A difficult decision still had to be made, however, because the signals chief, Flight-Lieutenant Power, called me into his office and asked if I would care to stay on a few more years. He did so perhaps because some weeks earlier the wireless operator of an aircraft had mentioned me in a report saying I should be thanked for the way I had worked under difficult circumstances. Or maybe the question was put to me because I was a volunteer and not a conscript.
An answer was wanted there and then, as I stood stiffly, and baulked at the blunt enquiry. I was tempted to stay on, as happy in Malaya as I had ever been anywhere, wireless operating a compatible job I could have done to the end of my days. Had time been given to think I might well have said yes, but then felt slightly disloyal when a voice in me insisted on saying no which, as things turned out, was the correct decision to have made.
Having committed myself, I played with the notion of using my service qualifications to get a Postmaster General’s Certificate of Wireless Telegraphy, so as to become a radio officer in the Merchant Navy. If I didn’t want to take that amount of trouble I could re-enlist into the Royal Canadian Air Force, and receive twice as much pay for the work I was doing now. All I wanted was to live without effort, and do the kind of work I liked, as well as have the big decisions made for me.
The last weeks pulled along, the refrain of ‘roll on the boat’ moaned around the billet instead of said in a tone of hope and expectation, as if the moment would never come. The so-called Emergency had lost its excitement, and took on the ding-dong character of a crime wave that would — as indeed it did — last for years. Trains between Kuala Lumpur and Singapore were sometimes shot at from the bush, but the more murder and mayhem perpetrated by the bandits the less it seemed they could expect any kind of success.
After signing off from my last wireless watch a dozen of us were motored with full kit and a suitcase to Prai railway station. We travelled to Kuala Lumpur in a carriage with wooden seats, changing after dusk to one with bunks for our comfort, but which produced more sweat than sleep. In twenty-four hours we reached the same old Empire Dock at Singapore and, on 23rd July, our troopship Dunera, of 11,000 tons, was played off by the bagpipes of a Highland band.
Standing on the lower deck while crossing the Bay of Bengal a drop of water that splashed the back of my hand tasted like acid, the ship tumbling comfortably on through the monsoon at an average rate of twelve knots, not much more than the speed of a bicycle. Every four days I turned my watch-hand one hour in the direction of tomorrow, a mechanical gesture suggesting that even on a troopship a future of some kind might be possible.
At times I regretted leaving Malaya, sentimentally touched when ‘Beyond the Blue Horizon’ was played on the ship’s tannoy. Unlike my usual extravert self I preferred as much isolation as I could get. Up in the morning before most others I shaved in peace and put on a clean uniform, because after eight o’clock sea water only ran through the showers.
Asian deckhands wielded hoses almost as thick as their bodies, steely anacondas of salt water sluicing towards the scuppers. The usual marching tune brayed at ten from the speakers, while the knotted rope of the days was rewinding us back to Europe. There was nothing to do except now and again do as you were told, so I played patience, went to the canteen for a pint of beer, had a game or two of darts in the swaying saloon, and read (among other books) The Confessions of an Innkeeper by an amusing though snobby type called Fothergill.
On bulkhead duty I stood by steel doors in the very guts of the ship, which were to be shut flush if the sea broke in — whether from stray mines or icebergs I couldn’t decide — keeping my nightmare of a sudden wall of water well under control. Staying awake all night and sane was nothing to a wireless operator, but if any water did rush in it would be impossible to get off the ship from so deep down.
In the Red Sea the showers were warm and oily to the skin, and lime juice tepid. Falling asleep on deck in the sun, sweat from my body streaked out over the wood like piss from a dead-drunk. I should have known better, but managed to conceal the burned skin as we again crossed the Passage of the Israelites, and went through the Canal by night. A few days later Pantellaria was circled on my map, the glow of its lighthouse more attractive because Italian was spoken on the island.
Orders were tacked up on passing Gibraltar for changing into heavier Home Service uniform, back to sharp creases, and a cap badge hard to glisten in the salt air. Hammocks were slung in the claustrophobic warmth below, away from roughening weather, and one had to bend double on coming down late so as not to bump the undersides of those already ensconced. The duty NCO walked around flashing his light to see that all was well, or maybe to check that no one had gone missing over the side.
A stormy sea did not spoil my appetite, and perhaps from boredom I went balancing on goat’s feet up and down the companionways to fetch breakfast from the galley and deal it out: a large tea urn, basket of fresh bread, a plate of butter, a stone jar of bitter and excellent marmalade, and a steel pan of eggs, sausages and tomatoes.
In the Bay of Biscay, feeling in my haversack for the last Malayan cheroot, and finding shelter out of the soulful wind to light it, I climbed to the highest deck for a better view of the turbulent water, windows glowing in the white cliff-face of the bridge, the whole boat shuddering, lifting and churning its way forwards. I felt at the summit of my power (and indeed happiness) as if I had already lived for ever and saw a kind of future that only those who live from day to day can envisage — empty but without end. The absolute fearlessness of standing on the edge of a cliff in no danger of going over gave confidence to face whatever might be in store. The beautiful morning had ended, but with everything coming my way.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-four
Heredity is the cause: circumstances only exacerbate, though some years passed before the statement could be formulated. On being told at the demobilization camp at RAF Warton in Lancashire, after an all-night train journey from Southampton, that an X-ray showed sufficient signs of tuberculosis to make it necessary for me to stay on for an unspecified length of time for treatment, it was as if a bolt of electricity had passed through my biological system, to which my brain was indubitably attached.
Such a stunning fact put me into a depression as deep as the euphoria on the ship had been high. Even if thought had been forthcoming, no amount of it, under the circumstances, could turn the clock back. It seemed inconceivable that someone like me should be tainted with the disgusting disease of consumption, yet science, as I had always believed (and was unable to deny it now), did not lie. Up to then I had imagined that you did not go to a doctor unless your limbs were broken, or you were bleeding copiously from numerous wounds, at which you could justifiably be rushed into a hospital. Nor did you visit a dentist unless in agony from a face like a football. It was a matter of: I stand, therefore I’m healthy; and now, still solid enough on my feet, I was said to be fit only for a hospital bed. Simplicity had gone for ever.
My self-esteem was sliced to the quick, a mood metronoming in those first few months between rage and self-pity. The intensity of the shock began a dislodging of tectonic plates that needed half a decade to settle into place. From being, as had been foolishly believed, the master of my fate, I had to acknowledge that Fate was a malicious knock-me-down that would take much living with.