AT THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN - by Mr. W Glyn Jones
Here is a true story written by Mr. W Glyn Jones who served in the R.A.F during the Second World War. Mr. Jones originated from Pontypool and was Headmaster at Leigh Higher Fold C.P. School for many years.
He now lives in Breightmet, Bolton.
It was a dream posting. Since arriving in Ceylon on Christmas Eve in 1942, I had spent most of my time at the R.A.F. Signals Centre on the outskirts of Colombo. Now two years later I was one of a small number of airmen detailed to set up a radio station on the tiny atoll of Kelia in the Maldives. It was to be used as an advanced flying boat base for Catalinas and Sunderlands patrolling the Indian Ocean in the war against Japan. It was the sort of island I had only previously encountered in fiction. The sleepy lagoon lapped gently against a shore of shimmering white sand. The island was just a few hundred metres wide and only a little longer.
I was welcomed to the island by a smiling Abdul Sumad. “Salaam Alaikam” he said. Literally translated it meant “Peace go with you.” Since the year was 1944, the greeting was not inappropriate. I was expected to reply with “Alaikam Salaam.”
The diesel engine, which was to be the main source of power, had survived the journey from Colombo and had been successfully unloaded. It now lay in the sand like a green-bellied monster waiting to be aroused from its slumber. The sleeping Leviathan had to be coaxed across the sand to where a site had been prepared. Just as the builders of the Pyramids had Placed logs under sledges full of rocks in order to be able to drag them along, so Abdul and his working party applied a similar strategy. Logs from palm trees were placed under the diesel engine. With chanting and heaving bodies, the move was accomplished.
The air now occasionally trembled and the throbbing of the diesel drowned the lapping of the water. Light appeared at the flick of a switch. It was not the voice of the turtle that was heard but the clicking of Morse keys. Voices could be heard over the telephone and music came forth from little tin boxes. All this was greeted by Abdul and his friends with a mixture of bewilderment and excitement. Telephones were held at arm’s length and switches tentatively flicked on and off. Furtive fearful steps were made towards the engine. A heron, which seemed permanently perched on a spot on the lagoon, looked on motionless and unconcerned. Behind her some fishing boats glided by gracefully and silently. In the water below lay quivering stretches of coral with multi-coloured fish darting to and fro.
There were many idyllic moments on the island but occasionally the peace would be disturbed. The sighting of a shark meant that swimming temporarily lost its attraction. Well remembered too is the day a large stingray found shelter under the jetty. The air was rent with shrieks as half a dozen Maldivians took steps to slay the creature. Some attacked with bayonets from the jetty. Others attacked with spears from within the water jumping to avoid the threshing of the razor sharp tail. The killing was a slow and tortuous process and not a pretty sight. More pleasant were evenings in the moonlight when we braved the mosquitoes and squatted in the sand. Sometimes we indulged in bouts of nostalgia. At other times we enjoyed such innocent pursuits as catching crabs and setting them up to race each other.
Mosquitoes however were an ever-present menace as can be seen from the following entries in my diary.
Jan 27 Arrived in Port K.
March 5 Ten flown back with malaria
March 25 Eight more flown back
On 28th March a Wing Commander and a Squadron Leader arrived on a flying visit to advise on precautions to take. A course of anti-malaria drugs was prescribed. Poor old Jacko, our only medical orderly, was having a very worrying time.
It was on the 5th May that I flew back to Koggala. But it was one evening before I departed that remains etched on my memory. A Catalina had flown in for an over-night stop before setting out on a routine patrol. The crew had joined us on the verandah of our hut. It was one of those magical moments so common in the southern hemisphere when the sun stands like a motionless ball of fire before suddenly slipping away. Between us and the sun a solitary fishing boat stood motionless in the lagoon. For a fleeting moment as the sun caught the sail, the whole scene became poppy red. I was chatting with the flying-boat’s young wireless operator. “That’s the most marvelous sunset I’ve seen in my life”, he said.
It was to be the last time he would ever see the going down of the sun. At dawn the next day his Catalina failed to gain height on the take-off and plunged into the lagoon. There were no survivors. At every Armistice Service, when I hear the words “At the going down of the sun…” I remember him.
W.G. Jones
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