Saline Drip

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.

It started the day I boarded The Cornish Riviera at Newport station; I was bound for Plymouth to join the Royal Navy.

As the train pulled out of the station I was filled with both excitement and sorrow. The pain from seeing my girlfriend waving frantically from the platform and my mother clutching a handkerchief with a tear in her eye. The excitement because I was an 18 year-old leaving home for the first time.

I settled into my seat, back to the engine, and watched Newport castle disappear as the train crossed the River Usk: when would I see it again? No leave during basic training, so not for eight weeks at least and I had no clue what would happen after that.

We pulled into Bristol Temple Meads, one of Brunel’s master pieces. The loco detached and was taken to the back of the train. When we departed I found my brother had been right and was facing forward for the rest of the journey.

My head was filled with images and I hardly noticed the countryside slipping past the windows. It was early August and high summer, but that didn’t matter as the cattle in the fields just merged into the landscape. I was musing about what would happen at Plymouth station? Would there be other youngsters on this train as eager and intent as I? What would happen if I missed the pick-up? How would I find my way to HMS Raleigh?

A shock of tight sandy curls landed beside me, beer can in hand, “Are you on your way to Plymouth then?”

A positive answer; who the hell was this?

“Thought so, me to. Joining up are you? Where’re you from?”

“Yes that’s right. I’m John. I've come from Newport and I’m going to join the navy.”

“Thomas,” he said, “from Swansea, see? What branch?”

“Weapons Electrical. How about you?”

“Me too Butty. We’ll be messmates. C’mon, we’re having a beer.”

I followed Thomas along the corridor until he swung into a compartment with two other guys already seated inside. “Look” he said, “I’ve found another one!”

I was introduced to John “Bomber” Brown and his mate Chris, given a can of Courage and told to park it. I parked. Conversation filled the next hour or so as we headed south west and suddenly we were approaching Plymouth.

There were a bunch of uniformed naval types at the station and we had our travel passes checked and were guided toward a couple of buses. Like all new arrivals, we had very little in the way of possessions; instructions are specific regarding what you’re supposed to bring with you.

The short bus ride from the station to HMS Raleigh took around 20 minutes. As we entered through the main gates, I was a little appalled by the view that greeted us: our living accommodation was obviously to be one of the Nissen huts that populated both sides of the roadway. Our bus stopped outside one of these and we were ushered inside.

A fierce looking Chief Petty Officer with a clipboard stood inside waiting for us. We gave our names and he pointed each of towards a bed. “Right gentlemen sit down. We’ll go around the room and introduce ourselves. When I call your name, stand up and tell the rest of us your first name. Clear?”

We bobbed up and down, each giving our details and I became aware as I was called that my new mate Thomas was still waiting. It’ll be Williams I thought, the Davies’, Evans’ and Jones’ having already gone.

“Thomas!”

“Thomas, Chief.”

“Not your bloody surname you idiot, your first name. Let’s try again. Thomas!”

“Thomas, Chief.”

“Oh I see. First name same as your second name is it sonny?”

“No Chief. My second name’s Ivor.”

A few of the mess started to snigger and as the rest of caught up open laughter broke out. The CPO turned to a colleague and muttered in a stage whisper, “Bloody hell George, we’ve got a right tit here!”