
LAC Leslie (Les) Douglas, D/F Station Operator, RAF Koggala, Ceylon
Photograph taken in Blackpool, 1942
Before joining the RAF as a volunteer, my father Leslie was a Grocer’s Assistant at a shop in Harrogate, where one of his tasks was to blend tea. He and his older brother George were orphans, who lived with foster parents at Station House in the village of Hampsthwaite in Yorkshire. George joined the RAF in 1937. Leslie missed him very much and had no desire to remain at the foster home without his brother.
He went to the RAF recruiting brigade in 1940 and told them he was a member of St. John’s Ambulance Brigade, which he was, and would like to join the Medical Corps. They told him they were not looking to recruit Medical Orderlies at that time. He declined the offer to apply for General Duties, and finally accepted Wireless Operator.
His initial training took place at Blackpool, and his abilities with Morse code and signalling led them to recommend him as a Direction Finding (D/F) operator, and he was sent on to Compton Bassett. On attaining the required standards, he chose to be posted to RAF Colerne, near Bath.
Possibly due to an argument, and very brief fight, he had once got into with someone who had stolen his towel (lost kit he would have had to pay for) his name mysteriously appeared on a list of volunteers to be posted overseas.
He sailed from Liverpool on 16th March 1942 on the ‘Arundle Castle’, for an undisclosed destination, as was customary in wartime. The journey took him around the Cape of Good Hope and to India, with many stops along the way. This is the subject of another, shorter memoir, not yet transcribed, however the entries from his diary for that journey are available.
On the 24th May 1942 he left Calaba on the ‘City Of Canterbury’, which he describes as a “floating hell”. This story picks up his memoirs at that point in time…
We had a heavy monsoon rain, enjoyed a welcome shower, and dried out in the intense heat. Four days later we docked in Columbo harbour, to be greeted with a huge sign proclaiming “CEYLON TEA”. We disembarked the next day and were billeted at the British Soldiers and Sailors Institute (BSSI).
In Columbo, and for the first time in almost three months, we had a comfortable bed. All our Signals unit were together again. We had very little daily routine and were free to come and go as we pleased. There was a Pay Parade and I received 20 Rupees, a Rupee being worth one and sixpence in English money.
We, usually being Dick Jones and myself, took a rickshaw ride to the Regal Cinema to see Frederick March and Janet Gaynor in “Blossoms in the Dust”, a film about orphans. Next day we went to the Elphinstone Cinema to see Max Miller in “Educated Evans”, an equally ancient film. Apart from rickshaw rides and walks around Columbo the cinema was one of the few ways to pass the time. Dick Jones and I had a rather apprehensive walk through “The Pettah”, classed as a rather unsavoury area of Columbo at that time. Officially it was out of bounds to service personnel, which usually tempts one to find out why.
The same rule had applied to a notorious area in Bombay, and most of us had gone to find out why. That had turned out to be a revelation. It was a shabby, revolting, brothel district, and had to be seen to be believed. There were no actual walls at the front of the buildings, just iron bars from floor to ceiling, and in most of them sat a toothy, unattractive female making ‘come hither‘ gestures to male passers-by. Touts paraded up and down the street asking “Would you like nice English Lady?” or “Jiggy Jig”. I cannot imagine anyone being desperate enough to accept either of these offerings.
The walk through ”The Pettah” was not at all like that, just one long narrow street with small shanty shops here and there, and rough looking dwellings on either side. I didn’t notice any side streets, but we were too busy keeping an eye on the locals idling around, or squatting in doorways, or on the ground outside. They all stared at us distrustfully, and we smiled nervously at them. One or two ambled along a short distance behind us, and we were ready to make a run for it if necessary, but I think they were more curious than resentful. When we reached the end of the street we were not sure where we were, so decided to go back the way we had come. We still got the same stares, but nobody made any attempt to approach us. Just the same, we were relieved to be back on the main street again.
A few days later, Dick and I were posted to Koggala, a few miles along the coast. We arrived there at 6.30pm. It was pitch dark and the monsoon rains were in progress, so the camp, or at least what there was of it, was under water. We checked in at the guard hut, gave our name rank and number to the Service Police (SP) and a voice asked us where we had been stationed in England. When I said RAF Colerne the voice said “I’ve just come from there”. A torch shone in my face and the voice said “Bloody hell – it’s you!” It was one of the SPs I had known who watched the Firefighting (FF) tender. I used to take them a cup of tea and a wad from the NAAFI when I came off night duty. He told us to report to the orderly officer, who would direct us to our sleeping quarters. The orderly officer was nowhere to be found, and the only officer we did manage to contact told us to kip down wherever we could find a bed – and sort it out in the morning.
We wandered around in the jungle for nearly half an hour and eventually found a couple of beds in a hut where the lads were on night duty.
Next day did nothing to boost our morale. RAF Koggala was an absolute dump. There was a dirt road through the camp, a few Kadjan huts scattered among the palm trees, a NAAFI, and a few Catalina Flying Boats moored on a lake. Ditches had been dug two or three feet deep at various points in the camp, and were intended to drain the water away during monsoon season, but they were not fully effective. There were planks across the ditches at different points, usually close to the entrances to huts, but they were not always visible when the ditches overflowed, which happened to coincide with our arrival at Koggala. If you missed the planks you lost your balance and were up to your knees in muddy water. If this happened when you were on your way back from the NAAFI with your lunch, it was inclined to float away.
Two squadrons of Catalinas were stationed at Koggala, 205 squadron (British) and 413 squadron (Canadian) and there was no love lost between them. Fights frequently broke out between them in the NAAFI. Sometimes it was only a minor scuffle, but on occasions it was deliberately provoked. A member of one squadron would bump into another when he was carrying a tray of drinks from the bar, and the result was a free-for-all. On these occasions I usually made a hurried exit by climbing out of the window, which was little more than an opening in the side of the hut with a wooden stay holding a flap open.
The station was not yet operational. Signals section was fairly well organised but there was no D/F station. We were told we would have to locate a site and build it ourselves.
Pilot Officer Harris had the responsibility of approving and overseeing the building of all D/F stations in Ceylon, and he arrived next day. He was a short, sharp-featured chap, with a not too sociable manner. He had the reputation of being disliked by everyone he came in contact with, officers and other ranks alike. He didn’t introduce himself, he just asked a few questions and told us that LAC Bert Wright would be in charge, which was fair enough. We were just ACs, or sprogs, at that time.
We were taken to a prearranged site by PO Harris, told to get on with it, and left to our own devices.
Aerials, feeders and a dismantled wooden hut were already on site, and a Kangani (local overseer) arrived in due course, carrying a stick. A lot of work was needed here, but very little had been done. We measured out what we considered to be the best area. The locals dug trenches about eighteen inches deep and five or six feet long for the copper earth feeders which were about four feet long and twelve inches wide, with a length of earth wire attached. The earth wires were connected to the aerial masts after they were erected. It took us two or three days to get the aerials in position and the floor of the hut onto brick pillars. It was hard work in the heat even with the help of the locals.
The four aerial masts had to be erected in exact North, South, East and West positions, and were held in place by thick galvanised wire stays. The aerials were then connected individually to a sensor in the centre of the roof, and from there to a 1084 receiver inside the hut. This was powered by a bank of 12v accumulators which had to be replaced, topped up with sulphuric acid and recharged using a generator driven by a Lyon two-stroke petrol engine. We went around the site with a TR9D calibrator, testing the aerials, and were far from happy with the results. We considered the site unsuitable, but PO Harris insisted on going ahead. Over the next few days we did further tests with the TR9D, and passed bearings to an aircraft circling the site. Although we continued with construction of the station we were still doubtful about the site.
A few days later the site was officially written off as unsuitable and we had to dismantle everything and dig up the copper feeders. During this time training manoeuvres had begun against the camp, and these continued for several days. What this was supposed to achieve was puzzling as it consisted only of a few huts and half a dozen Catalinas. A Gurkha regiment stationed a few hundred yards from the camp carried out the exercise, but it was hardly likely to prove their efficiency. It only served to frighten the life out of everyone. The Gurkhas crept around the camp brandishing Kukri knives, and it was well known that a Gurkha never returned the Kukri to its sheath without drawing blood. If they took it out when not in combat, they would therefore nick their finger before returning it to its sheath.
There was no Pay Parade, on account of the manoeuvres, but we did have one bright spot. A gramophone appeared in the billet. No-one had any idea how it got there, and no questions were asked.
The following day we walked to Matta Godda, in search of a new D/F site. It was about a mile from camp, and hardly a village, just a few local dwellings. It was an isolated spot and didn’t look very encouraging, but it was not our idea. The next few days were not very eventful. We connected a telephone cable between the site and Signals section. The only way we could do this was to fasten the cable to the trunks of palm trees at various intervals. The result was that the cable snapped frequently if the trunks swayed too much in a strong wind. Apart from that, the locals were apt to cut lengths of cable to use as washing lines. In between times we had the odd trip into Galle, a few miles away, to get Cholera injections. We tried, unsuccessfully, to dodge the CO’s parade but an enormous snake appeared on the roof of the billet, causing great excitement and making up somewhat for the boredom we had endured during the ceremonies.
The next day, PO Harris decided to mount guard on the D/F site. What we were supposed to guard remained a mystery. Work hadn’t yet started on the site and there was no equipment there. I was on guard 10pm to 12pm and we had exceptionally heavy rain. Lucky me! I was on guard again 6am to 7am the next day, when we heard anti-aircraft fire overhead and everyone ran for cover. Dick Jones twisted his ankle badly and was detained in sick bay.
The monsoon rains lasted for a couple of days, and little or no work could be done at the D/F site, so we found a Rest House at Matara, a couple of miles up the coast. When we returned, the site at Matta Godda was also declared unsuitable, but we hadn’t done much work there and there was nothing to dismantle.
The commanding officer ordered everyone on Parade in preparation for a Royal visit by the Duke of Gloucester. Dick Jones went to Columbo for an x-ray on his ankle and next day was admitted to hospital at Mt. Lavinia with Malaria. His condition worsened and Bert Wright arranged for me to get a lift in a staff car to the British General Hospital at Mt. Lavinia to visit him.
During the next few days we had another parade pending the arrival of the Duke of Gloucester, and more Cholera injections prior to his inspection of the camp. The arrival of a giant turtle on the beach attracted more interest than the Duke of Gloucester.
A party arrived to test a new D/F site. I missed out on that because I was picked to play football for the station against Galle. I scored a goal and we won 2-0.
It was decided to build a D/F station just outside camp, on a narrow strip of rough land a few yards from the beach, and not too far away from the original site. We set about clearing the area and digging trenches, but this time without the help of local labour. Cement, bricks and materials were transported to the site and we then stopped work until PO Harris organised local help. We laid a concrete foundation, erected the hut on brick pillars and, a couple of weeks later, despite monsoon rains and the unreliability of the local labour, the station was ready for testing.
Bearings were not as good as expected, but it was put into operation, although we had trouble with the Lyon engine right from the start and had to cease transmission due to power failure on several occasions.
Monsoon season was still in full swing, and the camp was frequently under water. We had thunderstorms and electrical storms, which were quite frightening at first. The lightning crackled like gunfire and there was often a smell like red hot metal. We had some dry days and I played football for Signals when I could.
There was no electricity in the hut, but we made a lampholder and rigged up a light from a 12V accumulator. We cleared the jungle around the hut and planted four young palm trees. The failure of the Lyon ‘Alco’ engine was a daily occurrence and Sgt. Page was kept busy putting it right.
We had a flap on at the D/F station several times. We often had unidentified aircraft calling for bearings and had to use SYKO codes, which had to be decoded. It was never a good idea to give directions to an unidentified aircraft that would bring them directly to the station. On one occasion we had a request from an aircraft claiming to be a Blenheim bomber requesting a landing, but there were no runways at Koggala, it was strictly a base for flying boats, and any legitimate aircraft would be expected to know that. On such occasions we simply ignored them as even replying gave them some chance of getting a bearing on us.
The base was not yet fully operational and things were very quiet for a while. We were supposed to work eight hour shifts around the clock. On watch 7am to 3pm first day, 3pm to 11pm the following day, 11pm to 7am next day, and then 24 hours off, but we were reduced to two operators because Dick Jones was still in hospital, so we only went on watch when aircraft from Koggala were airborne.
It was very boring at first. All we did was give occasional bearings to Catalinas doing circuits and bumps. They circled the camp, touched down, and took off again, with monotonous regularity. HQ transmitted Time Signals every hour, which all stations had to enter in their logbooks. On night shift this was sometimes the only transmission that concerned us, and we fell asleep. When we woke up we logged the odd time signal, and put ‘Nothing heard’ for the others. No-one checked the logbook anyway unless an emergency or an SOS lasted an unusually long time.
When another D/F operator arrived our station was officially classed as Operational, and aircraft from all bases began calling for bearings.
BOAC aircraft operating between The Cocos Islands and Karachi regularly requested bearings. Their operators transmitted at 30 to 35 words per minute, but they slowed down to about 20 when communicating with us.
Dick Jones was still in hospital, and his condition was becoming serious. I hitched a lift to Mt. Lavinia hospital in an RAF ambulance, located the Patient Information Board, which told me which ward he was in and it described his illness as NYD. The male orderly told me NYD meant Not Yet Diagnosed. All examinations showed nothing abnormal, but he was difficult to communicate with, and was making no effort to help them. He just lay there like a bag of bones. I stayed a couple of hours and spent all afternoon in Galle trying to get some reading material for him, before getting a lift back to camp, where I arrived about midnight.
Having got the D/F station operational we painted the hut green, so it would blend into the background and not be easily seen from the sea. We hoped. Henceforth it was referred to as The Green Box.

A Catalina Flying Boat on the lake at RF Koggala, 1943 Taken from the D/F Station on the small island.

The “Green Box” D/F hut at RF Koggala – with LAC Les Douglas, 1943
In addition to operating the site we had to carry out regular maintenance ourselves. This involved cleaning the aerials, cleaning the aerial stays and greasing them with lanolin, cleaning the insulators, maintaining adequate telephone lines, and cleaning the sensor on the top of the hut, which meant we had to fix a permanent ladder on one corner of the hut and crawl along the roof.
There was very little entertainment on camp. We had a cinema, but it was not open on a regular basis. We did get a football league going, and a hockey team. I had a regular place in the Signals team, and we won the league cup. I still have my little trophy and it brings back many happy memories. I played football whenever possible when I was on base and one day Bert Wright, now promoted to Corporal, asked me if I would like to join the hockey team, I hadn’t played hockey before, but we had a short practice on the beach and, after a couple of practice games, I had a regular place in the team. We didn’t have a sports pitch on camp, so all games were played on pitches in Galle. Occasionally, our football team and the hockey team had matches on the same afternoon, so I played 90 minutes football on one pitch, did a swift change and played 80 minutes hockey on another pitch. I enjoyed every minute of it.
When not playing sport I went to Galle, or Martara, with one of the lads from the transmitter section. Unless we were lucky enough to hitch a ride on an RAF vehicle, we walked both ways. On the odd occasion we did get a lift on a bullock cart loaded with Copra, just for the hell of it. There was a bus service, of a kind, but it had to be seen to be believed. It was a type of minibus with a fixed roof rack, the latter usually overloaded with sacks of goods, battered suitcases, vegetables, and on occasions a live goat or other animal securely tied down, with its owner squat beside it. If there was no room inside the locals climbed on top or clung to the sides of the bus using any handhold or foothold they could find.
Even though there was no glass in the windows, just an open framework, the odour inside was less than pleasant, and unless there was plenty of room inside we usually chose to walk. Not that the locals were scruffy or dirty. Quite the opposite. They washed down several times a day, which was more than most service personnel did. Koggala was only a very small village and I doubt if they had mains water. There were small wells scattered about, some close to the roadside, and one was only about fifty yards from our D/F hut, but on the opposite side of the road, and the locals did all their washing and bathing there. They drew water from the well by rope and bucket and poured it over their heads. The men, naked to the waist, always wore their Sarongs while bathing, and most women wore their Saris. A few women bathed naked to the waist, but they did so very discreetly. They did their Dhobi (washing) at the well. This was done by soaking the garments in water and bashing them on large, smooth boulders until they were clean. For a small fee they would collect our laundry from the camp. Although they used the same method, our laundry came back quite clean, undamaged, and neatly ironed. Occasionally we would find a button missing, or a slightly frayed shirt, but it was better than our efforts and there was no laundry service on camp. We did do our own for a while, but it was a Heath Robinson affair. We made a makeshift fireplace with rocks, cut the top off a four-gallon petrol can, filled it with water, and boiled our laundry in that. It worked, but it meant using a stick to agitate the contents, and going backwards and forwards to make sure it didn’t boil dry. On one occasion I burnt the sleeve off a shirt because I inadvertently left it dangling over the side of the can. We stopped doing our own Dhobi after we left it unattended one day and started a small fire in the surrounding jungle. We soon put it out, which was just as well because nobody came to see how it had started. This was not surprising because security was non-existent. There was a guard hut at the main gate, but it didn’t stop anyone entering the camp unobserved. There were several paths into the camp from the road which had been used by the locals long before the RAF arrived, and anyone could just walk in and out as they pleased. Samson, a local shopkeeper, had an open-fronted shack a few yards down the road and he came in and out of the base regularly, as did the local youngsters (house boys) who did odd jobs for a few cents. Nobody bothered to check them out.
No-one saluted officers, and they didn’t expect it. Most of them wore only shorts, shirts and sandals – no cap or toupee – so technically they were improperly dressed, and it is the uniform that is saluted, not the man.
Shortly after we had completed the site, we were moved to new living quarters at No. 45. No other address, just No. 45. It was a small bungalow type building with rendered walls, painted a very pale blue, and had obviously been empty for quite some time. We spent all afternoon clearing it out and burning the rubbish to make it habitable. The next day we had frolics with a fire in the back jungle, in another endeavour to boil clothes.
This billet was in the area of the camp occupied by the Canadian 413 squadron, and we expected resentment, given the fighting that took place between the rival squadrons, but they were in fact quite sociable. When on duty we worked eight-hour shifts, so sometimes we had breakfast in the Canadian cookhouse. We were allowed rations consisting of tins of Bully Beef, and MacConachi’s Beef and Vegetable Stew, to make our own meals if the cookhouse was closed when we came off duty. Most of these were dumped on a spare bed, and we traded some of these with the villagers for Bananas, Beer, Wine, Sarongs, and any other useful items they had to offer.
Contrary to expectations, we got on well with the Canadians. We joined in with their sessions of “Housey-Housey” which they sometimes held in the cookhouse. If we won anything they would say, good humouredly: “Another Goddam Limey pinching our pay”. The English were often referred to as “Limeys” because, in years gone by, English sailors used to drink Lime juice to counteract Scurvy.
Because of the lack of entertainment in camp we had to fill off duty hours any way we could. Apart from laying in our pit (our sagging camp bed) this meant generally scrounging around, bathing in the sea in between monsoon rains and electric storms, walking a few miles to Galle or Matara, or whatever. I played hockey and football and, when possible, spent a couple of days AWOL in a Rest House at Negombo. This was a few miles along the coast and not worth going only for a few hours. There were four of us in our D/F unit and we arranged shifts any way we wanted. I did double shifts so someone could nip off for a couple of days, and they did the same for me. Simple as that. Nobody cared as long as the station was operational.
I managed to visit Dick Jones again in hospital but was not allowed to see him. He was seriously ill, and no visitors were allowed. I wrote to Mrs. Jones and passed on what information I had. I had written to her a couple of times before but only received a reply to one of them.
We had been having a reasonably easy time, and it was pretty boring doing the same things day after day, but now the D/F station was almost fully operational things started to liven up and we had more work and less sleep. Aircraft from bases all over the island were contacting us, and we were getting SOS calls more frequently. We helped most of the aircraft get back to base safely, but I remember one occasion when a Catalina had its rudder shot off and ditched in the sea. One of the crew was killed and two injured.
[ His diary says that this was a result of ‘friendly fire’ from two fleet Fulmars, and therefore widely regarded as a ‘bad show’ ]
We were working much longer shifts while Dick was in hospital because there were no relief D/F operators, and we had little leisure time. When he eventually returned to duty we hoped to make up for lost time, but it was not to be. At 3am one morning I was roused from slumber and taken to a briefing room along with six or seven others. A bleary-eyed Sergeant appeared with a folder and said that what he had to tell us was strictly confidential. It appeared we were soon to take part in some kind of exercise. He didn’t know yet when, or where it would take place, or how many of us would be involved. In between yawns, he told us it would probably involve a short sea journey on a Dhow, and we may have to go ashore on some kind of raft. He had no idea how long the ‘exercise’ would last, or what it involved, but said we would find that out one we got there. Having said that, he picked up his folder, yawned, wished us goodnight, and went back to his bed.
A couple of days later Dick Jones and I were once again roused from sleep, told to pack a few everyday necessities, and go to the main gate. A 5cwt pick-up truck took us to Columbo and along with four other guys we went aboard a rough looking Dhow with a large unrecognisable object in tow. Even after the three-month sea journey from the UK, I was still nervous of any form of water transport, and the decrepit looking Dhow was far from reassuring because I had never learned to swim. When I saw the unrecognisable object in daylight my stomach churned. It was a raft. How it stayed afloat still baffles me. It was the most unseaworthy object I have ever seen.
I don’t know how long we were at sea, I just sat in the safest place I could find and stayed there. I also don’t remember how we got off the raft. It was probably an experience best forgotten. There were six of us. Dick Jones and myself (D/F operators) three other airmen, and a sergeant, who did nothing to inspire confidence in us. He did not say what we were doing, or why. He told us there was nothing, and no-one, within sixty miles of us, which didn’t explain why we were issued Thompson automatic rifles with an effective range of about sixty yards. We made camp on the edge of a clearing in a forest of palm trees and thick shrubbery. Next morning a native, leading an elephant walked out of the jungle on the other side of the clearing. He led the elephant casually across the clearing, grinned at us, and then disappeared into the jungle on the other side. The Sergeant made no comment, apart from handing me a short, coded message, telling me to transmit for a maximum of one minute, and then switch off.
The daily routine was always the same: short transmissions, pack up, and move on.
We received requests for bearings, but were not informed who, what or where they were from, but I could tell from their call signs whether they were aircraft, other craft, or ground stations. In all cases the procedure was the same: one call sign, one Q signal, and the letter ‘R’ for received. The wavelength was always extremely busy, day and night. Some signals were very loud, others were weak, and with transmissions being so short we had no time to relax when listening out. The fact that Dick Jones was sometimes inclined to show signs of stress did not help matters. I would not like to have had to rely on him in a tight corner.
Although Morse Code was universal the world over, methods of transmitting it were many and varied. Japanese signals were inclined to be clipped, rather than smooth, and there was certainly some of that in the background on our wavelength. It was not very loud, but it was there. Thankfully, Dick Jones couldn’t recognise it.
There was no signs of habitation, or signs of direction, we just followed a truck and camped in the best available spot. We never transmitted at the same time of day, never for more than thirty seconds or a minute, and always moved on immediately after transmitting so that, hopefully, no-one could get a bearing on our position. It didn’t take a genius to realise that this was not simply some form of ‘exercise’, and I was glad when we eventually got back to the daily routine at Koggala.
A couple of days after I got back to Koggala I was in hospital, and when I returned to duty, Bert Wright said they were having problems because Dick Jones was nervous on night shift and inclined to panic when he had to deal with distress calls. Dick asked whether I would sleep in the D/F hut when he was on night duty, and he would do my day shifts when I wanted to play football or hockey. I wasn’t too enthusiastic about the idea, but we had been such good friends since we joined the RAF, and I couldn’t let him down. We put a camp bed in the hut, and Cpl. Wright arranged for me to draw night rations. We cut the metal top off a storm lantern and replaced it with a square of aluminium. When I was needed during the night, Dick made a pot of tea, heated a tin of Machonochie’s Vegetable Stew, and we had a quick snack.
A dip in the sea was almost a daily routine, even when on duty if none of our aircraft were airborne. We never ventured very far out because I couldn’t swim, we just splashed around or lay on the beach in the sunshine. One day I looked out and Jones was much further out than usual. I called to him and he shouted something which I didn’t understand. I ran to the gun post about fifty or sixty yards away and told them Jones seemed to be in trouble and asked if someone could help. One of the Australian gunners raced down the beach, dived into the sea, dragged Jones back to the shore, made sure he was alright, and then walked casually back to his gun post. I phoned the CO, told him what had happened and then went and bought a couple of dozen bottles of beer from the NAAFI, which I took to the gun post. The Aussies were thankful and are great beer drinkers.
When off duty I sometimes spent the morning or afternoon in Galle, further along the coast. It was quite some distance from Koggala, so I sometimes took a rickshaw ride, or a not-too-pleasant ride in a local minibus, and often talked about gemstones with the local jeweller.
We often received requests for bearings from unidentified aircraft. Some responded to code challenges, and some didn’t, in which case we shut down for a while to minimise the risk of an enemy being able to take bearings on our position. Sometimes we walked to nearby villages, but it was not advisable to venture too far into unfamiliar places. There were places and events where strangers were not welcome and it was always advisable to either stay away, or employ a reliable guide. Strange native customs and Devil Dances frequently took place and the participants did not take kindly to strangers! Devil Dances almost always took place at night and, although they were some distance from camp, we could hear the weird music. Although it was strictly taboo there was a native guide who, for an exorbitant fee, would take us to see one from a ‘safe’ distance away. According to those who had paid the exorbitant fee, what took place on those occasions had to be seen to be believed. Westerners tend to regard reports of these rituals as Pagan rubbish, but believe me, they did take place. The sole purpose of these ceremonies was to drive out evil spirits from the body of some unfortunate person, but whether the ceremony was preferable to the evil spirits is a matter of conjecture. I doubt if the person possessed had any choice. I personally never took advantage of the guide’s offer. For the cost of the exorbitant fee, I could have had a years’ leave on a tea and rubber plantation in the hills, or a couple of weeks off in Kandy. Officially we were allowed only one week, and two weekends, leave in a year, but we were a group of five operators who organised our duties to suit ourselves. We were actually part of Signals section, and accountable to the Signals Officer, but apart from the occasional telephone conversation I don’t remember having any personal contact with him after the first few days on arrival at Koggala, and I was there for twelve months, maybe more. We had to have his signature on an official leave pass, and on those occasions we filled in a 259 form, left it in Signals section and picked it up when we were due to go on leave. For a small fee one of the lads in the signals room would wait until the Signals Officer was away from his office, pick up the leave pass, and acquire a few blank 259 forms at the same time. When we wanted a few days AWOL we would fill in the necessary details on a blank form, scribble a couple of numbers and undecipherable letters on top of the form and sign it “F/O Snitton”. This was a signature conjured up by Bill Rigby, one of my mates I had known since we were in training at Blackpool. We both used it on unofficial leave passes in the UK and overseas. I was asked to present my form for inspection by Service Police on more than one occasion and it was never questioned. After all, who would question the signature of Pilot Officer Snitton?
There were tea and rubber plantations up in the hill country and some of the planters made a bungalow on the plantation available to the RAF as a leave centre for non-ranking personnel. The bungalows were large enough for half a dozen lads at a time, and there was such a long waiting list that we were allowed only one visit. It was rather a long journey to the plantations but pleasant and relaxing, with one exception. All the plantations were up in the hill country, and the railways were not exactly modern. The trains were functional, but very basic. The engines had seen better days and the carriages were not the lap of luxury. The windows were not glazed, and the seats could have been more comfortable, but this was all offset by the lovely scenery. There was one part of the journey where the terrain was so steep that it became a mountain rack railway. There was a middle rail with a rack that engaged a corresponding pinion on the locomotive to provide traction, and the ‘push and pull’ method was used, with one locomotive at the back pushing the carriages and another at the front pulling them. It was a very slow climb, and I couldn’t help wondering what the consequences would be if one or both of the engines developed a fault such as a tooth or pinion breaking, or maybe one of the engines running out of steam, or perhaps a brake failure. All sorts of possibilities, of which the other passengers seemed blissfully unaware passed through my mind. I was also aware that I would have to go through it all again on the return journey.
I had a very relaxing week at one of those bungalows on a plantation at Torrington. The plantations were owned, or managed, by English, or Scots, and Torrington was run by a Mr. Thornton and his family. They were lovely. We were conducted around the plantation and shown how they tapped the rubber trees, watched tea being picked, and were welcome to wander around the plantation at will. We were also allowed to visit the Planters Club, about fifteen minutes’ walk. On the way there was a long iron bridge over a gorge or valley, and I was always happy when I was on the other side of it. I have never been good with heights, but the effort was well worth it. The club members always welcomed us and made us feel at home. The tea pickers were local girls or women, and they were very adept at the task. They had large baskets strapped on their backs, and they plucked the leaf tips off the tea trees and tossed them over their shoulder into the basket in one smooth continuous motion, never missing the basket. When the baskets were full they were emptied and the leaves transported to the factory. I do not recall how they were transported. It is just one of those things that I knew happened but did not register in my memory.
Tapping the rubber trees was quite simple. A downward sloping cut was made in the bark of the tree and the latex oozed out and was left to run into a cup-shaped receptacle at the base of the cut. Periodically, the cut was lengthened to allow the latex to continue oozing out. I don’t remember how the latex was processed. I was more interested in the tea.
I was not an expert, but I had a fair knowledge of teas from many countries and was able to chat with Mr. Thornton about various qualities and blends of tea. Tea blending was part of my job in the warehouse at Standings, a large local retail and grocery business in Harrogate, before I joined the RAF. Before my spell of leave was over, Mr. Thornton showed me around the tea factory, and the drying rooms, the crushing machines, and how the tea was packed and despatched, and said I was welcome any time I was in the area. I did manage a couple of days unofficial leave with them a few times while I was stationed at Koggala. It was heaven. I would get up at dawn, listen to the chorus of birds, walk around the village of Torrington, chat to the villagers, and on a couple of occasions spend an hour or two in the Planters Club. For a short time, the RAF ceased to exist.
Unfortunately, after I left Koggala I was moved around a lot and lost touch. I couldn’t write and let the Thorntons know because any movement of service personnel was strictly censored. To say I was disappointed was a gross understatement.
We seem to be very concerned about climate change these days, but it was happening more than sixty years ago and no-one seemed particularly bothered at the time. I remember Mr. Thornton saying that in the years prior to 1942 they could plant out the young tea tree saplings at exactly the same time every year and be sure of success, but the weather had changed, and they could no longer do that. They had to rely on their own judgement.
There was a scheme where we could have miniature chests of tea, about four inches square, sent to addresses in the UK. We were only allowed to send one at a time, and only at specified intervals, and I sent one to various people, including the St. John Ambulance brigade, of which I was a member before joining the RAF.
There were leave centres for servicemen. A sort of holiday camp, but without the facilities. They had basic entertainment such as snooker, table tennis, badminton and perhaps a cinema. Nothing exciting, just relaxation. These were only supposed to be available to servicemen who had booked in advance, but I once just walked into one of them, had a meal, and walked out. One of the lads at Koggala told me how to get in and out. It was surprising what could be found out, or done, ‘for a small fee’.
For the most part, the Sri Lankans were very friendly people but not entirely happy with British rule, as might be expected. Although it was called Ceylon by the western world, to the vast majority of the population it was always Sri Lanka, as it is now universally known. The population had many sects. Burghers, Singhalese, Ceylonese, Indonesian, Tamils and various other ethnic groups. Saffron robed Buddhist priests travelled the lengths and breadth of the island, and as was the custom, received food, lodging, and gifts from the people. Religion was very important, and a serious part of everyday life in the East, and one had to be very careful not to offend. Their customs were very different to ours. I was in one camp in India where a regiment of Indian soldiers were based. They often squatted outside their quarters, eating their meals. We had to be very careful when walking past them not to allow our shadow to pass over their food. If that happened they were very angry and cursed the offending person, before throwing the food on the ground and trampling on it. A very displeasing occasion.
The architecture of the temples in the East was indescribable. Very intricate and symmetrical. Westerners were not barred from entering the temples, but were expected to remove footwear before entering and observe the customs of that particular religion. There were always rows of Chaplis, native footwear resembling thongs, outside the entrance to every temple. They all looked alike to me, and how the owners ever recognised their own was a mystery. My friend Bill Rigby and I did enter a couple of temples and the interior was just beautiful.
Throughout Ceylon there were ‘Dagobas’ at various places. Quite often we would see them a few yards off the road. I can only describe them as a very pale blue version of St. Pauls’ Cathedral, about eight or ten feet high. There was one a short distance from our camp, but I never saw anyone stop at it. Perhaps they were symbols of a bygone age, but they never showed any signs of neglect.
The mail system was rather erratic. All incoming mail went to a central RAF post office, and from there it was sorted and distributed to various base camps on the island. There was no indication when mail was due to arrive and that was very infrequent. Outgoing mail had to be deposited in a tray in the signals office, and from there it went to the CO’s office to be censored. Anything considered to breach security was cut out. I got responses to some of my letters telling me that parts had been cut out and some sentences didn’t make sense. I always avoided mentioning names and places because these were obvious breaches of security. I saw some of my letters after I had returned home and many of the censored parts bore no relation to security. I suppose we could have posted letters in Columbo or any other town, and we probably did. Whether they got censored I don’t know.
From time-to-time we got news of what was happening in the UK when we were able to listen to the BBC, and according to my diary there were over a thousand bombing raids on Cologne on Saturday May 30th 1942, the RHUR Monday June 1st, and on Bremen Thursday June 26th. There was a BBC radio programme called “Forces Favourites” and servicemen could write in a request a favourite melody to be played for their loved ones at home. I did write on one occasion. To make sure the request was chosen from the thousands that must have been requested, I sent an air letter with a cartoon on the envelope, and asked for a request to be played for LAC Douglas and his mates at the RAF Station “Pile It On The Strip”, Ceylon. There was a popular programme on the BBC at that time by Kenneth Horne called “Much Binding In The Marsh” and I invented the name “Pile It On The Strip” in the hope that it would help get the request selected. It worked.
I chose the music for ”The Shrine of Saint Cecelia” which was popular at the time but the presenter apologised and said they would rather not play it because it might cause distress in ‘certain places’. They played my second choice “Poet and Peasant Overture”. Some of the lads on the camp heard it and subsequently christened Koggala “Pile It On The Strip”.
There are a number of things which don’t have a great deal of significance, but I mention them as they come to mind. There was an occasion when a fire broke out in the radio room, the cause of which was not clear at the time. Graham Cottee dashed in and out to save various pieces of equipment. He got a mention in despatches and was awarded an Oak Leaf Medal for action Above and Beyond the Call of Duty. He and I had been great friends since our training days and, although he was an outgoing sort of chap, he never mentioned it.
We had exams from time to time to upgrade from Aircraftman (AC) to AC2, AC1 and Leading Aircraftman (LAC). I managed to get to the latter grade, much to my surprise, because we had to answer questions on the internal construction of various transmitters and receivers, dipole aerials, conductors, resistances, valves and so forth and explain their various usages. We also had to draw wiring circuits of different radio sets, and a load of other questions concerning Direction Finding, Codes, and signals. I was OK regarding the latter, but my knowledge of some of the others was a bit rusty – those more or less fell into the territory of Radio Mechanics. Sgt. Page set the exams and I think he was a bit lenient although it could be said that the qualities required of a DF operator were mostly concerned with the ability to use equipment and communicate, rather than be able to repair it, except perhaps in an emergency.
As before mentioned, I took advantage of a fair amount of AWOL, which was a good thing because I had very little opportunity after I left Koggalla. I had seven days official leave at Kandy in the hill country, and the climate was quite mild compared to the lowlands. Kandy was quite famous for articles made of Kandian Silver and I have often regretted not purchasing one or two items, but RAF pay did not give a lot of scope for that sort of expenditure. It is a very revered place for the Ceylonese and is known for the Temple Of The Tooth (of Bhudda).
There were a number of ‘Resthouses’ scattered around the country, and there was an excellent one at Negombo, a few miles along the coast from Koggala, where I also spent unofficial leave on several occasions. It was my favourite hideaway to get away from service life. I was always welcome there, and it was in a lovely situation. I have photographs of many of the place mentioned. [Ed. I have never found them.]
We had been on the beach site for about eight months, and the radio bearings were quite good, except for one blind spot. The lake where the Catalinas were moored was on the far side of the jungle, and when they took off they were below the level of the palm trees, which blotted out their radio signals and we could not give them bearings until they cleared the area. If they were flying south we had no contact until they were some distance from base. It was eventually decided to move the D/F station to a tiny island on the lake. It was little more than a rocky hill covered in palm trees, with an empty house on top. We had to cut down the trees and demolish the house, which was declared unfit for use as a radio hut, clear the site and transfer all equipment, including our ‘Green Box’ to the site. We did have some competent help, but it was still very hard work in the tropical heat. It was then necessary to build living quarters, which was a long timber-framed hut.
His memoirs of RAF Koggala end at this point, but he spent little time after this at Koggala. His service records show that in September 1943 he was posted to Addu Atoll (in the Maldives) and then in November to RAF Ratmalana. From August 1944 he was assigned to Number 30 Construction and Maintenance Party (C & M) based at the Signals Centre in Columbo. He left no memoirs of these adventures.
After the war he returned to RAF Marham in King’s Lynn in January 1946 and was released from active service in May that year. He was released from the Class ‘G’ reserve in 1959.
In 1964 he emigrated with his family to Australia and they all returned to England in 1976.
LAC Leslie Douglas died peacefully in bed at his home in Harrogate on 11th May 2013 at the age of 92.
His son and daughter-in-law adopted a tree as a memorial to the family on the stray in Harrogate, opposite the site of the grocery shop where he worked before and after the war as a grocer’s assistant, and where he later met the girl that was to become his wife. Council regulations do not permit the scattering of human remains in public places. Some of his and his wife’s ashes have mysteriously disappeared since their cremation. Nobody knows where they have gone.
