Saline Drip

Collingwood's rugby team had been doing pretty well. We hadn't lost a match on our own turf and had won as many we'd lost away from home; a pretty good season all in all. So it was with some dismay that we read the notice posted on the clubhouse board informing us of additional training sessions and especially as these had been scheduled at 06:00 four days a week.

I'd set my alarm for 05:30 and rose early, dressed in my usual training garb, donned a pair of sweat pants and trotted off in the direction of the training pitch. A couple of my team mates had already arrived and we gathered together to watch a bunch of about 20 guys going through some serious warm-up routines. Who the hell were they and what were they doing at our training session? More to the point, who was that slave driver yelling at them?

The skipper arrived and berated us for a bunch of lazy bastards. We responded with the usual bi-digit salute and asked who the strangers were and what was going on?

“Oh, didn't I tell you? Those gentlemen are members of the Portsmouth Field Gun Crew. They needed somewhere to train and I offered our facilities. In return they'll let us train with them.”

Bloody cheek! They were on our ground and would kindly allow us to train with them: how kind!

A few words of introduction and we were into it. Up close, I was a bit taken aback by the sheer physical size of these guys. I was also a bit surprised by their agility; for big blokes this lot seemed extremely flexible.

The first part of the training session consisted of a series of sprints. At the end of each burst we threw ourselves prostrate on the deck, a whistle sounded and we pushed ourselves up and were away for the next burst. Nothing too strenuous, but after a few minutes I'd worked up a sweat.

Next we did a little upper body strength work. Being a prop forward, this was more in my line and I found it somewhat easier than the sprints. A number of telegraph poles had been delivered and we utilised these in our exercises. We pressed them and swung them, bending and twisting at the waist and stretching high and low. Then we were off again; three men to a pole, picking it up and jogging up and down the pitch lifting the pole above our heads and transferring it from shoulder to shoulder.

The PTI leading the session called a halt. The man at the centre of each pole had to grab on with hands and feet, hanging beneath like a sloth. At each end we held the pole on our shoulder and walked: this hurt. The poles were heavy enough, but with the added weight and the imbalance, they really made you ache and I was glad when we put them aside.

More sprints and it was notable now that the rugby players were lagging behind the gun crew.

We finished off with piggy-back races. The training session lasted around 40 minutes and I for one was buggered!

I didn't look forward to our second training session with the gun crew. I don't think anyone else did either. The session followed more or less the same format as the first; my shoulder was still feeling raw and had a strange yellow tinge to the skin.

In subsequent sessions we concentrated far more on agility but still worked on our strength too. The session times increased in length and it was tad embarrassing to find out the first couple had been cut short to accommodate our lack of fitness.

By the end of the third week there was no doubting we were a fitter and more agile bunch of rugby players than before we'd met the gunners. As the rugby season was coming towards its end though it's debatable as to whether the additional training had any beneficial effect for the club.

The field gun crew were in training for their big moment at the Royal Tournament of course, when traditionally a Portsmouth crew take on a Plymouth crew and a Fleet Air Arm crew for the title. The Royal Navy dockyard at Chatham used to be involved too, but sadly those days are long gone.

Their own training facility and spiritual home, Whale Island, was available to them again so the Portsmouth Gun Crew no longer needed to use our ground. We were invited to pay a reciprocal visit and were taken through the actual field gun run.

The guys worked us through the stages, slowly I might add, so we knew what we needed to do where and when. A second run, a little faster this time. Great fun. Finally a few of us got the chance to perform as members of their team and down the practice run we went. A marvellous experience; those two walls with the 28 foot chasm between them look quite small until you're going over them! As I said, marvellous.

Royal Naval Field Gun displays came to end when the demise of the Royal Tournament, but if you ever get to watch a field gun event live, or on television, just look for the number of plastered and bandaged hands. Slamming the gun barrel, wheels, limber, etc. around takes skill and precision; get it wrong and you're likely to lose a piece of a finger, or worse.

The Navy likes its personnel to be able to cope in any situation. You may say we were encouraged to be fully rounded and complete individuals, capable of bringing our individual skills together to work as a team. One of the methods used to promote this culture is expeditionary training.

It was the first week of February 1971 and it was bitterly cold, but clear and bright when we boarded our transport. Where we were headed we’d no idea, they’d omitted to tell us that during the survival lectures we’d attended. We’d had all the kit issued to us specially and had been divided into both groups and pairs: each group consisted of six men and we’d been paired off because our tents were of the two man variety. Everything we’d need for the next six days we’d have to carry on our backs and although you can squash a lot of kit into a Bergen, there’s not much room for non-essentials.

We larked about as the bus headed up-country and given the route I began to wonder if our final destination would be Wales. The answer to that question was obviously yes as we joined the M4 and headed for the Severn Bridge.

Anyone who’s grown up in this neck of the woods knows the SAS have a base at Sennybridge just outside Brecon and on the edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park. The location was chosen because of the opportunities the Beacons provide for rough terrain training and of course there are lakes and other obstacles too. The bus, having left the M4 east of Newport, was heading toward Brecon and the conversation had now turned to exactly where we would be dropped. I should have guessed the SAS wouldn’t want us messing up their patch, so my Sennybridge suggestion was a tad off the mark.

Our transport stopped at the village of Talybont and we transferred to Land Rovers in our respective groups. I knew Talybont and the immediate area reasonably well having spent many hours walking the hills there as well as two weekend expeds with the ATC based at the old railway station in Talybont itself.

Our Land Rover headed out past the tiny hamlet of Abercynafon, then along a dirt track onto the hills. The driver stopped and we off-loaded. We were given map-packs and an itinerary listing places or map references we must visit that first day. At each location we would receive further instructions for the next part of the exercise, and so it would go on. We set off on foot.

The first part of our march took us over reasonably easy ground although the terrain was steeply undulating. We made our first pick-up around 13:30 and decided to stop for food and a hot drink. February on the Beacons can be very cold and the weather rather unpredictable to say the least. It was cold, clear and bright now, but I knew it was going to be a lot colder that night and as we supped our tea and discussed the next stage of our route I made the suggestion that we restrict our stop to a minimum, making maximum use of the available light.

On we went following our compass bearings and as darkness fell we could see a single point of light in the distance in more or less the right direction. We headed toward the light, which turned out to be a farmhouse. Checking and double checking our map, we realised we’d missed our reference point by approximately two miles.

A quick strategy meeting decided it would be best to camp at or near the farm; we may be able to buy fresh eggs and milk, which would be a bonus. We knocked on the farmhouse door, explained who we were and asked it we could pitch tents in an adjacent field. Yes that would be fine and if we wanted water we could use the tap in one of the outbuildings. There was an outdoor toilet we could use too.

A quick draw of lots and the two unlucky people with the short straws got to walk an extra few miles locate the missed reference point and collect our instructions. I was a bit bothered as they headed off into the darkness (it was very dark by now); what would happen if they couldn’t find the right spot in the dark? Would they even find their way back? Using a compass to follow a map in daylight is a very different matter to finding your way at night.

My fears were groundless; they returned clutching our orders within the hour. During their absence, the tents had been erected and food prepared. It was still early evening, but having eaten and with nothing better to do we were about to take advantage of the quiet and sleep when the farmer and his wife arrived bearing flasks of hot tea and plates filled with bacon sandwiches: bless them, they thought we might be hungry! A second supper despatched we returned the crockery and sank into an easy, if somewhat overstuffed, sleep.

We woke in the morning to biting cold, a thick frost and a strange noise. My sleeping partner, Eddie, crawled like a caterpillar in his bag to the tent flap and unzipped. As the zipper rose, a duck’s head came through the opening. We tried to shoo the bird away, but this was a very determined duck and having forced an entrance it just stood looking at us and quacking quietly to itself. There was no sign of life from the farm and although we could hear farting noises from one of our neighbours, no movement from them either. Eddie reached out and grabbed the duck by the throat. The duck’s eyes bulged and it didn’t look too pleased with life. It beat its wings and its feet were treading air. Having been a butcher’s apprentice before deciding on a life at sea, he knew exactly what he was doing and in seconds flat the poor animal was bereft of life.

“Jesus Christ! What’d you go and do a thing like that for?”

“Oh shit…”

Ed was right though, that duck did taste good!

As we stomped our way over the land the weather changed; the clear skies were clear no longer as thick clouds rolled in. By midday it was raining and sleety mixture that both chilled and soaked us. The packs seemed to get heavier on our backs, our clothing chaffed our bodies, our boots squelched and we were thoroughly miserable. Conversation had died, each man thinking only about getting warm and dry.

Despite the poor weather we made our landfalls and were fortunate to find shelter for the night in an old stone farm building with a roof still intact. Whether it had once been a shepherds hut or a byre I neither knew nor cared, it offered protection from the cold and wet. We huddled inside and tried to get a fire going, but everything we’d found in the hut was damp and it was a miserable affair until one of the guys excused himself for a call of nature and returned with some more or less dry sticks. A bit of a forage produced more of the same and at last we were starting to warm and able to dry some of our wet kit.

Eddie busied himself with his morning’s catch, plucking and drawing the duck and I kept wondering if it had been a family pet; it was certainly not wild and was obviously used to people. We roast the duck over the open fire and although there wasn’t much to go around six hungry mouths, I’m ashamed to say it was possibly the best thing I’d ever tasted and I soon forgot to feel sorry for the farmer and his wife.

Day three of our trek and the weather had worsened. The snow had come down thick and heavy overnight and the landscape was blanketed white as we moved off. It was beautiful to look at, but the going was hard and landmarks difficult to spot.

Snow started falling again as we made our way up the side of a hill. We trudged on regardless, heading for our next reference point. It snowed harder.

We continued to climb and the snow continued to fall thick and fast. Pretty soon it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead and it seemed to me the strength of the wind was increasing. Feeling a little like members of Scott’s ill-fated party, we bent under the weight of our packs and were desperately trying to see through the driven snow. We couldn’t, so we stopped. We’d come to the top of the rise and Ian Hedley simply refused to go any further. We could all see the logic of his argument and I suppose survival instincts kicked in; we put our backs to the wind, erected the tents, made hot tea and planed what we should do next. Nothing; we’d just wait it out until we could see where we were going. Seemed sensible to me.

It snowed the rest of that day and into the night. Exactly when it eventually stopped I’m not sure, but there was nothing falling in the morning and we were greeted by a Christmas card landscape.

“Fuck me Taff, come and look at this.”

“What? While there’re dogs on the street? Not likely!”

I looked and went weak at the knees. We’d walked unsighted onto a ridge and although our ascent had been gradual, the descent was almost perpendicular. Not exactly a cliff face, but we looked down some thirty feet or so to a rock strewn bed. Had Ian not made such a fuss, we may easily have stepped over with serious consequences.

We were well behind our schedule now and found as we back tracked off the ridge and re-assessed our position we were being searched for. As the weather had closed in the Navy had called a halt to the exercise, but having no method of communicating with our groups, had waited to pick each team up from their check points. Of course we hadn’t reached ours and were still ‘in the wild’.

Praise was heaped on us by our rescuers for doing the sensible thing and waiting out the adverse conditions: we omitted to tell them we’d almost walked off the edge of the world!

They took us to a disused railway hut a short distance outside Talybont and promised to feed and water us, but first we had to get out of our damp and smelly gear and get clean. There’s a shower out the back they told us. They didn’t tell us the ‘shower’ was a hosepipe with a sprinkler-rose from a watering can attached to it and in the open air. The water, cold of course, was bloody freezing and the six of us danced around naked trying not to spend too much time under the jets from the rose. It was February for Christ’s sake and there was snow on the ground. This was no time for skinny-dipping, were they all mad?

With the arrival of December our thoughts turned to leave and the two week break we'd got coming to us to carry us over the festive period. None of us trainees were required 'aboard' during the Christmas period and the whole base seemed to take on a boarding school persona as eager faces queued up for travel passes.

Getting home for the odd weekend hadn't been a problem and I'd become quite used to catching one of the fleet of green Southdown coaches parked on Collingwood's parade ground that headed for destinations all over the UK. Travelling on these coaches was quite an experience; filled to capacity with bodies so that unlucky passengers would sit on their bags in the central isle, we'd head off in a cloud of smoke as almost everyone lit up. The return on a Sunday night was just the same; my pick-up was from the cenotaph in Newport at around 23:00, the coach having come through from Swansea or beyond. I usually managed a seat, but not always. Travel on this occasion would be different though as I'd be getting a free ride on a train courtesy of the Pusser.

The end of term feeling was all pervading on the last couple of days prior to leave. We partied in the NAFFI on the Thursday evening. Turned to on Friday morning and were told to “bugger off” at stand-easy. The astute among us were already packed and had only to collect our leave passes to be on our way.

Eddie and I had a taxi to Fareham station organised and we shared it with a couple of other guys. Finding that we all had time to spare, we grabbed beers from the buffet and wished each other compliments of the season. Someone, having already been at the bar for a while, started singing Christmas carols and we just joined in. Eddie was still wailing about the Three Kings as he boarded his London train.

Spending that Christmas and New Year with my friends and family was potentially the last opportunity I'd get for a while and I enjoyed it to the full. There was no telling where I may be in twelve months time. My training would be over and I'd have been drafted: Christmas 1971 may well find me somewhere at sea.

The two weeks of my leave passed all too quickly though and it seemed like no time at all before I was back on Newport station, luggage standing beside me on the platform, waiting for a train heading back in the direction of Portsmouth Harbour.

I wouldn’t say my life was exactly hectic at Collingwood, but it was certainly more entertaining than I’d been used to. Socially I was getting around the various pubs and clubs in the local area and having been accepted into the ship’s rugby club was also involved with their activities, including playing matches both home and away.

One of the games I played that autumn was against a side from the marine engineer training establishment, HMS Sultan; a bunch of hairy arsed stokers. It turned out to be one of those matches filled with hard graft and little sparkle and I wasn’t exactly ecstatic about my performance when the final whistle blew. My own self assessment obviously didn’t count for much though because I got a call to Lt Cdr Lewis’ office a few days later.

Lieutenant Commander Lewis was captain of the Collingwood First XV and I was a little dubious when I arrived at his office: what I’d done wrong I had no idea. As it turned out, the answer was ‘nothing’; I’d been spotted by a RN scout while playing against Sultan and selected to represent the Royal Navy Colts in a match against the Army Colts to be played at Aldershot in four weeks time. Dave Lewis was chuffed to beans that one of his guys was in the colts mix and insisted we met for a ‘wet’ in the clubhouse that evening.

The colts trained together as a complete unit on just two occasions prior to our trip to Aldershot and as some of the squad was quite far flung even then there were people missing from the chosen fifteen. Fortunately most of the forwards were Pompey based and able to train as a pack with just one flanker adrift. We got to know each other a little and worked out our line-out and strike calls along with some scrimmage techniques.

I was supposed to be part of the duty watch on the day the match was scheduled to take place, but Dave Lewis told me he’d taken care of things and not to worry about that as there’d be no trouble given I was representing the Navy.

Match day and I was released from my morning classes early. I changed into my No 1’s, collected my kit and headed for the main gate. The transport arrived and I was off.

I hadn’t been to ‘Army Town’ since I was a kid and was surprised by the reception we received as we stepped from the coach: it was hostile to say the least. We changed and went out to a practice area to warm up. The boos and catcalls following us.

Undaunted, we proudly stepped onto the playing surface in our blue and white kit. More boos. The Army arrived and the crowd went wild: I’d never experienced anything like this having only ever played for school or local club sides, but there must have been two or three thousand spectators here and they were all dressed in green!

Looking at the opposition it was hard not to notice a very large lump with the number eight on his back. Colt sides are supposed to be age restricted, but this guy looked like a real veteran and as mean as they come. Once play got under way, my early assessment proved to be accurate; not only was he big and ugly looking, he could obviously play the game and wasn’t afraid to use all the tricks he’d learned in life to progress down the field. I’m not suggesting he was a particularly dirty player; he just stretched the laws a little and was very hard to stop.

Whether they were better skilled than us, better drilled, or simply more used to the occasion I wouldn’t like to say, but by half-time the Army had opened up a healthy lead. The one-eyed support jeered us off the pitch and as we sat, heads bowed in the changing room, it was obvious something would need to be done if we were to salvage any pride in this game.

We planned to attack the man-mountain with a scissors movement, one hitting him low, the other high, in an attempt to cause pain and dissuade him from his frolics into our territory. I’m only a little over 5’10”, but being built like the side of a house it was decided taking the guy round the knees would be my role, while a 6’6” second row whose name I forget would hit him high from the other direction.

Looking back on it now, this is somewhat reminiscent of the football game from the movie MASH, which of course none of us had seen back then. Two major differences, we didn’t use drugs and we didn’t have a ‘ringer’ to bring into the game.

Our manoeuvre worked like a charm on the first given opportunity. Open play and up the pitch he came at a canter ball tucked under one arm. I launched myself at his knees from his left like an exocet missile. At the same time our lock took him around the shoulders and neck from the right. Down he went, with a kind of centre-fold. Unplanned, our hooker ran over him while he lay prone, placing a foot in the guys groin as he went. Man-mountain was removed from the field by stretcher while our hooker earned himself a virtual slap for ungentle manly conduct, or ‘unnecessary use of the boot’.

The crowd shook fists, threw stones and bayed for our blood. Without their star player the Army seemed somewhat less potent an opposition than they had been previously. Despite their best efforts, we closed the gap. Although the Army were victorious when the final whistle blew, at least the score-line looked respectable.

The post-match atmosphere was almost as antagonistic as it had been prior to the game and no less unnerving. I’m not sure whether our transport was called for early, but we beat our retreat and headed back to Pompey much sooner than I’d anticipated.

Arriving back at Collingwood, I went to collect my watch card from gatehouse (watch cards are deposited when going ashore so the Navy knows where everyone is). When I found it wasn’t in the rack, I was a little puzzled. I turned to the Quartermaster and explained my watch card appeared to be missing.

“What’s your name?”

“Right, you’re on my list. You’re absent without leave apparently, come with me.”

I started to explain as we headed for the Regulator’s Office that I’d been playing rugby for the Navy Colts, but the QM obviously didn’t give a shit: he was just doing his job.

The Regulators are the Navy’s police force. An extremely efficient and officious crew lead by the Master at Arms. I’ve never met one who doesn’t believe the cat shouldn’t be reintroduced to the service and offenders beaten raw for any minor misdemeanour.

We arrived at the Reg Office and the QM explained briefly that I’d presented myself at the gate, but was in fact AWOL. The duty regulator looked at me as though I might have been something smelly he’d trod in on the pavement and I found myself on the wrong side of a cell door. A clipboard and pen was thrust through the bars at me and the instruction to make a statement given. I was stunned.

I wrote my statement, explaining my selection for the Navy Colts and the subsequent rugby match I’d taken part in that afternoon. I also mentioned Lieutenant Commander Lewis’ involvement, hoping that would hold some sway.

In the end they let me go, but I think only because of Dave Lewis’ influence. He’d squared things with my divisional officer in order for me to abscond from the duty watch that day, but no-one had bothered to inform the Regulator’s Office so as far as they were concerned I was AWOL and deserved to be punished accordingly.

It actually took a visit from the Officer of the Day and a ‘phone call from the ‘Jimmy’ before my cell door finally opened and I stepped free.

I did have to appear before the Master the following morning and got the severest dressing down of my short life. I was reminded in words a four year old could understand that I had absconded from MY duty and that no-one, repeat NO-one could release me from MY duty, unless that person happened to be a sufficiently senior member of the Regulator’s Office. I decided there and then, no matter what the occasion was, I would never agree to anything that would take me away from an allotted duty again: did the Master scare me? Yes, he bloody well did!

As we got deeper and deeper into the theory of electronics and started to apply our new found knowledge in the practical tests set, the concept of where my life was heading finally dawned on me. The civilian world seemed to me to be getting smaller, while I was learning to maintain ever larger kit.

The diodes, triodes, tetrodes and pentodes we worked on were all fascinating things, glowing warmly in their cabinets. There was something reassuring in the way they hummed and the fact that you could remove them, swap them for other bottles, hold them in your hand and test them to check and make sure they were performing properly was even more reassuring. Still the rest of world was moving towards transistors, so why did the Navy insist on championing this somewhat redundant technology? I had no idea.

I was still pondering the size issue as I munched my way through my 'Stand Easy' sausage sarnie (the snack bar made wonderful sausage sarnies, bacon butties and fried egg sandwiches). Was smaller necessarily better? Not in my experience! On the other hand, bigger wasn't necessarily best either. A thorny problem. Life was too short, get another sandwich and a mug of tea quick!

During that afternoon we were issued with drafting request forms. These slips needed to be filled out and held all kinds of information about the individual himself and the preferences he may have with regard to where he went when his training was complete. Most of my messmates opted for frigates or cruisers, the greyhounds of the seas, and overseas service. I was obviously still hung up with the size thing, because I listed HMS Ark Royal, biggest ship in the service, among my choices. Bearing in mind that we had another six months or so at Collingwood, the choices we made were soon forgotten.

I headed into Fareham that evening with two of my new mates, Eddie Gray and Tex Peach. Tex was almost a local coming from Cosham, which is just up the road, and was going to introduce us to a couple of excellent local pubs. In true Navy tradition, we swilled beer, chatted up anything in skirts, played table football, darts and bar billiards and got completely pissed!

Staggering back through town, we stopped for chips and clutching our scran in open wrappers made a happy, harmless, if somewhat noisy crew. A bunch of skinheads in their traditional boots, braces and Ben Sherman shirts were coming from the other direction. One of these nice people reached out as we passed, smashing Eddie's supper out of his hand. A comment about Navy Bum Boys was made and Tex launched himself into the nearest skin, fists flailing. At well over six feet, Tex wasn't a small man by any means. An avid football player, he was fit too, so that made two of us. Eddie and I piled in after him: we couldn't let Tex have all the fun after all. It was no contest though, we were three while they were eight or nine and this was their turf. Add to that the fact we were drunk and it's not hard to see why we got a kicking.

A flashing blue light brought the fracas to and end as skin and Navy split in every possible direction. I doubt the police were really interested, because I don't remember them making much effort to round us up. We were battered and somewhat bruised, but with no real damage done Eddie and I made our way back to base. We had no idea where Tex was.

There was still no sign of Tex when I woke the following morning. I asked around, but no-one else had seen him either. Tex didn't turn up at all; we found out later in the day that he'd been taken to hospital.

Seems when he ran off, Tex found himself amid the skinheads. I don't know how many, but the bunch turned on him and kicked him unconscious. Broken ribs, a broken arm, cuts and bruises made up the rest of Tex's injuries.

A stay at Haslar, the RN hospital at Portsmouth fixed Tex up, but the time he needed for a complete recovery meant he dropped from our class. A second experience for me of how violent life could be in uniform.

What makes someone want to kick a fellow human half to death? I have no more idea about that than I did about the Navy's choice to continue working with valves.

With the trials and tribulations of basic training over and our passing out parade complete, a short leave was issued and were on our way home. I shared my train ride with Tit, Buster and others travelling towards the Midlands, the North West or Wales. We were full of laughter, aspirations and beer and spent our time discussing where we'd be in twelve months time while swearing eternal friendship.

The Weapons Electrical training school is at HMS Collingwood in Fareham, Hampshire. Buster, Tit and I would all be heading there in ten days time, but to different sections. My chosen pathway was to join the Radio Electrical branch of W/E, while both Buster and Tit had opted for the Ordinance Electrical branch. Sandy Saunders would be joining me as would one or two others from basic, but the majority of 35X would either be joining Buster or moving into the Control Electrical branch.

To explain Weapons Electrical in essence: Ordinance Electrical take care of the main power systems on ships and shore bases, Control Electrical maintain and control all the fighting systems aboard ships, and we Radio Electrical types look after all the communications, direction finding and RADAR kit. The W/E branch is quite diverse.

Staggering off the train at Newport with my Navy issue suitcase and pusser's kitbag, my first thoughts were of finding my girlfriend and getting a pint or several in before heading to the family home. Lesley was walking towards me, smiling and my heart beat faster as I dumped my bags wrapped her in my arms and pulled her body into my own. Stirrings in my nether region reminded me of my recent enforced celibacy and suddenly the idea of more beer didn't seem quite so important.

We exited the station to find no taxis in residence, so walked the short distance down Cambrian Road to The Greyhound. This had been my 'town local' for the past few years and walking in Lesley and I were greeted by calls of “'eh up, the fleet's in” or “Lock up your daughters, the navy's arrived” and the like. I called a general hello, found drinks already waiting for us on the bar and a number of hands waiting to grab mine: how nice it is to have friends. We joined the crowd, slurped the beer, laughed and joked but I slipped away after a little while and 'phoned a taxi to whisk us away.

Making love to Lesley that night was a marathon session pushed on by a greedy need. The first attempt was over all too quickly, but the second, third and forth were much more satisfying!

I spent my leave making my away around the various family members, drinking and having unlimited sex: absolute heaven. I even got in a game of rugby when it turned out my old friends in the Monsanto club team were short of a prop. What more could a boy ask for? The ten days soon skipped by though and as my departure drew nearer my thoughts turned to meeting up with Tit and Buster again either on the train or when I arrived at Collingwood.

My journey down to Fareham was uneventful and although I scanned the compartments I saw no sign of my mates; we were obviously travelling on different trains. I found a taxi at Fareham station and was soon paying off the driver at Collingwood's main gate. My first impression was that HMS Collingwood was much bigger than HMS Raleigh and looked a lot more modern.

One of the things you get used to in the Navy is joining new ships at strange times of the day: commonly a sailor must join his new ship before 07:00 so theoretically can travel through the night. I'd travelled down on the morning train to Portsmouth Harbour and by mid afternoon was settled in my new mess, had found my way to my designated dining hall and the location of the NAFFI.

It was late afternoon and I was laying on my bunk reading a book when the mess door burst open and there stood the two reprobates I'd hoped to find on the train. Buster was talking about food and Tit calling for beer; I navigated both to the NAFFI via the dining hall. With stomachs lined, the beer slipped down a treat; when we eventually got back to the mess we were all three sheets to the wind. We'd arrived.

The following morning I joined the rest of my new class as we worked our way through the ship's joining routine. Visits to various offices, classrooms and workshops and introductions to officers and senior rates we'd get to know during our stay at Collingwood. As Radio Electrical Mechanics our branch training would last nine months.

During the first couple of weeks our training would be cross-matched with both Ordinance and Control branches. There's a general need for all electrical types to know and understand some basic principles, like Ohm's Law and current flow. We also needed to know how to solder, wire wrap and insulate. These simple practical exercises and mathematical routines could just as easily be achieved in a large groups as in small.

Life was interesting during the working day, even if some of the theory wasn't exactly new to me. The initial training over, we split into our branch classes and got down to more complex tasks. One of ours was to build a simple valve based radio receiver. We did this from scratch, folding an aluminium base to hold the wiring harness. Valve bases were inserted into the base unit to hold the tubes and all ancillary components, with the exception of the tuning dial and power transformer unit, were mounted beneath the surface. I was stunned to find, when my ungainly beast was completed, plugged into the mains and switched on, that as a radio it worked!

Alongside our educational activities, we spent time on the parade ground and in the gymnasium. I also spent some time in the pool, for my own satisfaction as much as anything because I was determined to improve my aquatic prowess.

My off duty hours consisted of evenings in the NAFFI either with my new friends or with Buster and Tit, visits to the base cinema and trips into Fareham. I kept promising myself I'd go and explore Portsmouth at some stage, but hadn't ventured that far as yet. I'd also made a tentative enquiry about the ship's rugby club and arranged myself a trial with them. The other thing I did a lot was write letters home: we had no telephone back then, so I used to write to Lesley pretty much every day. This became a habit and continued during my time at sea, when other forms of communication were virtually non-existent. Looking back on it now, I must have kept Basildon Bond in business!

Completion of basic training at HMS Raleigh always ends with a passing out parade. All the intake's classes get to march past the Captain and his guests and it's the recruits first big ceremonial occasion. Pride of place goes to the class who've performed most consistently during their stay at Raleigh; they're honoured by being named Captain's Guard for the occasion, a role that is very high profile and much sought after.

Winning the Captain's Guard competition is a big deal and all stops are pulled out to try and make the grade. The points achieved by every individual and their respective classes are tallied and in the event of the result being close, a penalty shoot-out takes place during the last few days of the final week. The prestige that falls on the winning class also reflects on their class tutor.

We knew our class would be close because we'd performed well, but having achieved a few black marks during our stay we didn't really expect to end up in the play-offs. When PO Hollings told us we were expected on the parade ground dressed in our No 1 uniforms and wearing webbing and gaiters, we knew we'd made the cut and there were smiles all round.

Talk on the messdeck was of nothing except the coming Sunday's parade. We marched to the GI's block beside the parade ground, giving it plenty of swank and with heads held high. Pride was very much at the forefront of all our minds.

We were in competition with two other classes, there being nothing between us points wise. The final decision would be made depending upon our performances on the parade ground and the assault course.

We performed foot drill, rifle drill and continuity drill. We sparkled, but then so did 35M, one of our competitors.

The following day at the end of our normal routine we shoved off to the assault course. It was just to be us, 35X, and our main rivals, 35M. The third class had already been pulled on the previous day's drill performance.

The GI's ran through this part of the competition with us. The whole class would go together as a single unit. This meant the wall would need to be rethought slightly. No mistakes, was the order of the day. Certainly no repetition of my previous stupidity on the assault course.

A coin was tossed and the running order decided. We would be first up, so would set the guide time and be the team to beat.

We went on the whistle and performed as best we could. No mistakes, no tardiness; a good solid performance, but not one that would set the world alight. Nothing for it now, but to watch 35M and, cross our fingers and hope.

They looked very quick over the first part of the course and looking over at PO Hollings' face I knew he thought we were in second place. Of course, we didn't know which of us had been marked highest the day before so there was still some hope.

As 35M progressed to the wall I turned away, not wanting to see them complete ahead of us. I was remembering the night we'd dragged Sandy back to base pissed out of his brain and been awarded demerits. Shit!

A shout. Another. I swung round and there on the deck beside the wall was one of 35M. He'd made the same mistake I had and tried to leap and run. Foolish boy. What a break for us though. His fall meant they'd lose points and time too. We'd won!

PO Hollings was as chuffed as we were; his class were tops. We were his first charges, although we didn't know it then. That little gem came out after a few beers when it was all over. He'd done a good job with us, but I like to think we'd been pretty good to work with.

Tradition had it that classes took their tutors out on the RAS at the end of basic and we arranged to meet Mike (first names ashore) on the Saturday evening. We'd spent pretty much all of the day preparing for Sunday's parade. Cleaning, pressing, polishing, just making everything perfect. Now it was all done and we were free. Off we went into Plymouth to strut our stuff and get smashed. A hugely enjoyable evening.

Sunday dawned and we nursed our hangovers through breakfast, then started the cleaning routine all over again. Boots were freshly polished, uniforms were freshly pressed, brasses and webbing given the treatment. Church parade was at 10:30 and our passing out parade would follow. We'd done everything we could and looked superb, even if I say so myself.

Church over we mustered and collected our weapons for the guard. Standard issue SLRs but with chromed bayonets and white webbing straps.

Divisions were called and the various classes marched on to the parade ground. The Royal Marine band was doing its stuff and those people who'd come to witness their sons, brothers, etc. pass out were seated enjoying the occasion. The band broke into Hearts Of Oak and off we went, all polish and swank. We marched around the perimeter and eventually paraded in front of the dais, where the Captain and his honoured guests would be.

The dignitaries arrived, inspections were performed and eventually the various honours bestowed. As Captain's Guard, we were last to get our mention. A proud moment for us, our families and of course for Petty Officer Mike Hollings.

The band played, the big march past went without a hitch, the guard escorted the Captain from the parade ground and it was all over. Our time at HMS Raleigh was at an end. We would disperse that afternoon to our various destinations for a short leave before being drafted to our respective training establishments for specialist training. We were members of Her Majesty's Royal Navy and ready to progress.

The assault course at HMS Raleigh is much like any other assault course with all the usual obstacles. We would get three goes it during our basic training and the expectation was that our time would improve with each visit. I’d enjoyed it on our first meeting, but knew I could shave seconds off my time by using a better technique over the scramble netting, jumping from the wall as opposed to climbing down, and one or two other tweaks.

The class was sent over the course in groups of five or six and my group was third in line to go. We watched the first bunch as they performed and saw the second set away before taking our position at the start. The whistle blew and we were away.

All was going well as we progressed down the course, along the ledge, over the scramble nets, climbed the rope and swung across the water. The next obstacle was the wall.

It was obviously too high to go over singly with any speed, so we followed the usual progression: first man (me) runs to the base of the wall and stands hands hooked to form a living step. Second man is boosted to the top of the wall, secures the rope and stays there. Third man goes straight over taking the rope end for the rest of the team’s decent. Forth man joins second man on top of the wall and between them they help the rest of the team over. Lastly, the two guys on top of the wall hoist the first man up before going over themselves and running on. Last man off the wall is the first man to have arrived there. It worked more or less perfectly.

I leapt off the wall in star-shape, with the intention of being right into my stride as soon as my back foot hit the deck. Hadn’t don’t this before, but how hard could it be? John Wayne et al made it look simple enough on the silver screen. My back foot hit the deck, not quite square and I ended in a heap not unlike a sack of spuds.

Knowing the need for speed, I rolled from the fall pushing myself upright. The stabbing pain from my right ankle as I tried to stand was intense. I collapsed in a heap for a second time. I stood, my weight taken by my left leg. I stepped forward and tried the right leg. Pain. Shit!

I limped as best I could toward the climb up to the death slide. A PTI arrived, grabbed me and guided me off to the side of the course before sitting me down and removing my right boot. My ankle was already badly swollen.

They stretched me off to sick-bay where a pair of gentle WREN hands examined my ankle. An officer arrived and I knew by the red band between his lieutenant’s rings that he was a doctor. The WREN gave her opinion that my ankle was not broken; he prodded a little and manipulated the ankle nodding his assent. “Strap him up Cheever” then turning to me said, “I’m going to sign you off for light duties. Try and keep off that for a day or so.”

Walking, even with my ankle strapped, was painful. Marching was out of the question. I made my way back to the mess as instructed and found PO Hollings there waiting for me. He took one look and shook his head, the expression on his face saying “You pillock! How the fuck did you do that?”

I explained all and added what the doctor had said about resting the damaged limb. Hollings quickly wrote out a plan of the classes activities for the next couple of days, adding locations so I’d be able to follow them around. “I suppose we’ll have to arrange for you to do the exped with another class? I don’t see how you’re going to manage otherwise.”

The exped referred to was an orienteering exercise scheduled five days away and involved us being dropped in groups on Bodmin Moor with a map, a compass and an eighteen mile hike ahead of us. I really didn’t want to miss doing this with my class.

The next couple of days were a doddle. I didn’t take part in any physical activity, so just sat and watched while my colleagues drilled, spent time in the gym, etc. and walked slowly to the various lectures. I attended sick-bay and had the ankle re-strapped at the beginning of each day and by the third day after my ‘accident’ was able to walk pretty much normally. On the morning of the fourth day I hatched a plan. I had my ankle dressed as usual, rejoined my classmates and told PO Hollings that I was fit enough to return to normal duties.

A two hour stint on the parade ground caused me little discomfort, although I’ll admit to not performing with my usual gusto. I was confident that I’d manage the coming exped, with a little help.

A visit to the NAFFI stores provided me with one essential part of my plan: a two inch wide roll of surgical sticky plaster. I planned to get my ankle strapped that afternoon and to bind the fresh strapping with the plaster to add extra support. I also intended to beg, borrow or steal a roll of bandage from the sick-bay.

The morning arrived and I dressed without showering as I didn’t want to get the bandaged ankle wet. Buster applied the plaster over the top of the bandage and helped me get my boot over the top. I figured that if I laced my boot tight over the strapping, it would also add support. I packed the extra bandage and what was left of the sticky plaster into a pouch pocket.

The bus took us up onto Bodmin; we were split into groups and briefed with our individual group objectives. The teams studied the maps and discussed their routes. It was 8:00am on a fine Friday morning when we set off.

I was surprised at how well my ankle held up during the day; far from causing me any problem at all, I easily kept up with the pace of the group and indeed forced the pace on a little when it became apparent that we would miss our lunchtime rendezvous if we didn’t get our fingers out.

My passion for being outdoors is almost as strong as my passion for the sea and sights and sounds of the moorland lifted my soul. A couple of the group had undertaken bronze or silver Duke of Edinburgh’s Award and I had done some orienteering with the ATC; between us our map reading skills were more than good enough to get us through the day.

The only mishap of the exped was the near loss of Walters, who had mistaken a patch of boggy ground for tufted grass and stepped straight into a sink-hole. He’d immediately disappeared up to his waist and was sinking deeper as he struggled to get free. His sudden disappearance and the resulting screams alerted the rest of the group to his danger and we set about getting him out as quickly as possible.

The stench rising from the mire as Walters’ legs were heaved free was disgusting; his lower torso was covered in a kind of brown flecked vomit. We had no change of clothes with us of course, so as the day progressed and the sun’s heat increased the fetid Walters was consigned to the rear of the group. Interestingly his No 8 trousers still stank even after two trips to the laundry!

In Nelson's day when half the persons serving in His Majesty's Navy were pressed men, very few sailors knew how to swim. Things are different nowadays because everyone's a volunteer and one of the things every sailor has to do before s/he can serve at sea is pass the navy's standard swimming test.

Now I love the sea, but I've never been much of a swimmer. That's not to say I couldn't swim then or can't swim now. In fact I'm quite at home in the water, even deep water, but an Olympic swimmer I'm not.

They told us about the swimming test, “It's just a splash in the pool, lads. A little swim. No need to worry.” They lied!

The allotted day and time for this new trial arrived and we dutifully marched through the camp to the swimming pool with a towel, a pair of swimming trunks, a boiler suit and a pair of boots tucked under our left arm.

We stripped out of our No 8 uniforms, put on the swimming trunks, then the boiler suit (buttoned all the way up to the neck) and finally pulled on and laced the boots. The idea was, we were supposed to jump into the pool and swim a quarter of a mile then remove the boots. I remember thinking this was going to be hard, but hey it's only a quarter of a mile, I'd make it.

Next we were supposed to tread water, remove the boots, tread water again. For five minutes. No touching the bottom, no touching the pool sides.

Then we had to swim again: another quarter of a mile. Shit this was going to be really hard and I wasn't so sure I could do that.

At the end of the second swim we were supposed to tread water again, remove the boiler suit, tie the ends of the legs and sleeves to form air-traps and make a float. All the time, treading water. Bollocks, I was going to fail, I just knew it.

With our newly formed float we had to swim again, using the aid for additional buoyancy, for a further half a mile. I knew I must have gone pale because Buster asked me what the matter was? I told him. He smiled, “You'll be alright mate, don't worry.”

I did worry. I worried a lot.

The PTI blew his whistle and we all jumped in: the pool was open air and the water was bloody freezing. I started swimming. Someone had hold of my feet and was dragging my legs downwards. I looked behind me, no-one there. My feet were still developing a life of their own and trying to reach the bottom of the pool. Bugger!

I swam harder, reached the end of the pool and turned. I closed my eyes because my arms were starting to hurt, dug deep and swam harder. A whistle blew and I realised I'd completed the first part of the test.

I struggled with the boots trying to tread water waving opposite arm and leg while reaching down to undo one boot. It didn't work too well, so I tried undoing the left boot, treading water with the limbs of my right side. I eventually managed to get the boots off by drinking half the contents of the pool while sitting on the bottom. My boots were merrily walking along the pool floor, but I was free. I felt light, renewed, I could do this. I trod water. I started swimming again.

The second quarter mile was much easier than the first. I found myself being whistled at several times because I'd missed the first indicator that my quarter was complete. Thank God.

I trod water and undid the buttons on the boiler suit. Getting the thing off my arms wasn't as easy as I'd hoped now that it was wet: the denim clung to the skin as though glued. Was everyone else suffering? I certainly hoped so!

I tied the arms and legs, then smacked the open top down into the pool to trap air. It worked! I looked. It hadn't worked too well. I tried several times, but couldn't seem to inflate all the limbs. Shit. I was knackered and would have to go with what I'd got.

You can trust me when I tell you that I tried to swim the last part of their 'splash in the pool'. You can also trust me when I tell you that I failed. I have no idea how near, or far, I was from the finish point, but I'd reached exhaustion point. I'd never learned to swim the easier, less energy sapping strokes and had relied on my own peculiar version of the front crawl: that was my big mistake.

The only thing left to me now was to join 'remedial swimming' classes, in my own time of course, if I wanted to go to sea. I joined. I learned to stroke breasts in the pool, a life-skill that has come in handy on many an occasion since.

The moral of this story is: if some hairy arsed sailor ever invites you to go for 'a splash in the pool' tell him to piss off, unless of course you enjoy drinking chlorinated water that some bugger has probably pissed in!

When it comes to women, what makes some men more sexually attractive than others? From a young man’s point of view, that’s a question most of us would love the answer to.

When freedom finally raised its head and shore leave was granted, Tit Thomas, Buster Brown, Sandy Saunders and I headed purposefully for the main gate. I won’t say the air smelled sweeter outside the perimeter fence, but the prospect of an evening in civilian surroundings where there may be female company to be had certainly put an extra spring in my step. After all, I was 18, fit, healthy and heterosexual, and I’d been celibate for the past few weeks!

We jumped the bus and rode the short distance into Torpoint. Our plan was to cross the Tamar on the ferry and look for some action on the Plymouth side of the river, but a welcoming pub doorway at the corner of the street beckoned us in and we decided to stop ‘for a quick one’ en route.

Piling in to the bar of the Dragon, the first sight to catch our attention was the sweetie behind the bar. She was mid-twenties with auburn hair, a tight top and a short skirt and treated us open contempt; we were just another bunch of kids from Raleigh after all’s said and done and she’d seen it all before. She was easy on the eye though and as the first pint slipped down, Tit ordered four more.

Several beers later we’d abandoned any thoughts of moving on and were contentedly ogling the barmaid and getting plastered. Tit at least seemed to have broken the ice and was rewarded with a smile.

Tit Thomas was one of those men who are successful with women. What it was about him they found so attractive, I never quite worked out. Was it his charm? Hardly. His little boy lost appeal? Possibly. His cavalier attitude? Again, possibly. A combination of the three along with his wit and good looks? Most probably. Whatever it was, he was starting to build a reputation that had all the hallmarks of becoming legendary.

Eligible women were few and far between at the base. The civilian bar staff at the NAAFI were decidedly middle-aged. The WRENS quarters were out of bounds to us and anyway, they were WRENS, and that was about it. These facts didn’t stop Tit though and rumours abounded that he’d shagged Blond Mary, a peroxide forty year old plus NAAFI worker. We also believed he’d managed to get into one of the WRENS knickers, but had no proof. His sights were now clearly set on the vision behind the bar.

Each time it was Tit’s round he spent a little longer at the bar. Pretty soon it was he who insisted on visiting the bar whenever drinks were called for. By the time the evening was almost over, Sandy, no great drinker, was slumped in a chair. Tit had removed himself to become a permanent fixture at the bar and Buster and I were trying to play darts.

The amount of beer consumed had obviously affected not only our arrow chucking prowess and the volume at which our game was played, but also our need to visit the gents. It was after one such visit that Buster came back to the bar and noticed Tit had disappeared; so apparently had the barmaid.

A short conversation followed during which we questioned the parentage of our erstwhile colleague’s luck. We were still cursing Tit when Sandy slumped from his chair to the floor. Our first reaction was of course to laugh, but realisation dawned that in a state of obvious inebriation Sandy stood no chance of getting back aboard without being booked. We picked him up and sat him back on the chair, but he just rolled to one side and headed for the deck a second time. There was only one thing for it. Taking an arm each, we hoisted Sandy back to his feet and staggered outside with him, intent on walking him around the block.

Between us we dragged Sandy around the side of the pub and along the next street. It was dark out here as there were no street lights, but what did we care? As the noise from the juke box in the bar faded, I caught the sound of low voices followed by what sounded like grunting. We came level with an alley and the noises grew louder. I held a finger to lips and we propped Sandy against the wall while Buster and I peered into the alley. There in the darkness were Tit and the barmaid: she was bent over, hands against the wall and with her skirt pushed up, he was behind her trousers round his ankles pounding into her for all he was worth.

“Fuckin’ Hell! You lucky fuckin’ bastard!”

The girl pulled away from him, pushed her skirt back into place and scuttled off. Tit was furious. Trousers still round his ankles he lunged toward us, “You pair of cunts! I was almost cummin’ for Chrssake!”

Buster and I were rendered helpless when Tit’s trousers tackled him to the deck, his white arse glowing in the darkness.

While we fell victim to our mirth there was a slithering sound behind us, followed by thump and the single word “Bollocks” delivered in a plastered Sheffield accent. Sandy had succumbed to the lure of the deck again, this time using his nose as a bumper.

With Sandy’s face covered in blood getting a taxi was out of the question and we’d missed the last bus back. Fortunately it’s not far from Torpoint to HMS Raleigh, but distances can be perceptive when you’re dragging a comatose Yorkshireman along with you. Fortunately, Tit had calmed down enough by now to lend his much needed assistance.

No question now of Sandy escaping the ever watchful eye of the quartermaster. Despite our best efforts, he was obviously the worse for wear and the front of his uniform being covered in blood from his nose added to the swelling of his face couldn’t help matters. We approached the main gate with apprehension.

The QM took one look at the state of us and sussed the situation immediately. As Sandy had been the focus of our concentration, I don’t think it had occurred to the rest of us that we were obviously pissed too. The three of us stood at our version of attention while we received a dressing down. Sandy, still incapable of standing, had been taken into the guard-house for running repairs. It was while he was being cleaned up that he added the final touch to the evening and spewed over a member of the guard. The three of us outside had our names taken; we were put on report and dismissed. Sandy remained with the guard and spent the night in cells ‘for his own protection’.

Buster, Tit and I received a few hours’ communal duties as punishment for returning aboard inebriated. Sandy faired a little worse, with a week’s stoppage of privileges. I maintain to this day we’d have got away with being pissed had we not had Sandy with us. As it was, all four of us were tagged drunk and disorderly and blotted our copybooks. Undeterred, we looked forward to our next run ashore. Buster and I being determined to make it into Plymouth next time and Tit ‘finish the job’ with the Dragon Lady.

Basic training for all trades back in 1970 included a grounding in a wide variety of disciplines. We learned to climb ropes, tie knots, row boats, shoot guns, master assault courses, fight fires, shore up leaks and of course to perfect certain manoeuvres on the parade ground. None of us would have claimed to be expert in any of these activities and certainly some were more enjoyable than others.

I was already a proficient marksman, having attained the RAF marksman standard while in the Air Training Corps. I was a little surprised when we first visited the range to find my old friend, the Lee Enfield .303 still being used for target practice. A fine rifle and standard issue for British servicemen during WWII, it was deadly accurate at distances up to half a mile and more in the right hands.

We popped away at the usual charging man NATO target from 200, 300 and 400 yards. I grouped well from all three firing positions and found myself dispatched to the butts to help with the patching along with a couple of other potential Wyatt Earps, where paste and paper was sloshed over the bullet holes our colleagues inflicted on Fritz. A thoroughly enjoyable morning as far as I was concerned.

Having never been one for messing about in small boats, I found the first session in the whalers a bit of a trial however. For the unknowing a whaler is a glorified rowing boat with room for 8 oarsmen and a cox. If you've ever watched Hornblower, you'll have some idea how proficient boats crews are supposed to be. The crew of the whaler I was assigned to was less that useless by comparison. We made a complete mess of tossing the oars, were incapable of giving way together, continued to travel down stream when feathering and managed to lose one of the long stick-things overboard when shipping oars. If these skills were handed out at birth, we obviously hadn't reached conception yet! This turned out to be a long and painful afternoon.

The day they taught us how to wear gas masks is one that will remain with me until I die. We tried the masks on, adjusted the straps and took them off again. We coated the screen with demisting agent and went through the trying on thing again. Next they took us to an old bomb shelter and locked us in. Poof! Off went a tear gas grenade and we all donned our masks. Very good. We assumed we were finished, but oh no, not a bit of it. A gunnery instructor explained in words of single syllables that we were about to experience the joys of tear gas. We were going back into the bomb shelter where more gas would be released, only this time we would already have our masks on and would have to take them off.

In we trooped and once more, poof! Off came the masks and a disembodied voice yelled “Breath in!” It was dark in there and I thought, why? I kept my mouth shut tight and held my breath. Time passed. My eyes watered. The voice shouted “Breath you bastards!” I clenched my nose between my finger and thumb and clapped my other hand to my mouth. Someone punched me in the stomach; hard. I breathed. I chocked. I breathed some more. I retched. The door opened and daylight flooded in. We flooded out, a bunch of little boys bent double and spewing their guts onto the grass. Tear gas has no lasting effect they say, so why can I still smell the stuff whenever I think about that day?

I quickly learned that in the modern navy experience was everything. They taught us how to use fire hoses, bulls blood and carbon dioxide because fire is still one of the most fearful events that can happen on a ship. The instructors were good, very good. We learned quickly how the apparatus worked and what nozzle to use in which situation. We created walls of water that we could walk behind. We directed high pressure jets into raging infernos. We put on breathing apparatus and protective helmets and were lead through burning buildings. Exhilarating stuff.

Finally, they took us to a four storey building with an external staircase. We were still wearing the BAs and helmets. We reached the top and entered a door. The building had no floor levels, just an open metal gallery around three sides at each level and with stairs leading to the level below. At ground level was a large oil pan filled with something volatile and already alight. The building was filled with smoke and flames: all we had to do was walk around each floor level making our way ever downwards until we exited at level one. Some experience, believe me. The heat was simply amazing.

I had no idea how useful the exercise in the burning building actually was until I had to face an oil fire on a ship at sea almost three years later. That was a real-life bowel moving experience.

The transition from induction to basic training meant we new recruits were segregated into more structured groups. Whereas the dynamics of the Nissen hut had been open and varied, we dispersed to new accommodation by trade. All the Weapons Electrical types moved to one building, the Marine Engineering Mechanics to another, the Seamen to a third, etc. We were also assigned duty rosters (watches) and when not part of the duty watch could go ‘ashore’. We were restricted to ‘Cinderella’ leave though and had to be back ‘onboard’ before midnight.

We were Class 35X and our first task of the day was an introduction to Petty Officer Hollins, who was to be our class instructor for the next six weeks. PO Hollins would be available to us 24 hours a day and was tasked with our pastoral care in addition to our general education.

The rules for our immediate existence were explained. These included the watch system and what to expect from being part of the duty watch. Also how leave was allocated and more importantly, how we might get leave that very evening!

With the prospect of a night out in front of us, we turned to with a determined air. Once the move was completed and our kit stowed we were drilled for remainder of the forenoon. The afternoon was spent cleaning and polishing: our new hut to the standard needed for it to pass muster, which it must, before leave would be granted.

I know lots of people who say they cannot understand why the military inflicts such harsh regimes on new recruits. The question “What’s the purpose of all that square bashing and cleaning?” is often asked and can be simply answered.

Drilling instils both discipline and precision in both the individual and the group, but it also helps both mental and physical fitness. You’d be surprised how many calories you burn marching up and down, especially when doing so with a rifle.

Cleaning routines are essential where any large number of bodies is brought together for protracted periods: this is especially true onboard ship where conditions are frequently cramped and air exchange may be limited. One person with poor personal hygiene can ruin the atmosphere in a messdeck.

We split our mess into two groups watches (port and starboard): port watch set to clean the accommodation and starboard the head. I was in port watch.

Always start at the top. We dusted the rafters, washed down the walls, cleaned the windows, dusted and polished the lockers, tables and chairs. We swabbed and dried the deck then polished the lino with bumpers and Purser’s Polish. The messdeck shone like a new pin, we were well pleased with our efforts.

The team cleaning the head worked equally hard and we were certain of our promised run ashore.

With everything clean and dry we re-entered the mess in socks feet so as not to damage the shine on the deck. Next came the laying out of the kit.

Our bedding, three sheets (two on the bed, one in the wash), pillow, pillow slips (two, one in the wash) two blankets and counterpane needed to be bundled to proper naval fashion and set at the head of the bunk. Next came all the various items of kit, No1 uniform, No2 uniform, No 8 working dress, boiler suit, white fronts, No 1 cap, sea jerseys, underwear, socks, housewife, mug, cutlery, washing kit, shaving kit, boots, shoes, etc. The whole effect is quite pleasing when properly achieved, but looks terrible if not correctly done. The distance between each item and the next being precisely measured to achieve perfection: there is an illustration and measurement guide in the naval ratings handbook, so everyone knows how it should be done. I laid my kit out according to the book and looked around to see how others were doing. One or two were still hard at it trying to get things right, most like me were nervously observing everyone else. One person had finished completely and was now outside smoking.

I looked in horror at the ‘finished’ kit: it was a complete mess: the boots weren’t polished, the various parts of the uniforms not ironed. The hut was bound to fail the muster unless something was done. We dragged the offender back in and asked what the hell he was playing at? He really wasn’t interested. One other thing, standing close to him I now realised he was a messy as his kit. Janner, six feet two and built like a wall, grabbed him by the upper arm, “Listen Bowden, if we don’t get ashore I’ll fucking mash you!”

We did what we could with the errant kit in the time allowed, but it wasn’t enough. The mess failed its first muster and our shore leave withheld. This reflected badly on us as a class and on PO Hollins as our class instructor.

We were given two hours to put things right before a second muster. Amid scowls and mutterings the work was shared and the kit cleaned, pressed and re-arranged. Hollins supervised, Bowden sulked. We scraped though, but the penalty stood; still no leave.

A few of us found our way to the NAFFI and talked about what we were going to do over a pint. The general consensus was to keep a weather eye open and make sure our tormentor didn’t put us in the same position again, so we started to take a little more notice of Mr B.

Janner made good his threat, Bowden was suitably mashed.

In the coming days Bowden’s personal habits came under close scrutiny. He was dirty and refused to shower, his kit was unkempt and a disgrace to us all and we all suffered because of it. We talked, shouted, begged, cajoled, but all to no effect. We sought advice from our PO and were told there was little he could do except to threaten Bowden, so we’d be better off trying to persuade Bowden to conform.

In the end we took the law into our own hands. At 02:00 one morning, we dragged Bowden from his bunk and through to the head. He was stripped naked and forced under a cold shower, where he was pinned to the deck and scrubbed using long handled scrubbing brushes and abrasive bathroom cleaning paste. His skin was raw by the time we’d finished.

In the morning he complained, but back in those days the services tended to turn a blind eye to activities of this nature if they believed they were justified and nothing was done. A week later, Bowen not having learned to keep himself or his kit clean, saw a repeat performance. Two days later Bowden was gone.

I’m in no way proud of my actions during this distasteful affair, but justify what took place as being for the greater good. Churchill said, “Action this day” so when Bowden refused to listen to reason, action was taken.

The naval induction process for new recruits back in 1970 took two weeks and gave anyone who considered they'd make a mistake three opportunities to leave. The first of these chances to escape came on the morning of our first full day.

The day started at 6:30am, our sleep interrupted by the blaring of a bugle through the Tannoy system. Bodies tensed, heads shot skywards, the hut door burst open and in strode a screeching, yelling thing advising us to get “hands off cocks, hands on socks!”

Having experienced something similar as a member of a cadet corps, I wasted no time in making my way to the 'head' for the morning ablution. Not everyone was quite so prepared to leave the land of Morpheus however and at least one recruit made the mistake of covering their head with a muttered “fuck you”. The mistake was short lived however because the screaming thing simply tipped them, bedding and all onto the floor, er, deck!

After breakfast we were taken to a welcome to the Royal Navy session, where we learned a little about naval parlance. In essence, the floor isn't the floor, it's the deck. The ceiling is the deck head. Bulkheads are walls, hatches are doors, port holes are windows, the toilet is the head (also the bathroom). Port is left and starboard right, fore the front and aft the rear. Confusing? Yes a little. Before we left for lunch, the question was asked: anyone had enough yet and want to leave? Yes, one hand rose. I've no idea what his name was, but he'd cried during the night and was obviously unsuited to this lark.

We were to lose two others when the same question was asked again at the end of weeks one and two. One was Bomber's mate, Chris, who I'd met on my journey down to Plymouth.

As the day progressed we were issued kit and taught how to iron. Naval uniforms have creases in the most peculiar places and all are supposedly exact sizes. Getting the creases right is a battle that has to be won.

A naval rating's cap has a ribbon tied around it depicting the name of the ship on which the rating serves. The ribbon of course doesn't fit as you might expect and needs to be cut to size. The most difficult task here is getting the bow that joins the two ends of the ribbon right.

Uniforms come as standard without badges. Badges are issues separately and need to be sewn neatly onto the uniform in the right place, with the correct stitch size. We learned to sew.

Those of us who didn't already have the skill also learned how to polish brass, leather and anything else that could be made to shine. Time to visit the ship's barber.

Now you may be under the misapprehension that a naval training establishment is a bunch of buildings situated on Terra Firma and you'd be right. But hey, that doesn't mean it can't be called a ship, even if the chance of it sailing off into the sunset is less than the survival of a snowflake in Hell. So, the ship's barber. I'm happy to say this butcher is nothing like the ones you see in American GI movies, but believe me when I tell you your hair is not your own. Royal Navy haircuts must not be shorter than one inch in length (so you can be grabbed by the hair if you're drowning), must not encroach on the ear or the neck: it doesn't leave much to play with.

It's been a hard day and I for one am looking forward to a pint, but no, as a new recruit you're not allowed one. No shore leave and no entry to the NAAFI. Bugger!

Day two is more of the same with the introduction of the parade ground and the absolute necessity to be able to walk around in a regimented format: in the services they call it marching. Another lesson, the parade ground is 'holy ground' and must not be walked on under any circumstances except when drilling. If you do need to cross this piece of tarmac, you first salute it then run (march at double time) across it.

The bugle woke us every morning: our cocks were dropped and our socks grabbed. We learned about the navy and its traditions, we sewed, cleaned, polished, ate, slept and every day we spent time on the parade ground. The days merged one into the next and suddenly our first two weeks were over. We were still confined to camp with no shore leave, but we'd earned the right to visit the NAFFI: a pint never tasted so good as the handful I sank that night.