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!”