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| Bath time with our Bearers |
When I left you last, it was late 1942 and our troop train had arrived at Madras from Bombay. Now it was time to prepare for the flight to our airfield in the district of Cuttack, East India. Landing in the jungle was like entering a completely different world. I couldn't have been any farther from home.
We were young men in the prime of our lives eager to fight ... and terrified of scorpions, snakes and the Indian kite hawks that hung lazily in the air, then dive-bombed our food. Our Bearers, on the other hand, were fearless.
Technically these locals were servants, but to us they were like a second mum. I don't know how we would've survived had it not been for our assigned Bearers. They did everything!
Their duties included keeping our bamboo basha huts meticulously clean, repairing the netting on our bunks to prevent malaria-carrying mosquitoes from worming their way in, washing our clothes, fetching our tea and meals, fanning us, bathing us in tin tubs and generally caring for us as though we were their own.
They were particularly talented when it came to dealing with scorpions. We had been warned not to trifle with these dangerous creatures or attempt to capture them, as their sting could be deadly. As soon as one came into sight, our Bearer would leap into action, getting its attention with a lit match and somehow encouraging the scorpion to twist around and bite its own tail, resulting in instant scorpion suicide!
We were grateful that the Bearers had a pet mongoose, seeing as the favoured prey of the mongoose happens to be snake. I'll have you know that I, in common with Indiana Jones, have always had an aversion to snakes and the ones encountered in the jungle are significantly more fearsome than the harmless English garden variety.
One evening my fellow air-gunners and I were lying in our bunks when a ferocious battle commenced in the hut. We didn't dare get up to investigate and lay there collectively holding our breath for what seemed like half an hour.
Eventually the room fell silent and we drifted off to sleep. Upon waking and surveying the damage, we were relieved to see an extremely large, very dead, snake and a smug victorious mongoose.
Along with the Bearers, we enjoyed the services of the Punkawallah, a servant who had the monotonous task of using a pulley to activate the punkah fan. He would sit outside the window of the Sergeant's mess hall operating the fan to create a mild breeze for those enjoying a few brews inside.
We'd play a game of tossing empty beer cans through the window, awarding points for making contact with the Punkawallah, who would holler loudly to let us know when we'd hit our target. I have my suspicions he occasionally signaled a hit when it hadn't, to allow us more enjoyment.
Now, before you get up in arms thinking we were being cruel, we knew, and the Punkawallah knew we knew, that at the end of the night he would gather up all the empty "ammunition" and exchange it for beer for his own consumption. So, it was a mutually beneficial game.
Another reprieve from the misery of jungle life was a visit to the nearest small town. If you were lucky, you might win this prize once a month. Our favourite townsperson was the banana peddler, who would make sure to bring his three very pretty daughters with him to assist in selling his wares. While we didn't need any incentive to buy the cherished fruit, it was an added attraction.
We would also anxiously await a visit from the Charwallah, who would grandly arrive to camp bearing urns containing the finest teas from surrounding plantations, along with a trunk containing delectable confections.
Presentation being everything, he would lay out serviettes and carefully arrange his dainty glazed buns and virgin white fairy cakes, tastefully topped with pink icing. Our mouths would literally water with anticipation.
One memorable day, the Charwallah arrived with his trunk of goodies. An officer eagerly bit into his chosen treat, grimaced and held up the remainder of his cake, exposing the remnants of a beetle.
Sensing with horror the impending collapse of his business venture, the Charwallah took the offending object, opened his mouth and gulped down the small black fragment. After struggling to maintain his composure, he triumphantly announced, "You were mistaken, Sahib. It was merely a currant".
Not certain he'd made a convincing argument, the Charwallah then announced that he would be supplying that day's treats free of charge to honour their great friendship. We all looked intently at the officer awaiting his response.
Pondering a moment, the officer thanked the Charwallah for his graciousness and asked, without a trace of sarcasm, "Do you have any without currants?"
Ed
