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.