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!
