Saline Drip

Malta is one of those timeless places, or seemed to be when I first arrived there in September 1971. We've probably all seen those old war movies set in the Mediterranean like The Malta Story or Hell Boats and marvelled at the little island's resilience. To have withstood such continuous bombardment by the Luftwaffe during 1942 without surrender was amazing indeed and the award of the George Cross was little compensation for what the people of that island went through, but I digress. The images you'll have seen in those old movies were captured again by my eyes as we steamed in to Valletta's Grand Harbour in the morning sunshine; the only things missing were the bomb craters, the Stuka dive bombers and the JU88's. Malta was like the land time forgot.

We'd dressed ship in the same manner as when entering Gibraltar and a fine sight we must have looked in our brilliant white sailor suits standing smartly to attention as Bulwark made her way past Fort Saint Angelo on the one side and Customs House on the other.

First impressions of the island were of a barren, sand coloured, rocky place sitting in the middle of deep blue waters. Such buildings as could be seen during our approach were of low level, rather sad looking affairs. The relative magnificence of Fort Saint Angelo guarding the left bank of the entrance to Grand Harbour was therefore in considerable contrast.

The city of Valletta rose high on the right on top of a cliff and less so on the left: Grand Harbour appeared to be an elongated basin cut into the very city itself.

Grand Harbour is a large deep water anchorage, but unlike Gibraltar, Bulwark was forced to remain in the middle of the waterway. Once inside the harbour proper and close to our berth, tugs turned Bulwark through 180 degrees and we tied up to buoys secured to the seabed especially for that purpose.

In the Royal Navy's glory days, Grand Harbour would have been home to a great many ships of the Pusser's Grey Funnel line. Even in the early 1970s it was common for the RN to arrive in number, but on this occasion Bulwark was in company with just a single frigate.

Getting ashore from our berth in the middle of the harbour happened in one of two ways; the ship ran her own liberty boats, which were free but infrequent, and the local boatmen ran their Dghaisa (pronounced Dicer) and would take you ashore for a small fee. A trip in a dghaisa also came in two varieties, those whose owners had modernised and fitted outboard motors and so were reasonably quick, or the traditionalists who stood and rowed the little craft in a similar manner to the way Venetians row gondolas and took an age.

So a bunch of us piled into a couple of the dghaisa and headed ashore as soon as we were able. Just off the dockside were a few small bars; among these were the Dreadnought and the Resolution, both named after famous RN battleships. We started off in the Dreadnought for a bottle of Hopleaf and a rum shot. The walls of this little bar were covered in black and white photographs of naval shipping at anchor in Grand Harbour and I studied these as the beer and rum slipped down.

We didn't stay long because the place to go for your run ashore in Valletta back then was Strait Street, better know as The Gut. To get from the harbour side to Valletta proper we took the lift: a rickety old thing that literally hoisted you up the side of the cliff on which the city is built. The old blue box with the wire mesh openings creaked and bumped as it rose vertically up the sandstone. The view out over the harbour was really quite stunning and the shilling fee was well worth it.

We walked past the Phoenicia Hotel, the grandest place on the island, through the gardens and thence into the city. The locals were promenading along Republic Street, which we crossed before turning down into Strait Street: it was almost 8:00pm and the city was coming to life.

Strait Street runs from the top end of Valletta all the way down to Floriana at the far end of Grand Harbour so covers a considerable distance. It is only wide enough for foot traffic and once past the 'commercial' end in the heart of Valletta, the Gut became wall to wall bars interspersed with brothels where the 'professional women' could be found. Most of the bars were only room size, but there were hundreds of them.

Bar girls would do their best to entice you in as you walked down the hill, shouting the odds with their neighbours and promising untold delights for those wise enough to venture inside their establishment. For the price of a glass of very cheap wine, they would grace your table and offer a little female company for a while before going back to the street.

Some of the girls wore the official silver coloured, round and numbered badge indicating they were certified prostitutes. These painted ladies weren't particularly well painted, dressed unflatteringly and were often rather drab. They had few qualms about taking Happy Jack into the back room however, no matter what state of inebriation he may be in. I've seen men incapable of standing being half carried through the curtain, where the old iron bedstead would be made to creak loudly to convince his mates he was enjoying a good time before being carried back out and dumped in the bosom of his pals again. Everybody has to live.

I was taken to Dirty Dick's Bar where we drank more beer and then ordered one of Dirty Dick's Rainbow cocktails a piece. I had no idea what was going into the glass, but the seven different shades of liquor did indeed make a rainbow effect as they layered one above the other. It almost seemed a shame to drink such a work of art, but one taste assured me it was too good to waste.

We staggered from Dick's to the Silver Dollar, where the best jukebox in the gut was to be found: we knew it was the best because one of the bar girls told us. Actually the ancient Rockola box was stuffed with 1950s and 60s rock 'n' roll, which suited me down to the ground.

By late evening Malta seemed to me like a great place to visit if all you wanted was somewhere to get wasted and possibly dip your wick into one of the local girls. The booze was cheap, the weather was warm, the people were friendly; what more could you ask for?

Getting back to the ship was an easy stagger as it was mostly downhill. The only dangerous bit was negotiating the Custom House steps, which seemed almost endless. A trip at the top would mean tumbling down a couple of hundred stone steps taking you down an overall height of around 180 feet and that would obviously hurt: Sailor Beware!

Leaving Gibraltar behind us in the morning sunshine, we sailed eastwards into the Mediterranean Sea. There had been a dampening of spirits among Bulwark's crew following the harbour death, although there had been no reduction in the copious amounts of alcohol consumed by the shore parties; everyone seemed to share the tragedy of the drowning, even me and I hadn't known the dead seaman from Adam. The shared 'down' didn't last long though and once at sea the talk in the mess soon turned to our next run ashore, which would be at Malta and the inter-mess games championships that would take place over the coming weeks.

We sailed along in sight of the North African coast and as we progressed 845 Squadron practised their flying, lifting off various pieces of kit from the flight-deck to carry it ashore. Seeing the 'paraffin parrots' heading off with a Land Rover or 3 ton Bedford truck slung beneath it was another new experience for me. I guess I'd never thought about it before, but using the Wessex V helicopters in this way was obviously the quickest way of getting 42 Commando's transport ashore in times of need. Great fun to watch of course, but despite the best efforts of the ship's company we weren't treated to anything being lost in the oggin!

It was said that a Naval helicopter pilot's life expectancy in the early 1970s was around five years actual flying service. That's not to say either the aircraft or the pilots were substandard, but there did seem to be a lot choppers lost at sea. It was also common for returning helicopters to pile into anything standing proud of the flight-deck, including the various radio masts.

The four aerials for the HF kit I was working on with Budd Abbott were situated in two pairs spaced some fifty feet apart and on either side of the after end of the flight-deck. These were whip aerials that stood around twenty feet high under normal circumstances. When the aircrew were playing with their choppers we had to lower the whips to their horizontal position: they worked perfectly well in either attitude. The flight-deck immediately adjacent the whips was cross-hatched white and red as no-go areas: when we were transmitting to stand too close to one of those whips meant risking radiation burns. The power of our transmissions was capable of sterilising any healthy fertile man foolish enough to stand within twenty feet of a whip. Just occasionally one would short to earth and produce our very own lightning show!

Off duty life at sea was mix of playing games, reading books, watching whatever film was being shown in the junior rates dining hall, laughing called the 'Ritz', writing letters home, listening to Radio Bulwark, the ship's own radio station, or sleeping.

There were thirty two of us in 5E2, the mess being divided into two main 'living' areas and one side row. The main living spaces had four tiers of three bunks, with a central isle around two and a half feet wide. This meant that potentially thirty one of us could be squashed into a space meant for twelve if we were playing communal games (at least one man would always be on duty so would be missing). Obviously we didn't often all get together en masse because it just wasn't practical. More usual would be to find one bunch of guys playing cards in one main area and another bunch playing something else in the other. In 5E2, the something else tended to be one of the Navy's favourite games: uckers.

For the uninitiated, uckers can be likened to ludo with teeth; it's played on an identical board. The rules of the game are many and varied and like ludo, the aim is to get your men home first. It can be played either as four singles or two pairs: the partners game is far more intricate and a whole lot more fun, but you do need to know your partner's game and work out a series of calls that indicate to him and him alone what moves you want him to make. Heaven forbid you should put your partner in a state of mixi-shit or get the poor bugger blobbed up behind the opposition!

5E2 mess had its share of characters so was no different to any other mess in that respect. The main characters included a Lancashire lad, Colin 'Rosie' Rose, who was the hairiest man I've met, Michael 'Wiggy' Bennett from Yorkshire with his sense of humour drier than any tinder and constant badgering of Rosie, Simon 'Kenny Evershite' Everett, our very own mad radio star and the best equipped Leading Hand on the ship (and probably Britain!), Joe 'Father' Caulfield, killick of the mess and 'Dad' to everyone and Charlie 'Flaps' Daniels because he was simply mental; the rest of us made up the numbers and fitted in where we could.

One of Kenny Evershite's claims to fame was his ability to lay his manhood on a standard size cribbage board and have it hang over either end: talk about hung like a donkey!

Back to the games. It was traditional in 5E2 to draw lots for uckers partners and when the time came, I drew Wiggy Bennett. Wiggy happened to be the mess uckers singles champion and I was obviously a disappointment to him when our names came out of the hat together. He took me to one side, peered down at me with a dour Yorkshire expression and said “Ah fookin' 'ope yer brighter than yer look Taff!”

I'd only played uckers twice in my life and now here I was needing to keep my end of things ship shape and Bristol fashion, or let an expert down. I watched other people playing when ever I could and jumped into every game with a spare seat. I also practised with Wiggy of course and quickly found I was an uckers natural. My game tended to be a ludo clone, but it was effective.

Wiggy and I demolished all comers and it was said around the Radio Department that no-one could ever remember seeing Wiggy Bennett smile so much: he knew a good thing when he saw it did Wiggy and had his eyes on the big prize. Bulwark had stooged about for eight days between Gibraltar and Malta, by which time it had become obvious that in the uckers stakes, Wiggy and Taff were the team to beat. So it came to pass that the mess-deck's newest member became one of the mess's representatives in the annual Bulwark Uckers Doubles Championships.

Our passage south had been uneventful, even the notorious Bay of Biscay had appeared flat as a millpond. The high points of life at sea so far had been the arrival of 845 Naval Air Squadron who had embarked as Bulwark made her way past the tip of Cornwall, flying their Wessex V helicopters onto the flight-deck and giving me my first view of our paraffin parrots going through their deck landing routines. The other point of note had been my first duty at sea: I'd stood a middle watch, midnight to 04:00, and actually enjoyed it!

Bulwark still held plenty of mysteries for me, but I knew my way around the various radio shacks so was able to go about my daily routine without too many problems. I'd learnt to be either early or late for meals, to avoid having to queue for ages with the other junior rates and not to try getting near the NAAFI when the boot-necks finished their day.

We were a floating community of a couple of thousand men; a population bigger than many a village. There were around 1000 of us sailor types, who looked after the ship and made sure it went in the right direction without hitting anything or sinking. The fly boys and their support crews of 845 Squadron comprised another 400 or so souls and we had 42 Commando resident among us, a further 600 bodies. So we were a floating tin can stuffed to the gills with 2000 young men all looking forward to spending some time ashore in the Mediterranean.

The ship turned left as it exited the Bay and pretty soon we could see the outline of the North African coast to starboard and the rock of Gibraltar to port. We'd already moved to 'tropical routine' so normal working dress was shorts, but we'd have to change into the good gear to enter harbour. Naval Tropical Dress, the 'ice-cream' suit, is really quite stunning when it's properly worn. Bulwark's first landfall would be Gibraltar and of course the crew would 'dress ship' as a mark of respect to the Admiral ashore.

As Bulwark steamed in Special Sea Dutymen were piped and those of us dressing ship scuttled away to change into our finest. We mustered in the hanger deck, split into fore and aft parties; a couple of hundred men in each. The aircraft lifts were lowered and we were marched onto them by division; my lot were on the forward lift. My heart was in my mouth as the lift chains started clanking and the lift bed began to rise. Clunk, clunk, clunk and we rose into the bright light of day. As my head passed the actual deck I got my first clear look at Gibraltar.

The lift reached the deck level and we marched off forrard to the end of the flight-deck, each division knew where it had to go and turned either port or starboard, peeling to single file and marching to their location. Each man stopped a metre away from the guy in front, facing aft; those who had been in the after party were a mirror image of us. On the command, the we turned outboard as one and stood rigidly to attention. We were stood at ease, and braced ourselves with legs apart.

The Royal Marine band rose from the bowels of the ship by the aft lift, marched smartly forward and came to a stop just forrard of the island. The band played us in: Heart's of Oak, A Life on the Ocean Wave, Spanish Ladies and many other Naval classics. The stuff to bring a lump to your throat and a tear to your eye. I was so proud.

As Bulwark entered Gibraltar harbour salutes were received and given as we passed other naval vessels. The ship's company called to attention to port or starboard as required. My first experience of this routine and one I wouldn't have swapped for the world.

The harbour at Gibraltar is both big and deep, meaning it's one of the few places where a ship the size of Bulwark can tie up alongside. Once the shorelines were rigged so we had telephone communication, etc. the ship's routine moved toward pleasure. We were going to be at Gib for three days, so there were opportunities for everyone who wanted to get ashore to go: I could hardly wait to set foot on foreign soil and was champing at the bit to get going.

My first run ashore was quite an experience. I was in company with a bunch of other guys from the mess and we headed into town to do a round of the boozers. In my heart of hearts I'd hoped to do a little sightseeing, but that didn't appear to be on anyone else's agenda and not wanting to stand out I simply mucked in with the crowd.

I have no idea how many pubs we visited, but I do remember one particular bar by the name of the Wolverine. What a dump! The building was obviously old and given how dirty everything was I'm inclined to believe it had never been cleaned. The bar itself was just an open room with a few ancient wooden tables and a counter. The toilet was a bucket in the corner of the bar and in full view of all. I don't recall why we went in, but it was on someone's insistence and I can say without doubt I've never ever been back; I've been in some real dives in my life, but this one took the biscuit!

So my first footsteps ashore took me on a tour of some of Gibraltar's seediest watering holes. Our merry crew was far from unusual of course and wherever we went we saw other bunches of matelots also getting smashed. By the end of the evening, there were some seriously pissed bodies staggering, falling or laying in the streets. I have no memory of returning on board and little memory of the following morning if I'm honest. I do remember thinking I was never going to drink again and chucking when at 07:00 one of my messmates decided on a hair of the dog, produced a can of very warm beer and necked the contents in one; eugh!

I spent a quiet morning, drinking copious amounts of water and feeling decidedly green. The working day finished at 14:00 and I stood in a cold shower until I at last began to feel human. I got myself together went ashore on my own to look around. Making my way along the main street I bumped into a colleague doing much the same. We teamed up and just did a little window shopping, ending up at Catlan Bay on the far side of the rock. Love at first sight. A beautiful spot. Mick and I spent a while sat on the small beach, then went into a bar for some food. A couple of hours later we headed back to the ship, neither of us wanting to hit the beer.

Around 22:00 I was walking on the flight-deck taking the air and thinking how much I'd enjoyed my day. I could hear activity above me and looked up to the island; a 20” signal light flashed on and the beam pointed out into the harbour. This first light was followed by another and these were joined by fingers of light from other ships along the harbour. The beams of light were searching the water and two ship's boats had been launched; some madly drunk sailor had decided it was too far to walk back to the ship and tried to swim across the harbour instead. He didn't make it and his body was eventually recovered from the water during the night. Poor sod.

Bulwark slipped her way into Plymouth Roads, turned right and headed toward the Atlantic Ocean. I was at sea, but had no idea about the ship's destination and as I had yet to complete my joining routine, officially didn't exist.

I'd made my way down from my observation perch to the EMR and had been introduced to more of my new colleagues. I'd also been told complete my joining routine and to get my kit stowed. In effect I'd been given the day off to get myself sorted out.

First port of call was the Regulator's Office to sign off my draft notice. From there I sought out the W/E Office, the Paymaster's Office, Sickbay, Post Office, Ship's Stores and all the other people and places whose stamps or signatures I needed to get on my piece of paper.

My route took me all over the ship and I found I had time to spend just 'goofing off' and watching the Cornish coast slide past our starboard beam. I found the experience fascinating, having never been to sea before. In fact I'd never been outside the UK in my life and had rarely spent time outside my native Wales. Seeing the coast of England a mile or two away and separated from me by the sea made me realise I still hadn't found out what the itinerary for this trip was; I determined to find out next.

Back at the mess I found one of the guys I'd met earlier retrieving something from his locker. I asked the question and the reply came straight back; we were going to show the flag through the Mediterranean and would be back in UK waters in time for Christmas. My mind was buzzing and I wanted more detail, but this wasn't the time or place.

During the afternoon the Chief REA had organised a tour of the various radio offices aboard Bulwark so I could acquaint myself both with their location and the equipment installed. I'd be standing my first watch within 36 hours and would have to check the rooms and equipment hourly to ensure all was well.

There was no set rounds route, but convention had it that the duty REM started with the radio rooms in the island as he was based in the EMR anyway and there were a number close at hand. It was normal to exit the island onto the flight deck, walk across it and drop over the port side of the ship and onto the flat beside the VHF room. I thought my guide was taking the piss, but no, over the side he went without a second glance. My heart was in my mouth as I rushed forward and peered over. There was the 'flat' and there was my guide looking up at me. The drop was around 8 feet onto a steel platform that lead to an outboard store-room. The flat had a solid screen similar to that I'd lurked behind as Bulwark left Devonport, to prevent men from falling overboard. I jumped, landed safely and we progressed. Mental note to self: middle watch, let's not go jumping over the ship's side at 2:00 in the morning!

Tour over I made my way back to a weather deck vantage point and looked at the sea. No sign of Cornwall now, just water, lots and lots of water. I hadn't realised it yet, but we'd steamed down the channel and headed into the Atlantic; not far into the Atlantic because we only needed to clear France, but hey, I was a matelot and this was an ocean!

My draft chit told me I was joining HMS Bulwark at 05:45 on Thursday 2 September in Devonport Dockyard. The Bulwark was a ship I knew little or nothing about; she’d originally been designed and built as a fleet aircraft carrier, but was now a Landing Platform – Helicopters (LPH for short) otherwise known as a Commando Carrier and that much I did know.

Having spent a few days back home in Newport on pre-draft leave, I caught a train down to Plymouth on the Wednesday and spent my last night ashore at Dame Agatha ‘Aggie’ Weston’s Royal Sailor’s Rest on Albert Road overlooking the Devonport Dockyard. The Sailor’s Rest as an institution dates from 1873, when Miss Weston began the "task of mothering" the sailors of the Royal Navy at Devonport. In days past, with a huge fleet and vast numbers of men being away from home for extended periods, Aggie’s provided a welcoming family environment in a strange port. It still provides the same home from home as it always has but on a smaller scale as the fleet has been reduced.

My ‘cabin’ offered me a partial view of the naval dockyard, but HMS Bulwark was not in my line of sight, so I’d still not set eyes on my new home.

My last evening was spent enjoying a couple of wets in a local boozer. I picked up some supper and although the dockyard was only a short walk away, booked a taxi for the following morning before retiring for the night. Stopping into the ‘reading room’ I selected a volume of ‘Plymouth Events’ and read with some horror about the previous Devonport based Bulwark, which had blown up for no apparent reason and with almost total loss of life at Sheerness in November 1914: I hoped to God this wasn’t some kind of omen!

The cab dropped me on the dockside beside a very large slab of ‘battleship grey’ steel and I still couldn’t see much of my new home. As I looked up I was aware the towering bulk was leaning outboard as if to engulf me, then a hand with a smiling face attached grabbed my kitbag and ushered me up the gangway. The Quartermaster took my details, checked his log and made a short ‘phone call. A few minutes later Charlie Daniels arrived at the gangway.

Charlie was duty REM and as the ship was expecting me, had been tasked with getting me installed aboard before taking me to the ship’s Electronics Maintenance Room (EMR) where I would meet the Chief Radio Electrical Artificer (Chief REA).

As we made our way through the maze of corridors and hatches Charlie maintained a constant babble telling me where things were and who was who. I was completely lost and desperately trying to remember the pages from my seaman’s manual that explained navigation between decks on a ship of war.

We eventually arrived at the radio electrical junior rates mess, 5E2 Mess, where I met Joe Caulfield among a sea of other faces. Joe was killick of the mess (Leading Rate in charge of 5E2) and pointed me to my bunk and locker. The locker was miniscule and I looked at it with dismay wondering where I was going to stow the contents of both suitcase and kitbag.

I was a little taken aback by the amount of activity in the messdeck, given the ship was alongside and this was a normal working day. No time to worry about that now, we were on the move almost immediately.

Let me explain a little about the ship’s layout. Warships deck structures are numbered from 0, which is the weather deck (the open air bit) downwards to n at the bilge, so 1 deck, 2 deck, 3 deck, etc. as you descent. The decks in the superstructure (that bit that stands above the weather deck) are prefixed with the number 0, so 01 deck, 02 deck, 03 deck, etc. as you ascend. The length of the ship is compartmentalised fore to aft starting with the letter ‘A’. Compartments or rooms on the port (left) side of the ship are given even numbers, while those on the starboard (right) side are given odd numbers. Clear as mud, eh? So, my messdeck, 5E2 mess, was on deck 5, in section E and the first compartment on the port side of the ship (actually the only compartment because of the size of the mess): the ship’s waterline was at 3 deck, so we were permanently under water when in the mess.

Off we REMs went to the EMR to meet the ERA: the EMR was at 03J1 deck, so that meant travelling up through the body of the ship and into the island (the superstructure on all flat-tops is referred to as the island). Charlie took me via a completely different route so it’s safe to say if I was confused about my location before, I was feeling even more lost now.

A brief welcome aboard and introductions to both the Chief ERA and to Petty Officer Budd Abbott, who I would be working with in the High Frequency section, then I was sent below to ‘get organised’. I took a deep breath, left the EMR and tried to remember how we’d arrived there: by the time I’d gone forrard and down a couple of decks I’d lost my way and was reduced to looking at hatch combings to read their location markers, thus making it easy to find my way ‘home’. Nothing’s ever straight forward on a naval vessel though and I found my way blocked off at several turns. It eventually took me about 20 minutes to find my way back to the messdeck, by which time Charlie had already returned and was waiting to take me to meet my new Divisional Officer (DO), Lieutenant Jameson.

I was introduced to the ‘Burma Road’ (4 deck) on my way aft to meet the boss: you can think of the Burma Road as the main communication corridor in HMS Bulwark as it ran almost the entire length of the ship.

Another brief welcome and a quick check over my very brief service docs. Lieutenant Jameson was explaining the ship would be putting to sea with the morning tide and excused himself as the tannoy piped “Special sea duty men, close up.” Charlie whisked me back to the mess.

I understood now why everything around me seemed to be happening so fast. As we entered the messdeck, I could see most of my new colleagues were already dressed in the No 1 uniforms: they would be manning the ship’s side for leaving harbour. I was excused this activity having only just joined and not even having a HMS Bulwark cap ribbon with which to adorn my bonnet.

Charlie took me down to Budd’s domain for my first look at the HF Room almost as far aft as you could get before getting your feet wet, then disappeared to his own duties. I found Budd sat on a stool smoking a fag and drinking a cup of coffee; he smiled at me, said something about it falling into place soon enough and told me he was needed in the EMR shortly. Budd asked if this was my first trip to sea and I told him it was. He suggested I might like to watch the ship leave harbour and took me up to one of the RADAR rooms at the top of the island. The room, which was empty, had a doorway to the outside world and a kind of balcony with a ladder leading upwards to the rotating aerial. I sat on the deck behind the balcony screen where I could keep out of the way and not be seen from below, but would still be able to watch as Bulwark made her way out of Devonport and to sea.

Watching the land slide past as Bulwark made her way down the Tamar and into Plymouth Roads was something special and I felt quite excited within myself. This was really it, I was finally at sea.

Facts and Figures

The Light Fleet Carrier originated during the Second World War. Requirements were for a good turn of speed, great steaming endurance and facilities for operating and maintaining aircraft over protracted periods without external assistance.

The Hermes class of Light Fleet Carriers was to comprise Albion, Arrogant, Bulwark, Centaur, Elephant, Hermes, Monmouth and Polyphemus. Of these eight, four ships – Arrogant, Hermes, Monmouth and Polyphemus – were cancelled. The Elephant was renamed Hermes, but was so different by the time she was completed may well have been in a class of her own.

Bulwark was authorised in 1943 and her keel was laid down in the Musgrave Shipyard of Harland & Wolff Ltd, Belfast on 10 May 1945. When the Second World War ended, the pace of building eased, so the ship wasn’t launched until 22 June 1948. Fitting out was undertaken without urgency and HMS Bulwark was finally commissioned on 29 October 1954 – she was the Royal Navy’s sixth Bulwark.

Technical Details As Built

Length overall 737 feet 9 inches (224.8 metres)
Beam on the waterline 90 feet (27.4 metres)
Displacement 22,000 tons (standard) 27,000 tons (full load)
Armament 26 x 40mm AA (two 6 barrelled, five twin, four single)
Aircraft 45
Machinery Parsons geared turbines (2 shafts)
Boilers Four Admiralty 3-drum type
SHP 78,000
Speed 28 knots
Complement 1,037; c 1390 with squadrons embarked
Cost £10,386,000 (excluding guns, aircraft and equipment)
Pennant Number R08

Converted to LPH Commando Carrier between January 1959 and January 1960.
Eight 40mm AA guns were removed to make place for four L.C.A.s carried at built in gantries.

In conditions of limited war Bulwark would be able to provide a highly mobile amphibious force of 600 Commando troops and also capable of embarking an additional Commando or Army unit.

As Easter approached so our time at the Radio School, HMS Collingwood was drawing to a close and we were looking forward to getting our first proper drafts. No passing out parade from this ship. We’d been tested continually through our training so there were no final examinations or anything else either if it comes to that. It was just a case of completing the last module, packing our goods and chattels and moving on.

In true Pusser style, we had to collect our drafting slips from the Regulator’s Office. Remembering my last visit sent shivers down my spine, but of course I wasn’t a defaulter on this occasion so all should be well. We queued, gave our name and number and signed for the folded slip that was passed to us.

I heard chuckles from friends as they opened their slips and sighs from others. Obviously not everyone can have the draft selection of their choice and some people were disappointed. I opened my slip, read it. Folded it again and turned to Eddie Gray.

“What’d you get Ed?”

“I’ve got Coventry, what about you?”

A city class guided missile destroyer; very nice. I passed him my draft slip.

“That can’t be right Taff, it says HMS Collingwood!”

I went back into the Regulator’s Office and there in front of me was the Master at Arms. He looked at me and my blood ran cold; I was sure he’d recognised me.

“What’s your problem laddie?” he snapped.

I showed him my draft slip and said somewhat hesitatingly, “I think there’s a mistake Master. I can’t be drafted to Collingwood, I’m already here.”

No mistake, I’d got my draft and my draft was the Radio School, HMS Collingwood, where for the foreseeable future my duties would be School Runner.

Almost everyone headed ashore that evening to celebrate the imminent end of our training and their respective drafts. I was the butt of many a joke, being the only of the class not getting a sea-going ship. I was obviously crap as a REM and couldn’t be trusted. Mortified? Well not quite, but seriously pissed off. One other thing, the rest of the class would get drafting leave before shipping out, which of course I wouldn’t.

I already knew Lieutenant Commander Coe, who was the Radio School boss, but had never spoken to him previously. As his was the office I’d be reporting to, I went to see the man to ask if there was any way I could get my draft changed. He was really very nice about it all and explained that the school needed a body to take care of all the odd jobs and promised me I wouldn’t be ‘beached’ for any longer than necessary. Nothing more for me to do except make the most of it, which I did.

There were a few side benefits to being on the staff at Collingwood: I moved out of trainee accommodation and into a much more spacious two bedded room with its own bathroom facilities. I had access to the staff galley, which meant I no longer had to queue for food. Lastly, I wasn’t included in the duty watch so there were no restrictions on my going ashore and I had every weekend free. The most welcome benefit came when my girlfriend, Lesley, got herself a job in the area and we were able to spend lots of time together: very nice indeed.

I turned up for duty at the school office on the allotted hour of the day. Introductions to all and sundry and a brief run down of what they expected me to do. There was a certain amount of coffee making involved, but in essence I was supposed to run messages all over the camp. Now when I say ‘run’ messages, that’s not quite accurate. I was given use of a bike and with my ‘access all areas’ type pass I soon found I could go more or less where I pleased, when I pleased. Not too arduous at all.

The summer months were spent in this pseudo idyll with me disappearing off to see Lesley most evenings and of course every weekend. By August I really didn’t want the job to come to an end; lazy days soaking up the sun, evenings and weekends spent with the love of my life, a nice little sideline running sausage sarnies and bacon butties to various instructors who couldn’t otherwise grab a ‘stand easy’ and a new piece of eye-candy in the office in the shape of WREN Carroll who was very easy on the eye. All too good to be true really.

Advancement in the Navy is achieved via trade tests. Having passed through Radio School, I was a Radio Electrical Mechanic second class (REM2) and the next rung on the ladder for me would be the equivalent of the Able Seaman rate, or REM1. Lt Cdr Coe sprang this on me one morning, saying in his opinion I should sit the test. Bear in mind I’d never had to do anything in earnest with any radio equipment and hadn’t had the opportunity to practice any of my recently learned skills and you may realise I was tad apprehensive. Refusal was not an option however, so I just agreed.

A trade test was organised for me and I took it. The theory wasn’t too bad and I knew I’d remembered most of what was required, but the practical was something else. I had two tasks to complete, one of which was easy. The second was on a piece of kit I’d never even seen before and when I looked at the circuit diagram I quickly found myself lost. My best was not good enough and I made a right pig’s ear of the second part of the practical test. Overall though I’d achieved enough marks to get my star and so became a Radio Electrical Mechanic first class and the associated pay rise.

A few days later I received a ‘phone call instructing me to report to the Regulator’s Office and knowing I’d done nothing wrong assumed I was finally being drafted. All good things must eventually come to an end so I had no grounds for complaint. After all, I’d unexpectedly got to spend a lot of time with Lesley and had been promoted just four months after completing my basic training. It wasn’t all bad this Navy lark.