Saline Drip

We departed Grand Harbour with all due ceremony and headed east to go deeper into the Mediterranean. A couple of days out found us somewhere off the North African coast, which to the naked eye was just a darkening on the horizon.

It was early morning and the ship was full of activity: not just the usual morning routine of washing, dressing, breakfasting, no this was entirely different. We’d been woken in the middle of the night (before 3:00 anyway) and various departments throughout the ship had been closed up. What the hell was going on? I had no idea whatsoever.

Dawn was still a figment of the imagination when the first choppers flew off, their bellies full of steeley eyed killers. The Wessex Vs disappeared into the distance at regular intervals and returned empty some forty minutes later for another load. Some carried Land Rovers of nets full of crates slung beneath. Others simply filled with members of 42 Commando looking suitably fierce in their camouflage gear and painted faces.

This was obviously going to be a quiet time for most of us matelot types then, as Bulwark just steamed back and forth while she spilled her load of bootnecks ashore. It took most of the morning to deposit the Commando and their stores somewhere on the Libyan coast and once dumped, Bulwark steamed away leaving them to their own devices. The weather was still being kind to us and off we went to Crete for a brief visit.

From the sea, Crete appears a very interesting island: lots of high ground, land-locked bays and coves. We sailed around to the northern side and anchored in the Chania Gulf. Nothing in the way of ceremony about our arrival, just the clanking out of the anchor chains. An announcement saying that leave would be granted for a single watch: bugger, I wasn’t going to get ashore. I was still broke anyway, so I philosophically decided it really didn’t matter.

I watched from the confines of the island as two of our assault landing craft were launched and queues of sailors formed up on the weather deck ready to go ashore. I couldn’t help but feel a bit of a twinge as I spotted friends among the potential revellers. For my sins I had the middle watch, so would probably witness some of the states as my pals returned on board. Observing Jolly Jack trying to act sober after a run ashore is often entertaining!

The following morning saw us underway again for a trip around the eastern tip of Crete before heading back toward the Libyan coast. We stooged around for a further twenty four hours and eventually arrived at our destination, the Wessex having already departed and the four landing craft following them more slowly in to the beach. The plan was to retrieve the vehicles and their handlers in the LCVPs and the bulk of 42 Commando in the aircraft.

As the choppers appeared over the flight deck and hovered the Commando began showing off by abseiling down ropes dropped from either side of the Wessex. An essential skill no doubt, but it all seemed a bit unnecessary to me. I laughed though when one Booty got it horribly wrong and thumped into the steel decking having hurtled down the rope with little or no friction; you can bet the rest of his platoon were less than impressed!

Our next port of call was Cyprus, so yet more easting into the Med; there’s nothing quite like an autumn cruise in the sunshine and being paid to be there. September had slipped into October, but the temperatures during the day were still well into the 70s and we were in summer rig. The ship anchored off Dekelia in the Larnaka bay and we began our visit by getting ashore and spending the rest of the day on the beach. The water was clean and warm and there was an abundance of marine life. We found a shop and bought face masks and just floated about watching the fish; we also got horribly sunburned.

The following morning my back and shoulders were raw and I reported to the sickbay in the hope of getting some relief. I wasn’t alone by any means and joined a queue of other Jacques Cousteau characters seeking similar balms. The SBA, a cheerful type who couldn’t resist patting us on the back as he doled out the calamine lotion, directed us toward the MO. More queuing and as I waited inline I heard the buzz that those who’d already been in to see Sir were being put on report. I ducked out of the line along with twenty or so other ratings and shot off to work. Somehow I couldn’t believe people were actually being punished for getting sunburn, but as I found out later it was perfectly true: self-inflicted injury, the charge sheets read. I kept my back covered for the next few days.

I have only one other memory of my first experience with Greek culture: ouzo. Ouzo is one of those drinks you either like or loathe and being a lover of aniseed I found I liked it. I wasn’t stupid enough to drink it neat though and always watered mine, but still managed to completely wrecked on the stuff. It slips down so easily when you’re sat in some taverna with your mates and comes back to haunt you the following morning while you’re cleaning your teeth!

We graced Malta with our presence for a whole week, which meant I got to spend plenty of time and money ashore enjoying the delights of the Gut. The down side were the hangovers suffered by all and sundry and me in particular. I soon learned the morning after effect of cheap booze and not enough sleep was a raging thirst, a churning stomach and a pounding head; of course it didn’t stop me going ashore abusing my body!

Bulwark was an accommodating boat (Nay lad, ship. Boats have oars!) in many respects. While anchored in Grand Harbour one of those accommodations on offer was the presence of the Goffa Man in the cable tier. In naval parlance a goffa is a breaking wave, usually of the large variety and often very cold. Used in this context though it refers to a wet (that’s a drink to you land lubbers). Not an alcoholic wet in this case, but a sugar packed, ice cold bottle of Fanta orange.

Every morning the Goffa Man would arrive alongside in his creaky old launch. He always appeared to as old as Methuselah, but was nimble enough and was as sharp as a pin. One of his helpers, almost as ancient, would board the ship and make his way to the cable tier, where a tackle was rigged. A couple of empty oil drums were hoisted aboard, followed by buckets of ice and then the crates of pop. I’ve no idea where the ice came from, but the chilled, sugary orange pop was a God send to those of us with a thick head and a mouth that tasted like the bottom of a bird cage.

The Goffa Shop, as it was colloquially known would be set up and open for business by 8:30 in the morning and an almost constant stream of buckets of ice would appear from around 9:00 onwards, keeping the wares well chilled. Occasionally Fanta lemon or 7UP would also be available, but Fanta orange was the constant; I suspect the Goffa Man brewed his own, but have no proof of that.

So, with banging head, churning gut, bear’s flip-flop mouth and pink eyes, we’d queue in orderly lines along the cable tier to achieve our morning goal: half a dozen bottles of sweet goo to help hydrate our desiccated bodies. A not uncommon reaction to the sudden and shocking intake of such frigidly gassy gloop was an instant emptying of the stomach by up-chucking over the ship’s side. Amazingly, we always seemed to miss the launch carrying the ice though!

Malta, as you may know, is famed for its lace and as Bulwark was due to be back in the UK in December I decided I’d investigate the possibility of acquiring some to take home to wife and mother. On one run ashore, I detached at the top of the Gut and peered into various shops selling lace products. I even stopped to watch a couple of ancient crones as they hand wove lace in a side room. This was something new to me and I’ll admit it fascinated me for a short while. The price of the various lace products came as somewhat of a shock, given the relative cheapness of everything else on the island.
I went ashore alone reasonably early on the day before Bulwark was due to depart and made my way up to Republic Street where I knew I would find a greater variety of lace shops. I browsed for an hour, seeking the right things at affordable prices and heartily regretted the considerable amounts of cash wasted satisfying the inner man’s desire to get pissed every night. After some haggling, and a lot of cheek, I ended up with a shawl for my mother, but failed to find a suitable purchase for my wife. I did take a small set of lace handkerchiefs embroidered with her name, but knew these were not what I’d been seeking in the way of a gift.

Not wanting to lose my purchases I repaired back on board, stowed my goodies and decided to go and see what everyone else was up to. The mess was pretty much empty with the exception of the duty watch, my messmates having all buggered off ashore for a last night on the piss. I knew where they’d be of course, it was just a case of finding the right bar.

Back ashore and I stopped into the Dreadnought for a quick one and something to eat before heading back up to the centre of Valetta and eventually the Gut: so much for the recriminations of spending all my money on booze! I entered the bar and saw one of my pals, Rosie, sitting alone at a table. Joining him, I ordered us a couple of beers and a steak sandwich. As it turned out Rosie had also found himself at a loose end and had stopped in for a drink before seeking entertainment elsewhere. We downed several beers and talked idly about things in general for a while, when Rosie decided it was time to go: his plan was to forgo the pleasures of the Gut and head for Floriana where he’d found a brothel very much to his liking and was going to get laid. I stayed put. I told him I had no intention of paying for sex in some backstreet knocking shop and anyway, I couldn’t afford it!

So I spent my last night ashore sitting alone in the Dreadnought, drinking Hopleaf and talking to the bar owner. If I’m honest, it was probably the best night I ever spent ashore in Malta as I learned a lot about the island and places to visit when I returned. His name was Giuseppe and he talked with pride about his island, his bar, his family, the ships he’d seen come and go and the photographs he’d taken of them and the people he’d met. A delightful character and one I shall never forget.