1914 - War Declared
1915 - Dartmouth College
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1917 - Off to Sea

Between the wars
My only other contact with "Intelligence" in the Royal Navy was in a lighter vein. It occurred in the affluent interval of prosperity between World Wars I and 2, and it concerned a remarkable Lieutenant Commander, liked and known by us all as "Shaky the Sleuth." He was the Intelligence Officer on the staff of the Commodore, Hong Kong who flew his broad pennant above the remains of a onetime sailing warship, later comfortably fitted out and berthed in the tidal basin of Hong Kong Naval Dockyard. The "Shaky" part was a mild affliction. Had he been wired up to a seismograph, the needle would give a maximum recording daily around 7.30.am, then settle down gradually as Shaky's metabolism faced the challenge of climbing through his mosquito net into another day. When the vibrations dropped to a gentle rhythm, it meant Shaky's Chinese boy, Ah Fong, had appeared and was wrapping his master's fingers round a cold glass containing a powerful horse's neck (brandy and ginger ale). For a full minute, Shaky and Ah Fong would regard one another in a silence only interrupted by a gentle sip sip tinkle until Shaky's nose contacted the slice of lemon in the bottom of the glass, which he handed back to Ah Fong. Ah Fong received it with the air of a witchdoctor accepting security from a client for the loan of another day. The deal clinched, Shaky rose, tightened his multicoloured sarong, kicked on sandals and set course for his bathroom along the passage, Ah Fong taking station astern to see his master didn't turn from the passage too soon and fetch up in the Chapel. By today's yardstick, this kind of behaviour could write anyone off as an alcoholic, drug addict or both. In those days, the word "alcoholic" hadn't arrived. People certainly had DT's out East, from which they recovered, died, went bonkers, or home. There were teetotallers; there were also four-leaved clover. To most normal folk, drink was as socially compulsive as food. One sweated continually and profusely. Alcohol barely remained in one's system long enough to strike it a glancing blow.

To examine more closely the character of Shaky; although he had missed promotion to commander, he hadn't missed much else. He was small, slim, and neat. His white uniform was always spotless; beneath his uniform helmet, he looked like an immaculate mushroom. His receding hair lay shining on a high forehead beneath which a long thin nose fitted logically into a long thin face. A few rust marks, mixtures between flacks and freckles, blended into his ruddy complexion. His blue eyes always looked straight at you and though they always looked wet, they never ran. He was courteous, punctilious, reliable with a steady smile for everyone after 9am. Some say the reason he never had breakfast was because being wished "Good morning" unnerved him. No one knew the origin of Shaky's somewhat exclusive shake. Most of the time, it was hardly perceptible. His hands were steady enough, but if you watched carefully, you might notice a slight shudder, occasionally, pass right through him from top to toe, as if a light-footed sparrow rather than an ungainly goose had walked over his grave. As the shudder passed his larynx on its downward journey, it sometimes interfered slightly with the word he happened to be saying. The shudder then departed with an extra shake, leaving that small frame almost, but not quite, at rest. He was a crafty centre-half at hockey and played off 9 at golf, generally winning, (as long as he had Ah Fong as his caddy). He also got some fine scores in the Hong Kong Club bowling alley, especially when Ah Fong was helping at the skittles end. Ah Fong was, indeed, an essential part of Shaky's equipment. Some Chinese boys are cheerful, eager to please. Ah Fong was a one man ageless "boy" without expression, who didn't even look eager to live. Yet when Shaky's cabin was being painted out and he had to sleep at the Club, Ah Fong persistently curled up in the passage outside his master's bedroom door, however much the Club Secretary protested. Professionally, Shaky was a shrewd sleuth. As intelligence work goes on round the clock, Shaky went round with it. Socially he made it his business without making it look like a business to know everyone in the colony.

At that time, the Japanese Navy was extremely curious about ours. When a Jap cruiser squadron was sent to Hong Kong to makeelooksee, Shaky unlocked the gates and pretended to show them everything. They couldn't understand, and being more suspicious than curious, they often cut short their mission. Technically, Shaky was a bachelor, but he liked the ladies and they, and everyone else, liked him. He never got fussed. Both typical and endearing was his technique for dealing with misfortune. If he missed a short putt, or made some error, he didn't get cross; he just smiled and murmured gently "It isn't Shaky's day." But, when anything struck him as being untidy or badly organised, such as the farewell parties in pausing liners, given to friends leaving the Colony, he waded straight in and sorted it out. First, he persuaded H.E. The Governor that, for intelligence reasons, it was essential for him to have, at least, two week's notice of everyone's departure from Hong Kong. When the liners' departures appeared in the local newspaper, Shaky checked with his list and picked those (and who could pick better) he reckoned deserved a party. He then circularised his especially composed "SEND" memo. This consisted of "party deservers", characters with a brief summary on their habits. Anyone wishing to bid them God Speed was asked to contact Shaky's office for further details. Once Shaky knew which, and how many Senders to expect, he could plan. Was a present called for? What flowers? How about press, photographers? Would a few words from ... (the selection here ranged from H.E. to Lulu, the ever popular "Mum" of the prostitutes at Lyndhurst Terrace) be appropriate? Balance sheets and cost per Sender was sent separately, afterwards. All very neat and tidy. "Operation Send" always unfolded as smoothly as a skein of silk. Shaky had found his metier. Not only did he know the skippers and deck officers of the visiting liners, he knew their barmen, head waiters, stewardesses, bandleaders.. above all, he knew a surprising amount about the departers themselves.

In an isolated community like Hong Kong, where 40% of the social atmosphere was CAT, he was shrewd enough to make each Send party so personal that it couldn't, possibly, be compared with any other. The Victorian General's Lady was once heard to mourn the passing of straw boaters! At her Send party, everyone of both sexes including the ship's captain, wore one. A certain Judge always sang "Onward Christian Soldiers" in his morning bath. His rendering was recorded by hidden mikes in his bathroom. His liner left Hong Kong with his morning hymn blaring loud and clear across an astonished harbour. The hospital Matron once told a patient of her passion for jade. An exquisite sample was what she found hanging round her neck when Shaky kissed her goodbye. A popular, but impecunious naval lieutenant was returning home after two years, to a loving wife and far too large a family for him to have afforded on the China Station. When the "Visitors' Scram" bell clanged on board the Rawalpindi, Shaky slipped an envelope into his hand containing a generous voucher on a London store, and a medical pamphlet on contraception.

Most famous people visit Hong Kong some time or other. When the late Sir Noel Coward's turn came, Shaky persuaded him to write appropriate verses to fit the tune "Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish Ladies". Needless to say, the results were racy but not rude masterpieces. As the liner started slipping away from the jetty, Shaky would martial the Send party and conduct them in a boisterous chorus of the appropriate verse. One might well compare the whole Operation Send to the performance of an orchestra churning out good cheer with Shaky conducting, not from a rostrum but, weaving amongst his players, keeping the rhythm with glass instead of baton, allowing no one and nothing to sag. If there was any special business to be done, it just happened. No fuss, no awkward pauses. The warning bell signalled a crescendo allegro, the "Scram" bell sparked off fortissimo with Shaky shooing ashore first the elderlies, then the youngsters and, last of all, himself. The Chinese jettymen all knew the drill to a split second. Having removed the other gangways, the last one waggled clear on its castors, then halted 2 feet clear of the liner's side. A pause, a squeal, then Shaky's form taking a flying leap through the ship's square port onto the gangway pulpit. From ship and jetty, a spontaneous cheer went up for the small white "conductor", the sadness of departing friends didn't get a look in. Sea appointments for officers on foreign stations normally last two years. Shore appointments like Shaky's, last a bit longer. He applied for, and got, an extension; but his second application was turned down. It was time for Shaky to go home. There was, naturally, much discussion amongst "Senders" about Sending Shaky. When they invited him to organise the party himself, Shaky had "Much pleasure in accepting your kind invitation provided that, after all your support in SENDS Nos. 1186, I put up the drinks for my party SEND 187." But that didn't stop the Regulars from giving him a present. So many insisted on subscribing towards it that a small gold salver was eventually chosen with a separate book containing Senders signatures on vellum. What a party it was. Shaky had asked the lot, and the lot minus those essential to keep Hong Kong on an even keel that morning was there, including H.E. and the Heads of Everything. Everyone was in cracking form. Shaky brooked neither sorrow nor sadness; shaking, bubbling, kissing with a liquid baton in either hand, he conducted his masterpiece. Lulu got a bit tipsy but won the day by throwing her arms round H.E.'s neck and proclaiming him her favourite customer. The warning bell came and went. The "Scram" bell followed as solid wedges of people squeezed through the square port, popping onto the gangway like corks and pouring down the steps onto the jetty. A chosen chorus ranged in front of the Royal Marine Band, all set to deliver yet another verse to their anthem which started "Farewell and adieu to you, Shaky the Sleuthhound". Away went the hawsers, 3 guttural belches from the great Empress of Britain's siren; the rumble of her thrashing propeller, a pause, a squeal, then Shaky. Nothing could stop him. The foreman on the jetty, realising that this time Shaky was the ”passenger•, shouted orders to get the gangway clear. Everyone else on the crowded jetty realised likewise, except Shaky. He cleared the widening gap by inches and landed neatly on the pulpit, small and alone. Instead of the usual applause, there was dead silence. As he lifted his arms for a last wave to the ship, the gold salver caught the sun. He looked at the signature book in the other hand. The ship was out of reach gathering way. Whether or not he was saying it to himself, it was not Shaky's day.

At the end of March 1942, I wrote from Keppel in a letter to my Mother; "Not much of a letter, I'm afraid, but it's late and my bunk is beckoning. I'm fit and well, but never in my life have I been worked so hard or in such discomfort. All the same, I wouldn't have it otherwise."

The following pages are out of order in the manuscript and do not appear to link into the pages extant.

To be continued....