company, resented their intrusion, dubbed them Officers' Bits, and watched warily for any signs of favouritism.

  Neither Judith nor Penny blamed them. The small detachment of Wrens in Trincomalee had always been hopelessly outnumbered by the sheer weight of men, and now, with the war in Europe over, the ships of the Royal Navy were sailing out from the United Kingdom to join the East Indies Fleet. So scarcely a day passed when yet another cruiser or destroyer slipped through the boom at the mouth of the harbour, to drop anchor and send ashore the first Liberty boat packed with lusty sailors.

  Ashore, there wasn't much for them to do except play football, have a drink in the Fleet Canteen, or watch some old film in the Service Cinema, a huge hangar of a place with a corrugated iron roof. They found no familiar streets, no pubs, no cosy picture houses, no girls. There were few European civilians, and the single local native village was no more than a cluster of palm-thatch huts, with mud lanes rutted by the wheels of bullock carts. And that, moreover, and for obvious reasons, was out of bounds. Inland, away from the white palm-fringed beaches, the terrain was unfriendly, infested with snakes, mosquitoes, and ants, all of which were likely to bite.

  During the monsoon, matters deteriorated even further, for the football field flooded, the roads became red rivers of mud, and a visit to the cinema, with the rain battering on its tin roof, held about as much delight as sitting inside a drum. Consequently, the ordinary seaman, once the novelty of his new posting had worn off, thought little of Trincomalee. It was known as Scapa Flow in Technicolor, and that was not meant as a compliment.

  No pubs, no picture houses, no girls.

  The worst, of course, was no girls. If some good-looking and determined young rating did manage to catch the eye of one of the Wrens, and persuade her to go out with him, there was really nowhere to take her, unless she fancied a cup of tea in a dim establishment on the Harbour Road, called Elephant House. This was run by a Sinhalese family, whose idea of really sophisticated entertainment was to play over and over a terrible gramophone record called ‘Old English Memories’.

  So, they could not be blamed. But it did not make for easy living, and so touchy was the situation that when the Supreme Allied Commander, Lord Mountbatten, descended on Trincomalee from his mountain eyrie in Kandy, and made an official visit to HMS Adelaide, Penny and Judith elected to stay below, in the Captain's office, and not line up on deck with the rest of the ship's company. They knew perfectly well that the great man, seeing them, would pause to speak, and they also knew perfectly well that such an occurrence could only stir up unnecessary ill-feeling.

  Captain Spiros, reluctant to let his two Wrens have their way, finally saw their point of view and agreed. After the important visit was over, and the Supremo was gone, he came below to thank them both for their tact. Which was appreciated but not surprising, because he was a popular captain, and an officer of both good sense and charm.

  The beginning of August now, and the welcome end of another broiling day. Judith and Penny stood on the Quarter Deck, waiting for the Officers' Liberty boat to take them ashore. As well, headed for a bit of night-life, were two of the submarine commanders, the first lieutenant, and three young sub-lieutenants, all of them looking unnaturally clean and formal in immaculate Number Tens.

  In the shelter of Smeaton's Cove, HMS Adelaide still simmered in the heat. Amidships, the swimming booms were out, trailing rope ladders, and the deep sea churned with activity, as two teams of seamen engaged in a contest of water polo, splashing and cleaving through the water like so many dolphins.

  Judith watched them, and thought about getting back to Quarters, tearing off her sweat-dried uniform and running down the path to the Wrens' own private cove, there to plunge from the swimming jetty into the cool, cleansing sea.

  Beside her, Penny yawned. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing, thank goodness. Not going out. Writing letters, probably. How about you?’

  ‘Not much. The Officers' Club with Martin, probably.’ Martin was the Royal Marine captain with the jeep. ‘Or perhaps Full Big Fish at the Chinese restaurant. Depends if he's feeling flush or not.’

  The ship's boat drew alongside, held steady with boat hooks. In the Royal Navy, a ship was known by her boats, and HMS Adelaide's were shining examples of white paint, scrubbed decks, and immaculately furled ropes. Even her crew, a coxswain and three deck-hands, had surely been picked for their good looks, for they were all bronzed, muscled, and handsome, barefoot, with pipe-clayed hats square on their brows. The Officer of the Watch gave the signal, and Judith and Penny, being the lowest rank, ran down the gangway and boarded first. The others followed: Lieutenant Commander Fleming, the captain of the submarine HMS Foxfire, bringing up the rear. The deck-hands pushed off, the coxswain opened his throttle and the boat swept away, in a great curve, bows rising, and a
shining white wake, like an arrowhead, streaming aft.

  At once, thankfully, it became cooler and Judith sat in a corner of the cockpit, on the clean white canvas squab, and turned her face into the breeze. From the harbour mouth blew in the fresh ocean air, and the boat's bows sent up curtains of spray, rainbowed in the late-afternoon sunshine, and she could taste the salt on her lips.

  After a bit, they rounded the long, wooded promontory which guarded Smeaton's Cove, and now trees gave way to rocks and feathery palms and strands of white sand. The coastline receded and the harbour — that marvellous natural phenomenon, and one of the great anchorages of the world — opened up before them. In its sheltered haven lay the greater part of the East Indies Fleet. Battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and frigates; sufficient might to strike terror into the most aggressive and fearless of enemies. A cruiser, HMS Antigua, was the newest arrival from the UK, her quarterdeck shaded by spanking-white awnings and the White Ensign snapping at her stern.

  Five minutes or so later, they were approaching their destination, the Naval Headquarters jetty. Speed slowed, the bows of the boat came down, as the coxswain prepared to go alongside. The jetty was a long one, reaching out into deep water, built of concrete and T-shaped, and always busy with the coming and going of boats, and the loading of personnel and stores. On shore, caught in the curve of the beach, lay the complex of NHQ, the Signal Office, the Administration block, the office of the Chief Wren. All of these were square and white as sugar cubes, towered over by graceful palm trees and a tall flagstaff, where snapped the White Ensign in the evening breeze. Behind, like a backdrop, rose the jungly slopes of Elephant Hill, a ridge of land about a mile long, pointing like a finger out towards the open sea.

  On the summit of this ridge, their tiled rooftops just visible through the trees, stood three important establishments. At the far end, with a view of the harbour that any right-minded human being would die for, was the residence of Captain Curtice, officer commanding HMS Highflyer. A little lower down the slope, his commander lived. The third airy and spacious bungalow was the Wrens' Sick Bay. All of these were surrounded by deep verandas, verdant grounds, and tall palm trees, and from each garden, stepped footpaths wound down through the jungle to the shore and the water. Penny Wailes, suffering from a nasty bout of dengue fever, had once spent a week in the Sick Bay, and had returned with some reluctance to the primitive simplicity of living in Quarters, missing the cool sea breezes, the forgotten joys of tiled bathrooms, and pleasant hours of total indolence, being cared for and waited on by nurses and houseboys.

  The boat was berthed expertly, scarcely grazing the padded fenders. Two of the deck-hands had already leaped up onto the jetty and secured stern and forward ropes to bollards. The officers stepped ashore, formally, in order of seniority. Judith and Penny were the last, and Judith turned to smile down at the coxswain, because she knew him to be one of the friendlier crew members. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘OK, love.’ He raised a hand. ‘See you tomorrer morning.’ Throttle open, full speed ahead, and Adelaide's boat sped away. The two girls watched it go, trailing a majestic curve of foaming wake, and then, side by side, set off to walk wearily the last leg of their journey back to Quarters.

  The jetty was a long one. They had only reached half-way when they heard footsteps pounding down the concrete behind them, and a voice. ‘I say…’

  They stopped and turned. The waiting boat had docked and unloaded its cargo of shore-going officers. The man was recognisable in no sort of way, and Judith frowned in puzzlement and, indeed, some annoyance.

  ‘I'm sorry…’ He caught up with them. A lieutenant commander RN, his starchy Number Tens stiff and new-looking, and the peak of his cap jammed low over his forehead. ‘I…I didn't mean to yell like that, but I saw you, and…aren't you Judith Dunbar?’

  Still at a total loss, she nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. I thought I recognised you. I'm Toby Whitaker.’

  Which didn't help at all. Judith had never known anybody called Toby. She shook her head in some confusion.

  By now beginning to look a bit embarrassed, he ploughed resolutely on. ‘I was your uncle's signal officer in Devonport. Captain Somerville. I came to your aunt's house in Devon, just before war broke out. Captain Somerville had to go to Scapa Flow…’

  The fog cleared. But of course. Memory flooded in. Lieutenant Whitaker. And they had sat in the garden together, at Upper Bickley, and he had smoked a cigarette. The day that, in retrospect, she always thought of as the very beginning of the war.

  ‘Of course I remember. I am sorry,’ she apologised. ‘But it was all so long ago.’

  ‘I had to have a word.’

  ‘Of course.’ All at once she remembered Penny. ‘This is Penny Wailes. We work together. We're just on our way back to Quarters.’

  ‘Hello, Penny.’

  ‘Hi.’ But Penny had more on her mind than casual introductions. ‘Look, don't think me frightfully rude, but I'm going on ahead. I have to get changed because I'm going out. I'll leave you two to catch up on each other.’ She was already moving off. ‘Nice to have met you. See you tomorrow, Jude.’

  She gave a casual wave and was on her way, long brown legs and white shoes going at a brisk clip.

  Toby Whitaker said, ‘You work together?’

  ‘Yes. On board HMS Adelaide. She's the submarine depot ship. Moored out in Smeaton's Cove. We work in the Captain's Office.’

  ‘Who's your captain?’

  ‘Captain Spiros.’

  ‘Sounds Greek.’

  ‘He's actually South African.’

  ‘So that's why you were coming ashore in an Officers' Liberty boat. I couldn't quite work it out.’

  ‘It's also why I'm so grubby. We're on board all day and we can't even get to a shower.’

  ‘You look all right to me.’

  ‘I'm sorry I didn't recognise you. The thing is, I was at Whale Island for two years before I came out here, and because all the sub-lieutenants came through on courses, I know the face of just about every officer in the Navy, but I can never remember any of their names. I keep seeing people, and I know I ought to know them, but of course I don't know them at all. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Only a couple of days.’

  ‘HMS Antigua?’

  ‘Signal officer.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And you?’

  Side by side they walked on, slowly.

  ‘I've been here about a year. I came in September 1944. After D-Day, I volunteered to go overseas, to France, I thought. The next thing I knew I was on a troop-ship sailing through the Indian Ocean.’

  ‘What was that like?’

  ‘All right. A few submarine alerts once we'd got through Suez, but thank goodness nothing more. The ship was the Queen of the Pacific; in peacetime she was a frightfully luxurious cruise liner. And after Quarters in Portsmouth, she still seemed luxurious. Four Wrens to a first-class cabin, and white bread. I ate so much white bread, I must have put on pounds.’

  ‘You don't look like it.’

  ‘It's too hot to eat out here. I live on fresh lime juice and salt. Salt's meant to prevent heat exhaustion. In the old days, they called it sunstroke, and nobody would dream of going out of doors without his solar topi. But now, none of us ever wear hats, even on the beach or sailing. Did you know that Bob Somerville's a rear admiral now? And that he's in Colombo on the C in C's staff?’

  ‘Yes, I did know. In fact, I'd planned to go and call on him when Antigua docked in Colombo to take on fresh water. But we didn't get shore leave, so my plans came to nothing.’

  ‘That's a shame.’

  ‘Have you seen him yet?’

  ‘No. He's only been there just over a month. But I got a letter from him. The phone system here is impossible. There are about four different exchanges and one invariably gets through to the wrong one. He sounded very chipper, and said he'd got a handsome residence to live in, and that if I wanted I could go
and stay with him. So next time I get some leave, I might just do that. My last leave, I went up-country to stay with some friends called Campbell who have a tea-plantation near Nuwara Eliya. My parents used to live in Colombo, you see. I lived there too, until my mother took me back to England. The Campbells were friends of theirs.’

  ‘Where are your parents now?’

  ‘I don't know.’ They walked steadily on. ‘They were caught in Singapore when the Japanese invaded.’

  ‘Oh God. How bloody. I am sorry.’

  ‘Yes. It's been a long time now. Nearly three and a half years.’

  ‘No news?’

  Judith shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You're related to the Somervilles, aren't you?’

  ‘Yes, Biddy's my mother's sister. That's why I was living with them in Devon.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘You must know that Ned Somerville was killed. When the Royal Oak was sunk in Scapa Flow?’

  ‘Yes. That I did know.’

  ‘Right at the start of the war. So long ago.’

  ‘Five years is a long time. What's Mrs Somerville doing? Does she still live in Devon?’

  ‘No, she's in Cornwall. I have a house there. She came to stay with me soon after Ned was killed, and when I joined up, she simply stayed. I'm not sure if she'll ever go back to Devon.’

  He said, ‘We have a house near Chudleigh.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My wife and I. I'm married. I have two small boys.’

  ‘How nice for you. How long since you've seen them all?’