In The Shit!

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!