Saline Drip

Index

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 03:24:25 +0200

1. Leaving Home 2. Induction 3. Into Basic Training 4. Jack of All Trades 5. Encounter Ashore 6. Water Torture 7. A Fine Day Out 8. Captain's Guard 9. Pastures New 10. Life's Choices 11. In The Shit! 12. Christmas Leave 13. Character Building 14. A New Training Regime 15. First Draft 16. HMS Bulwark 17. The First Day 18. Gibraltar 19. Settling In 20. Malta 21. More Malta 22. On to Cyprus 23. Gallipoli 24. Istanbul - First Impressions 25. Istanbul - People Watching 26. A Bit of a Blow 27. Athens, a Greek Delight 28. Examining Athens

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Examining Athens - the morning after

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 09:46:58 +0100

The intensity of the hangover was astounding. I crawled from my bunk knowing I was going to chuck. No time for niceties, I covered my mouth with a hand and headed for the ladder. The route to the nearest head took me through the junior rates dining area, but no-one batted an eyelid as my naked torso appeared above deck level. It was nothing unusual to see an almost naked sailor en-route to bathroom or head. I’d slept in my boxers as usual, so modesty was preserved.

Stepping over the combing, the smell of cooking breakfast had a disastrous effect and I broke into a shambling run. Flip-flops, the preferred messdeck footwear when not on duty, were never designed for running and I lost one of mine before I’d made 10 yards. The other was left somewhere near the bathroom flat as I’d loped my stumbling way as quickly as possible aft.

Flinging my body down the ladder to the head, I bowled Yosser Hughes over and was reminded that my parents must have had me out of wedlock: the insult didn’t matter because by now my cheeks were bulging, my throat was full and there were twin jets of vomit squirting from my nose. I dived into a vacant trap and just released.

Even my recent sea sickness didn’t compare to this. Like Magnus Magnusson, I’d started and I was damn well going to finish; I just didn’t know when that might be!

I’ve no idea how long I lay sprawled there, prostrate on the cold steel deck, face over the stainless steel crapper. Time passed and as it did I just kept on chucking. Eventually there was nothing left inside, but that didn’t stop the automatic reaction; the constant clenching of stomach muscles left me weak and I felt even more death-like as time passed.

I knew I needed to move my ass and get myself cleaned up so I crawled, literally on hands and knees, into an adjacent bathroom. Having brought nothing with me, I simply dropped my skivvies and hunched into a cubicle with the water jetting over me and after a while I began to revive.

Back in the mess I collected my things together and headed for the bathroom a second time to take care of my morning ablutions. Having only managed to locate one of the flip-flips on my journey back from the bathroom first time around, I kept as sharp an eye open as I could for the other. No luck, I’d have to get a new pair.

The simple act of cleaning my teeth made me sick again and I became aware that I was hurting considerably. My ribcage was sore, my stomach muscles were very sore and my throat felt as though someone had had poured broken glass down it.

The morning muster was just finishing when I arrived in the EMR and I got a bollocking for my tardiness. Chief Llewellyn didn’t report me though, so the damage wasn’t too bad and I stood as erect as I could manage to accept my reprimand.

“Look at the state of you, you’re a mess! Don’t you ever turn to in that condition again; now get out of my sight.”

In the two and a half hours since the QM had piped ‘Call the Hands’ all I’d managed was getting dressed and turning to. Dehydration had set in to add misery to my still churning gut and banging head. I sipped water from the cooler fountain before descending to my work place.

The HF room was empty when I got there and Bud Abbott found me slumped on the desk when he came in a short while later. Taking one look at me Bud smiled and disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with a mug of hot, sweet tea, which he thrust in my direction, “Get this inside you, you look as though you need it!”

Sipping gratefully at the tea, I remained silent. Then, when I’d drunk about half the contents of the mug I knew I was going to chuck again. The weather deck was nearer than a head, so I made for the open air and offered yet another technicoloured yawn to the world.

Retching for a few minutes I was surprised to see blood in my outpourings. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Back in the HF room, Bud asked me if I was okay. I told him what had just happened and he suggested a visit to the M.O. It made sense, so I went.

The orderly took my details and made notes of my visit, then took me in to see the Doc. “This man’s been sick sir, blood present.”

“Blood, eh? How much blood? What colour was it?”

“Red sir,” I answered wondering what colour he’d expected me to say. “Not much, just in with the vomit.”

“Better to be safe than sorry I suppose. Alright, drop your trousers and let’s have a look. Turn round and bend over here. Spread your buttocks for me.”

Now I might have been in a pretty bad state, but even as hung-over as I was I still knew that I’d vomited from my mouth: why did the Doc want me to spread my ass cheeks and bend over his table? Oh God!

For the first time in my life I was being anally examined and I really didn’t like it. I’d always said live and let live, but if this was an indication of how it felt to have homosexual sex, you could stick it! Doc did stick it, and he wriggled it about, then thankfully he removed it.

“Get up onto the bed, turn onto your right side and tuck your knees up under your chin.”

I felt particularly vulnerable when Doc approached me a second time. His digit violated my little puckered hole again and once more it felt as if he wriggled it about and revolved it before removing it: I was starting to feel like the woodpecker in the rugby song!

“Alright, you can get up now. Had you been sick before this morning? Yes? Well why the bloody hell didn’t you say so! Do you think I’ve nothing better to do with my time than stick my finger up your ass? Bloody Hell!”

The repeated sickness had torn my throat-lining and the blood came from that it seemed, nothing else. The rectal exam had been to see if there were traces of blood internally, which could have pointed towards a possible ulcer.

I left Sick Bay with the cheeks of my bum firmly clenched together and a new wiggle in my walk. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Doc had enjoyed his morning foray, the SBA certainly seemed to have enjoyed observing judging by the smile on his face and lump in his pants as I left...

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Athens, a Greek delight

Sat, 11 Nov 2006 09:49:43 +0100

The morning was grey with a distinct chill in the air as Bulwark made her way into the harbour at Piraeus. Being a comparatively large vessel the usual morning traffic gave way briefly as we worked our way sedately down the roads, breaking from the main channel eventually and heading for our berth among a couple of other military types.

I was getting used to the traditions of being afloat on one of Her Majesty’s grey funnel steamers and Bulwark accepting salutes from all and sundry as she passed; in the military, lesser ships always salute their more senior sisters and Bulwark being carrier class was about as senior as you get. Approaching our berth I was somewhat surprised to note a sailor ditching a bucket of swill over the side as Bulwark slipped by. The scruffy bugger looked up and waved as we were all standing to attention and just turned and sauntered off: he would have been caned for that in our lot.

We were alongside, the hawsers secure, a gangway rigged and the communications links brought inboard. It may seem slightly odd given the number of radio aerials aboard, but telephone links were used to communicate with the local authorities and for making long distance calls home, so were an essential as far as the ship was concerned. Very different to today of course when you’d simply dial direct from your mobile.

Being part of the duty watch I wasn’t going to get ashore on the day of our arrival, but we were going to be here a week so I wasn’t exactly bothered. I spent my free time looking up some Athenian history in the ship’s library and had a fair idea of those things I wanted to see when my turn came for shore leave. I’d heard of the Acropolis of course, but in my naivety I wasn’t aware the building at the top of the hill was actually called the Parthenon. Nor was I sure what the building had been or the significance of the hill to the city sprawling below it. I obviously had a lot to learn.

During the following morning’s working hours I heard tales of the delights awaiting me ashore. One of the old hands was telling us we could even make a few quid by selling our blood if we were short of funds; I wasn’t, so didn’t take much notice.

Once ashore a couple of us jumped into a fast black (taxi) and headed for the city. There are perfectly adequate bus and rail links, but for some reason matelots always seem to take the most expensive option when it comes to transport. The drive into Athens was fast and furious and possibly even more frightening than the drive into Istanbul. The only real difference being this driver didn’t stop to pray en-route.

We disembarked at the Acropolis and started looking around. To say I was amazed would put no too finer point on it. Back then the remains were completely open and anyone could just walk among the columns, feel the marble, look out over the city and wonder how a civilisation so advanced when this wonder was constructed could be so backward now. We clambered on walls, explored the theatres and temples around the foot of the hill. Climbed back to the top of the hill and stared out over the sprawl below us, making mental notes of other locations before heading down again.

Various taverns fell into our path as he walked down into the city and toward the old Olympic stadium. The odd libation helped us recover from the rigours of sight-seeing and of course we needed to stop more and more frequently as the beer took effect and bladders filled.

Shooting into a public convenience on one occasion I was slightly taken aback to see an elderly lady dressed head to toe in black and with a face like a wizened monkey, sitting at a table inside toilet block. My need was great so I just rushed past and stood with my back to her as I used the urinal. On completion I looked for a sink and finding none made my way back to the door. The old lady scowled at me and taking a walking stick barred my passage from her chair. The leathery old crow said something, but it was all Greek to me and I tried to leave. The voice raised a few decibels and her spare hand shot out: ah, light dawned. I was supposed to pay for the privilege of peeing in her presence! Taking some change from a pocket I asked in my best English, “How much?”

The crone simply looked at me.

I pointed to the coins in my hand and said “Drachma. How many?”

The crone continued to stare.

Noticing a few coins of little value on her table I assumed she would give change if I offered too much. I took a few drachma and offered it to her. Nothing, not even a flicker of recognition. I tried a few more coins and said again, “Drachma. How much? What do I owe you?”

We were obviously at am impasse and I was starting to worry a little since I didn’t want to lose my pals. I took more coins and just dumped them on the table. The stick came down and I was released; my pee had just cost me considerably more than the last round of beers!

It soon became apparent that the little group I was in had some very different ideas about what to look at and where to go. Antiquities were fast becoming a thing of the past with the others and it seemed I alone was the only one who wanted to explore farther a-field. Deciding it would be better if we stayed together I eventually conceded and allowed myself to be dragged kicking and screaming into another of Athens’ many bars.

I suspect the reality is that most of the city’s hostelries were family businesses and the one we found ourselves in next certainly was. Compared to some of the bars I’d been seen in recently this one was palatial and had vines growing above a courtyard area in the Greek fashion. We ordered Alpha beer from the waiter and sat at one of the tables.

The beer arrived along with the owner, who also brought ouzo. As this was obviously a free welcome it seemed churlish to refuse and we drank his health. He asked in stuttering English if we were from the “Beeg sheep” that had arrived and we said yes with much nodding. The owner welcomed us to his establishment and went away.

A few minutes later the owner reappeared, carrying a tray of glasses and an old photo album. Like the Brits, the Greeks are a sea faring nation and this gentleman had served in the Greek Navy. His album contained many photographs of British warships and we wondered if he’d also served aboard these? He pointed out specific ships and said “Thees” several times. How could he have served with us when his English was so bad? The language barrier was certainly a difficulty. He passed the glasses round and toasted us; Metaxa, Greek brandy. Hmm I liked this.

The conversation continued in staccato form and more Metaxa arrived, brought this time by Dimitris, the owner’s youngest son who spoke better English. The family name was Metaxas, like the brandy but different and our new best friends told us the Metaxas family history; I became horribly confused with the explanation. We ordered more beers and more Metaxa arrived with them. By the time we’d been there an hour, we were quite plastered and had become the centre of attention for Iannis, Dimitris, Costas and the few locals who had stopped in for an afternoon coffee.

They fed us moussaka to soak up the booze and retsina to clear the head; it didn’t work and we simply got more and more pissed. When the meal was over along came Greek coffee, which I loved (and still do). More Metaxa followed and we spent the entire evening with these lovely people, eventually wending our way back to the ship in the midnight hour. The bill? Negligible to say the least. How they stayed in business I’ve no idea since to a man we’d eaten and drunk at least six times the value of the ticket.

Not all my shipmates had the good fortune to fall in with such generous people though and one guy finding he was short of funds decided to find one of the city’s blood banks to raise a little drinking money. Whether he simply didn’t realise as much cash as he needed on a single armful or whether it was greed I have no idea, but when the police scrapped him up from the gutter he was suffering from a case of pernicious anaemia and not a single vampire in sight. It transpired the silly sod had visited two independent blood banks and had somehow managed to make three donations before collapsing. The authorities rushed him to hospital for a transfusion, which he had to pay for: on board ship we ran a book on whether he’d procured his own donation!

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A bit of a blow

Sun, 05 Nov 2006 15:14:50 +0100

Making my way back to the harbour side and Bulwark on our last night in Istanbul, I came across a street vendor selling Afgan coats from a handcart. I stopped to look and found myself swept up by the stitching, the fur, the possibility of an original Christmas present and the smell: the skin these coats were made from did niff a bit to say the least.

After a suitable amount of haggling and a search for the right size and colour, I made a purchase feeling sure that Lesley would enjoy wearing a real Afgan as opposed to the imitations available in Newport’s high street shops. The trader folded the coat and wrapped it in brown paper, then tied up my bundle and I carried it away feeling very pleased with myself.

Back in the mess I started to wonder what I was going to do with my new purchase: it was far too big for my personal locker. The other guys and I had already managed to use up the various odd bits of storage available in the radio offices and I was stumped. In the end I decided there was no alternative, unpacked the coat and hung it in mess’s communal coat locker.

The next morning Bulwark slipped her moorings and with the ship’s company dressing ship, turned her bulk in the midst of the stream and headed back down the Bosphorus towards the Mediterranean once more.

As we made our way through the Dardanelles Straits I reflected on the fact that my first cruise had turned its mid-point and that we were in fact on our way home; of course that didn’t mean we were going home in any great hurry.

Exiting into the Aegean, we ran into some quite violent weather. So far Bulwark had been a completely stable platform and I’d grown used to the fact that our ‘flat-top’ was indeed always flat. Time for another new experience then as the old lady began corkscrewing her way through the waves.

The Mediterranean is an odd place. The sea is almost landlocked and not particularly deep, so when a storm does blow up, there’s nowhere for the water to go. We’re not talking little choppy waves here, but swells that don’t seem to know which way they want to go. Large vessels, like aircraft carriers and tankers, find their structures having to absorb great strains.

I’d never been seasick before in my life, but like many others I found Bulwark’s straining, creaking motion hard to cope with. If you stood toward the rear of the flightdeck and looked forrard, you could watch the ship’s bow lift and twist. In the bowels of the boat the twisting motion was far worse and the temptation to walk on the bulkheads as well as the deck was high. Whether it was the visuals that upset me most or the churning of my gut as it tried to make sense of the motion I know not, only that my overpowering need was to puke.

I ran as best I could to make a weather deck, leaned out over the rail and made the most basic of mistakes: never throw anything into the wind. I spewed and quickly found myself covered in my own slime. Charming!

Never let anyone tell you Mal d’Mer is a figment of the imagination, it’s not. Seasickness is one of the worst experiences there is; all the more credit then to Admiral Lord Nelson, who was sick every time he put to sea.

My solution was to find a place out of the way in a corner of one of the HF mast bays. I curled into a ball and just lay on the grilled deck. As I chucked up, so my vomit simply dripped away into the sea below me. I lay there for hours…

The storm blew itself out in the night and the morning dawned bright and clear. I’d survived my sickness and was tucking into bacon and eggs when Wiggy arrived beside me at the table. “Hello Taff. Feeling better then? Best cure for seasickness there is, a good breakfast.” He quipped. “Plenty of greasy bacon, eggs and beans; when you spew it’ll just slide back on its own grease!” For some reason I didn’t feel very hungry anymore.

We met up RFA Grey Rover and replenished our fuel-oil stocks, the two ships sailing side-by-side and connected by the umbilical pumping its life blood into Bulwark’s thirsty heart.

And so to our next destination and the first on our homeward bound leg; Athens, city both ancient and modern, or to be more precise Piraeus, the port on which Athens relies.

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Istanbul - people watching

Sun, 05 Nov 2006 11:53:50 +0100

The variety of life to be seen on the streets, squares, cafes and in the markets of Istanbul was quite astonishing. I hadn’t at that early stage in my life taken to people watching, but am inclined to the belief that my experiences in foreign lands during the early 1970s encouraged me to study others.

As life passed us by while sitting in the café in Grand Bazaar, I noticed an unfortunate who at some stage in his life must have suffered some terrible trauma. This chap appeared to be in perfect condition from what would normally be the waist up, but there was nothing below. The man’s body seemed to simply end just below the ribcage.

He was mobile, thanks to being placed on a square of wood fitted with a castor at each corner and two wooden blocks that he used like miniature ski poles. Whether he was in pain or not I’ve no idea, but he didn’t seem to be complaining at all. Hung around his neck was an old can that people dropped coins in. The guy wasn’t begging as such, just making his way through the bazaar and people were going up to him and just giving him the odd coin.

I was stunned. This was another new experience for me, having never seen anything like it before. Crippled people in the UK are taken care of and in my naivety I’d assumed this to be the case in other countries too. How stupid a young person I was.

Questions rose in my mind. How did this man manage? How did he exist? He obviously couldn’t fend for himself as able bodied men would. So many questions flooded into my head; questions I didn’t have the answers to and couldn’t even pretend to guess at in some cases. Seeing this chap was a life changing experience for me.

Leaving Alan in the café I made my way over. Not knowing quite what to do or say, I put the handful of change I had in my pocket into his collection tin. He looked up at me and smiled a toothless smile, his leathery features scrunching into a wrinkled mass. The smell, now I was up close, was intolerable and I felt the bile rise in my throat. To my utter disgrace, I turned quickly away and headed back to the safety of the café.

Fate I suppose, but every time I got ashore in Istanbul I saw this chap and every time I added coins to his tin. I promised myself that from now on I’d make a point of donating to charity on a regular basis.

However this poor soul managed in his life I have no idea, but when I next visited Istanbul some eighteen months later he was still polling his way along the streets so he obviously did manage. He looked completely unchanged; why shouldn’t he? I went over to give him change and to my utter surprise his face broke into a grin and he nodded animatedly at me. Not speaking any Turkish I’ve no idea what he said, but I like to think the recognition was mutual.

Sadly, I never saw him again and have often wondered how he was.

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Istanbul - first impressions

Sat, 04 Nov 2006 11:36:09 +0100

Istanbul may be Turkey’s most populous city and the cultural and economic centre of the country, but to a young man like me it was a city of wonders. We’d dressed ship as Bulwark had approached her anchorage and I’d had the most wonderful view of the shoreline. The tightly packed buildings. The minaret towers, which stood high above the cityscape indicating a very different culture. The spectacular Blue Mosque. I could hardly wait to get ashore and explore!

We came to a stop and were nudged by two tugs into the berth prepared in advance to receive Bulwark’s bulk. Filing off the flight deck and returning to normal duties, the talk was all about the anticipated run ashore. What could we expect? What’s the city like? Have you been here before? Yes. Don’t drink the water, watch out for the raki and make sure you visit the Grand Bazaar.

The day dragged on until eventually all off-watch lower deck ratings were mustered in the main hanger. We received strict instructions about going ashore and advice about what we should, or shouldn’t do with the natives: fraternisation of the horizontal kind, we were told, was not recommended under any circumstances. Bartering was expected and an essential part of the culture. Religious observances were strict and we should make allowances.

They set us free and off we went. Eager to get off the ship and ashore, the dash for the messdecks and showers was akin to a stampede. Amazingly it is possible to fit 40 men into a bathroom designed for 20 without any problem, when a run ashore is in the offing!

From the harbour side the choice was either to walk or take one of the many Mercedes taxis waiting in line; no contest, half a dozen of us piled into a cab and told the driver to take us to the city centre. He didn’t understand and looked blankly at our eager faces. “Take us into town. To the city.” Still nothing. “Hilton Hotel” someone suggested and light dawned, but I didn’t want to spend my day boozing and Allan, a particular friend of mine, said “Grand Bazaar. Take us to the Grand Bazaar.”

The taxi shot off at a hundred miles an hour, the driver keeping one hand on the horn and the other out the window, waving at all and sundry. He also kept up a constant stream of high volume verbal outpouring, which was completely unintelligible.

We screeched past an armed policeman directing traffic from a small podium in the centre of a junction. I remember feeling slightly shocked; I’d never experienced armed police before and hadn’t expected to see them here.

There was a screech of brakes and a waft of burning rubber as the taxi suddenly stopped mid-journey. It wasn’t just our driver who’d pulled up however as the road was littered with stopped vehicles. The driver reached under his seat, pulled out a prayer mat and got out of the car; I became aware for the first time that a wailing sound was assailing my ears and that an Imam was calling the faithful to prayer.

“What the fuck’s happening?” Wiggy wanted to know, but it was no use protesting, our driver was deep in his devotions. “He’d better not have left the meter running that’s all.”

Prayer-break over we go underway once more and a few minutes later were deposited in the heart of the city. Obviously it wouldn’t be too far to walk, but the taxi fare was so cheap I couldn’t see any of us walking far.

Our intrepid band parted company; I headed into the Grand Bazaar with Allan, while the others stopped into a café for a beer before doing whatever. My first impression of Grand Bazaar was what’s all the fuss about? The frontage, though quite impressive and interesting wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined. Once inside though I was simply blown away by the number and variety of shops and stalls. I’d heard it said you could get anything your heart desired in this wonderful market and am inclined to the belief that may well be true.

There were glass boutiques, brass stalls, wood, onyx and marble vendors. You could buy clothing, perfumes and jewellery. Cottons, silks, furs and skins. Tobacconists and cafes were dotted here and there and I was tempted by the aromatic scent of the thick sweet coffee preferred by the locals. The bazaar is deceptively huge and even after a couple of hours, we still hadn’t seen all of it. We had made purchases though and being in need of sustenance, stopped into one of the cafes for food and drink.

As we ate we watched. The whole world seemed to strolling past, judging by the faces we observed, so many different nationalities being present. What an amazing place and what fantastic things to see, touch and buy.

I repaired back onboard mid-evening with a deerskin jacket for myself, some onyx for both Lesley and Mother, a hookah for my Dad, and an intricate gold necklace for Lesley. All of these items would be stored away until we reached home waters. I’d also purchased a large box of Turkish Delight, which I was going to ship home since the delicacy was one of my mother’s favourites and I knew she’d appreciate it. All in all, I’d had an excellent day and had returned aboard sober for a change!

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Gallipoli

Wed, 01 Nov 2006 07:50:55 +0100

Our next port of call was to be Istanbul and I looked forward to new experiences and sampling the mysteries of the middle-east as we sailed away from Cyprus. Our route would take us north and we would pass between the islands of Crete to port and Rhodes to starboard as we sailed up into the Aegean Sea. I had no idea at the time that I was sailing among islands I have since come to love as holiday destinations; back in 1971 I had travelled very little and was not worldly wise. Sailing the deep blue waters between the idyllic Greek islands of Kos, Naxos, Lesvos, et al, and watching dolphins swim and jump around our bows, it was hard to imagine how deadly the area we were approaching had once been.

To make our destination, Bulwark would have to negotiate the Dardanelles Narrows before reaching the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmara and eventually Istanbul. Today the disaster that had been the Gallipoli campaign is all but forgotten to anyone without an interest in history. There are a lot of misconceptions and many half-truths that have passed into common knowledge and certain figures have taken on the trappings of folk-lore heroes. The truth behind the campaign was very different.

Being a bit of a naval history buff, Jimmy the One had written a screed for the less educated among us, which he posted on the ship’s notice board and I’m not ashamed to admit that I was one of those who digested it thoroughly. My schoolboy history had barely touched on events in and around the Dardanelles and as far as I was concerned the whole mess had been Winston’s worst nightmare: 1915 was of course a very long time ago even then and as history goes, Gallipoli had been pretty much written off.

Looking outboard as we entered the narrow channel it was easy to see why an assault from the sea had been such a disaster: most of the shoreline had very little, if any, beach and rocky, steep to the point of being almost vertical cliff faces plunged down into the sea. The ship took on a respectful silence as sailors and marines alike stood gazing at the shore.

Between the first landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula on 25 April 1915 and the evacuation which began eight months later in December, some 43,750 allied soldiers lost their lives. At least 86,500 Turkish soldiers also died. These casualty figures may have been small compared to the later catastrophic losses in France and Belgium, but were nonetheless devastating for the families at home.

Fighting men have an affinity with death and although our cruise had so far been one of unadulterated pleasure, I doubt there was a man aboard left unmoved when at sunset as Bulwark made her way into more open water a marine bugler sounded the Last Post.

The combined Australian and New Zealand forces, the Anzacs, regard Gallipoli as their war and commemorate it every year with Anzac Day. The truth is though, that while some 10,500 Anzacs died on the Gallipoli Peninsular, so did over 10,000 French, 21,000 British and close on 87,000 Turks.

In addition to those killed were something in the region of 400,000 casualties wounded, many of whom later died from dysentery or enteric fever thanks to the unsanitary conditions of the peninsular. Among those who died was Rupert Brooke, from a septic mosquito bite, that stunning British poet known for his idealistic War Sonnets (reproduced below in tribute to “the most handsome man in England") written during the early months of the First World War.

The War Sonnets

I. Peace
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II. Safety
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world at rest,
And heard our word, "Who is so safe as we?"
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

III. The Dead
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.

IV. The Dead
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

V. The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Comments

On to Cyprus

Mon, 30 Oct 2006 06:10:37 +0100

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!

Comments

More Malta

Sun, 29 Oct 2006 09:41:39 +0100

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.

Comments

Malta

Thu, 18 May 2006 20:11:46 +0200

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!

Comments

Settling In

Tue, 16 May 2006 20:51:16 +0200

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.

Comments

Gibraltar

Fri, 12 May 2006 19:55:31 +0200

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.

Comments

The First Day

Mon, 08 May 2006 19:37:58 +0200

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!

Comments

HMS Bulwark

Sat, 06 May 2006 08:04:25 +0200

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.

Comments

First Draft

Mon, 01 May 2006 11:24:09 +0200

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.

Comments

A New Training Regime

Sun, 30 Apr 2006 09:00:00 +0200

Collingwood's rugby team had been doing pretty well. We hadn't lost a match on our own turf and had won as many we'd lost away from home; a pretty good season all in all. So it was with some dismay that we read the notice posted on the clubhouse board informing us of additional training sessions and especially as these had been scheduled at 06:00 four days a week.

I'd set my alarm for 05:30 and rose early, dressed in my usual training garb, donned a pair of sweat pants and trotted off in the direction of the training pitch. A couple of my team mates had already arrived and we gathered together to watch a bunch of about 20 guys going through some serious warm-up routines. Who the hell were they and what were they doing at our training session? More to the point, who was that slave driver yelling at them?

The skipper arrived and berated us for a bunch of lazy bastards. We responded with the usual bi-digit salute and asked who the strangers were and what was going on?

“Oh, didn't I tell you? Those gentlemen are members of the Portsmouth Field Gun Crew. They needed somewhere to train and I offered our facilities. In return they'll let us train with them.”

Bloody cheek! They were on our ground and would kindly allow us to train with them: how kind!

A few words of introduction and we were into it. Up close, I was a bit taken aback by the sheer physical size of these guys. I was also a bit surprised by their agility; for big blokes this lot seemed extremely flexible.

The first part of the training session consisted of a series of sprints. At the end of each burst we threw ourselves prostrate on the deck, a whistle sounded and we pushed ourselves up and were away for the next burst. Nothing too strenuous, but after a few minutes I'd worked up a sweat.

Next we did a little upper body strength work. Being a prop forward, this was more in my line and I found it somewhat easier than the sprints. A number of telegraph poles had been delivered and we utilised these in our exercises. We pressed them and swung them, bending and twisting at the waist and stretching high and low. Then we were off again; three men to a pole, picking it up and jogging up and down the pitch lifting the pole above our heads and transferring it from shoulder to shoulder.

The PTI leading the session called a halt. The man at the centre of each pole had to grab on with hands and feet, hanging beneath like a sloth. At each end we held the pole on our shoulder and walked: this hurt. The poles were heavy enough, but with the added weight and the imbalance, they really made you ache and I was glad when we put them aside.

More sprints and it was notable now that the rugby players were lagging behind the gun crew.

We finished off with piggy-back races. The training session lasted around 40 minutes and I for one was buggered!

I didn't look forward to our second training session with the gun crew. I don't think anyone else did either. The session followed more or less the same format as the first; my shoulder was still feeling raw and had a strange yellow tinge to the skin.

In subsequent sessions we concentrated far more on agility but still worked on our strength too. The session times increased in length and it was tad embarrassing to find out the first couple had been cut short to accommodate our lack of fitness.

By the end of the third week there was no doubting we were a fitter and more agile bunch of rugby players than before we'd met the gunners. As the rugby season was coming towards its end though it's debatable as to whether the additional training had any beneficial effect for the club.

The field gun crew were in training for their big moment at the Royal Tournament of course, when traditionally a Portsmouth crew take on a Plymouth crew and a Fleet Air Arm crew for the title. The Royal Navy dockyard at Chatham used to be involved too, but sadly those days are long gone.

Their own training facility and spiritual home, Whale Island, was available to them again so the Portsmouth Gun Crew no longer needed to use our ground. We were invited to pay a reciprocal visit and were taken through the actual field gun run.

The guys worked us through the stages, slowly I might add, so we knew what we needed to do where and when. A second run, a little faster this time. Great fun. Finally a few of us got the chance to perform as members of their team and down the practice run we went. A marvellous experience; those two walls with the 28 foot chasm between them look quite small until you're going over them! As I said, marvellous.

Royal Naval Field Gun displays came to end when the demise of the Royal Tournament, but if you ever get to watch a field gun event live, or on television, just look for the number of plastered and bandaged hands. Slamming the gun barrel, wheels, limber, etc. around takes skill and precision; get it wrong and you're likely to lose a piece of a finger, or worse.

Comments

Character Building

Sat, 29 Apr 2006 07:58:27 +0200

The Navy likes its personnel to be able to cope in any situation. You may say we were encouraged to be fully rounded and complete individuals, capable of bringing our individual skills together to work as a team. One of the methods used to promote this culture is expeditionary training.

It was the first week of February 1971 and it was bitterly cold, but clear and bright when we boarded our transport. Where we were headed we’d no idea, they’d omitted to tell us that during the survival lectures we’d attended. We’d had all the kit issued to us specially and had been divided into both groups and pairs: each group consisted of six men and we’d been paired off because our tents were of the two man variety. Everything we’d need for the next six days we’d have to carry on our backs and although you can squash a lot of kit into a Bergen, there’s not much room for non-essentials.

We larked about as the bus headed up-country and given the route I began to wonder if our final destination would be Wales. The answer to that question was obviously yes as we joined the M4 and headed for the Severn Bridge.

Anyone who’s grown up in this neck of the woods knows the SAS have a base at Sennybridge just outside Brecon and on the edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park. The location was chosen because of the opportunities the Beacons provide for rough terrain training and of course there are lakes and other obstacles too. The bus, having left the M4 east of Newport, was heading toward Brecon and the conversation had now turned to exactly where we would be dropped. I should have guessed the SAS wouldn’t want us messing up their patch, so my Sennybridge suggestion was a tad off the mark.

Our transport stopped at the village of Talybont and we transferred to Land Rovers in our respective groups. I knew Talybont and the immediate area reasonably well having spent many hours walking the hills there as well as two weekend expeds with the ATC based at the old railway station in Talybont itself.

Our Land Rover headed out past the tiny hamlet of Abercynafon, then along a dirt track onto the hills. The driver stopped and we off-loaded. We were given map-packs and an itinerary listing places or map references we must visit that first day. At each location we would receive further instructions for the next part of the exercise, and so it would go on. We set off on foot.

The first part of our march took us over reasonably easy ground although the terrain was steeply undulating. We made our first pick-up around 13:30 and decided to stop for food and a hot drink. February on the Beacons can be very cold and the weather rather unpredictable to say the least. It was cold, clear and bright now, but I knew it was going to be a lot colder that night and as we supped our tea and discussed the next stage of our route I made the suggestion that we restrict our stop to a minimum, making maximum use of the available light.

On we went following our compass bearings and as darkness fell we could see a single point of light in the distance in more or less the right direction. We headed toward the light, which turned out to be a farmhouse. Checking and double checking our map, we realised we’d missed our reference point by approximately two miles.

A quick strategy meeting decided it would be best to camp at or near the farm; we may be able to buy fresh eggs and milk, which would be a bonus. We knocked on the farmhouse door, explained who we were and asked it we could pitch tents in an adjacent field. Yes that would be fine and if we wanted water we could use the tap in one of the outbuildings. There was an outdoor toilet we could use too.

A quick draw of lots and the two unlucky people with the short straws got to walk an extra few miles locate the missed reference point and collect our instructions. I was a bit bothered as they headed off into the darkness (it was very dark by now); what would happen if they couldn’t find the right spot in the dark? Would they even find their way back? Using a compass to follow a map in daylight is a very different matter to finding your way at night.

My fears were groundless; they returned clutching our orders within the hour. During their absence, the tents had been erected and food prepared. It was still early evening, but having eaten and with nothing better to do we were about to take advantage of the quiet and sleep when the farmer and his wife arrived bearing flasks of hot tea and plates filled with bacon sandwiches: bless them, they thought we might be hungry! A second supper despatched we returned the crockery and sank into an easy, if somewhat overstuffed, sleep.

We woke in the morning to biting cold, a thick frost and a strange noise. My sleeping partner, Eddie, crawled like a caterpillar in his bag to the tent flap and unzipped. As the zipper rose, a duck’s head came through the opening. We tried to shoo the bird away, but this was a very determined duck and having forced an entrance it just stood looking at us and quacking quietly to itself. There was no sign of life from the farm and although we could hear farting noises from one of our neighbours, no movement from them either. Eddie reached out and grabbed the duck by the throat. The duck’s eyes bulged and it didn’t look too pleased with life. It beat its wings and its feet were treading air. Having been a butcher’s apprentice before deciding on a life at sea, he knew exactly what he was doing and in seconds flat the poor animal was bereft of life.

“Jesus Christ! What’d you go and do a thing like that for?”

“It was looking at me funny. Besides it’ll taste good, you wait and see.”

“Oh shit…”

Ed was right though, that duck did taste good!

As we stomped our way over the land the weather changed; the clear skies were clear no longer as thick clouds rolled in. By midday it was raining and sleety mixture that both chilled and soaked us. The packs seemed to get heavier on our backs, our clothing chaffed our bodies, our boots squelched and we were thoroughly miserable. Conversation had died, each man thinking only about getting warm and dry.

Despite the poor weather we made our landfalls and were fortunate to find shelter for the night in an old stone farm building with a roof still intact. Whether it had once been a shepherds hut or a byre I neither knew nor cared, it offered protection from the cold and wet. We huddled inside and tried to get a fire going, but everything we’d found in the hut was damp and it was a miserable affair until one of the guys excused himself for a call of nature and returned with some more or less dry sticks. A bit of a forage produced more of the same and at last we were starting to warm and able to dry some of our wet kit.

Eddie busied himself with his morning’s catch, plucking and drawing the duck and I kept wondering if it had been a family pet; it was certainly not wild and was obviously used to people. We roast the duck over the open fire and although there wasn’t much to go around six hungry mouths, I’m ashamed to say it was possibly the best thing I’d ever tasted and I soon forgot to feel sorry for the farmer and his wife.

Day three of our trek and the weather had worsened. The snow had come down thick and heavy overnight and the landscape was blanketed white as we moved off. It was beautiful to look at, but the going was hard and landmarks difficult to spot.

Snow started falling again as we made our way up the side of a hill. We trudged on regardless, heading for our next reference point. It snowed harder.

We continued to climb and the snow continued to fall thick and fast. Pretty soon it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead and it seemed to me the strength of the wind was increasing. Feeling a little like members of Scott’s ill-fated party, we bent under the weight of our packs and were desperately trying to see through the driven snow. We couldn’t, so we stopped. We’d come to the top of the rise and Ian Hedley simply refused to go any further. We could all see the logic of his argument and I suppose survival instincts kicked in; we put our backs to the wind, erected the tents, made hot tea and planed what we should do next. Nothing; we’d just wait it out until we could see where we were going. Seemed sensible to me.

It snowed the rest of that day and into the night. Exactly when it eventually stopped I’m not sure, but there was nothing falling in the morning and we were greeted by a Christmas card landscape.

“Fuck me Taff, come and look at this.”

“What? While there’re dogs on the street? Not likely!”

I looked and went weak at the knees. We’d walked unsighted onto a ridge and although our ascent had been gradual, the descent was almost perpendicular. Not exactly a cliff face, but we looked down some thirty feet or so to a rock strewn bed. Had Ian not made such a fuss, we may easily have stepped over with serious consequences.

We were well behind our schedule now and found as we back tracked off the ridge and re-assessed our position we were being searched for. As the weather had closed in the Navy had called a halt to the exercise, but having no method of communicating with our groups, had waited to pick each team up from their check points. Of course we hadn’t reached ours and were still ‘in the wild’.

Praise was heaped on us by our rescuers for doing the sensible thing and waiting out the adverse conditions: we omitted to tell them we’d almost walked off the edge of the world!

They took us to a disused railway hut a short distance outside Talybont and promised to feed and water us, but first we had to get out of our damp and smelly gear and get clean. There’s a shower out the back they told us. They didn’t tell us the ‘shower’ was a hosepipe with a sprinkler-rose from a watering can attached to it and in the open air. The water, cold of course, was bloody freezing and the six of us danced around naked trying not to spend too much time under the jets from the rose. It was February for Christ’s sake and there was snow on the ground. This was no time for skinny-dipping, were they all mad?

Comments

Christmas Leave

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 18:05:36 +0200

With the arrival of December our thoughts turned to leave and the two week break we'd got coming to us to carry us over the festive period. None of us trainees were required 'aboard' during the Christmas period and the whole base seemed to take on a boarding school persona as eager faces queued up for travel passes.

Getting home for the odd weekend hadn't been a problem and I'd become quite used to catching one of the fleet of green Southdown coaches parked on Collingwood's parade ground that headed for destinations all over the UK. Travelling on these coaches was quite an experience; filled to capacity with bodies so that unlucky passengers would sit on their bags in the central isle, we'd head off in a cloud of smoke as almost everyone lit up. The return on a Sunday night was just the same; my pick-up was from the cenotaph in Newport at around 23:00, the coach having come through from Swansea or beyond. I usually managed a seat, but not always. Travel on this occasion would be different though as I'd be getting a free ride on a train courtesy of the Pusser.

The end of term feeling was all pervading on the last couple of days prior to leave. We partied in the NAFFI on the Thursday evening. Turned to on Friday morning and were told to “bugger off” at stand-easy. The astute among us were already packed and had only to collect our leave passes to be on our way.

Eddie and I had a taxi to Fareham station organised and we shared it with a couple of other guys. Finding that we all had time to spare, we grabbed beers from the buffet and wished each other compliments of the season. Someone, having already been at the bar for a while, started singing Christmas carols and we just joined in. Eddie was still wailing about the Three Kings as he boarded his London train.

Spending that Christmas and New Year with my friends and family was potentially the last opportunity I'd get for a while and I enjoyed it to the full. There was no telling where I may be in twelve months time. My training would be over and I'd have been drafted: Christmas 1971 may well find me somewhere at sea.

The two weeks of my leave passed all too quickly though and it seemed like no time at all before I was back on Newport station, luggage standing beside me on the platform, waiting for a train heading back in the direction of Portsmouth Harbour.

Comments

In The Shit!

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 13:49:20 +0200

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?”

“REM2 Page, J.R.”

“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!

Comments

Life's Choices

Tue, 25 Apr 2006 19:12:56 +0200

As we got deeper and deeper into the theory of electronics and started to apply our new found knowledge in the practical tests set, the concept of where my life was heading finally dawned on me. The civilian world seemed to me to be getting smaller, while I was learning to maintain ever larger kit.

The diodes, triodes, tetrodes and pentodes we worked on were all fascinating things, glowing warmly in their cabinets. There was something reassuring in the way they hummed and the fact that you could remove them, swap them for other bottles, hold them in your hand and test them to check and make sure they were performing properly was even more reassuring. Still the rest of world was moving towards transistors, so why did the Navy insist on championing this somewhat redundant technology? I had no idea.

I was still pondering the size issue as I munched my way through my 'Stand Easy' sausage sarnie (the snack bar made wonderful sausage sarnies, bacon butties and fried egg sandwiches). Was smaller necessarily better? Not in my experience! On the other hand, bigger wasn't necessarily best either. A thorny problem. Life was too short, get another sandwich and a mug of tea quick!

During that afternoon we were issued with drafting request forms. These slips needed to be filled out and held all kinds of information about the individual himself and the preferences he may have with regard to where he went when his training was complete. Most of my messmates opted for frigates or cruisers, the greyhounds of the seas, and overseas service. I was obviously still hung up with the size thing, because I listed HMS Ark Royal, biggest ship in the service, among my choices. Bearing in mind that we had another six months or so at Collingwood, the choices we made were soon forgotten.

I headed into Fareham that evening with two of my new mates, Eddie Gray and Tex Peach. Tex was almost a local coming from Cosham, which is just up the road, and was going to introduce us to a couple of excellent local pubs. In true Navy tradition, we swilled beer, chatted up anything in skirts, played table football, darts and bar billiards and got completely pissed!

Staggering back through town, we stopped for chips and clutching our scran in open wrappers made a happy, harmless, if somewhat noisy crew. A bunch of skinheads in their traditional boots, braces and Ben Sherman shirts were coming from the other direction. One of these nice people reached out as we passed, smashing Eddie's supper out of his hand. A comment about Navy Bum Boys was made and Tex launched himself into the nearest skin, fists flailing. At well over six feet, Tex wasn't a small man by any means. An avid football player, he was fit too, so that made two of us. Eddie and I piled in after him: we couldn't let Tex have all the fun after all. It was no contest though, we were three while they were eight or nine and this was their turf. Add to that the fact we were drunk and it's not hard to see why we got a kicking.

A flashing blue light brought the fracas to and end as skin and Navy split in every possible direction. I doubt the police were really interested, because I don't remember them making much effort to round us up. We were battered and somewhat bruised, but with no real damage done Eddie and I made our way back to base. We had no idea where Tex was.

There was still no sign of Tex when I woke the following morning. I asked around, but no-one else had seen him either. Tex didn't turn up at all; we found out later in the day that he'd been taken to hospital.

Seems when he ran off, Tex found himself amid the skinheads. I don't know how many, but the bunch turned on him and kicked him unconscious. Broken ribs, a broken arm, cuts and bruises made up the rest of Tex's injuries.

A stay at Haslar, the RN hospital at Portsmouth fixed Tex up, but the time he needed for a complete recovery meant he dropped from our class. A second experience for me of how violent life could be in uniform.

What makes someone want to kick a fellow human half to death? I have no more idea about that than I did about the Navy's choice to continue working with valves.

Comments

Pastures New

Mon, 24 Apr 2006 20:01:38 +0200

With the trials and tribulations of basic training over and our passing out parade complete, a short leave was issued and were on our way home. I shared my train ride with Tit, Buster and others travelling towards the Midlands, the North West or Wales. We were full of laughter, aspirations and beer and spent our time discussing where we'd be in twelve months time while swearing eternal friendship.

The Weapons Electrical training school is at HMS Collingwood in Fareham, Hampshire. Buster, Tit and I would all be heading there in ten days time, but to different sections. My chosen pathway was to join the Radio Electrical branch of W/E, while both Buster and Tit had opted for the Ordinance Electrical branch. Sandy Saunders would be joining me as would one or two others from basic, but the majority of 35X would either be joining Buster or moving into the Control Electrical branch.

To explain Weapons Electrical in essence: Ordinance Electrical take care of the main power systems on ships and shore bases, Control Electrical maintain and control all the fighting systems aboard ships, and we Radio Electrical types look after all the communications, direction finding and RADAR kit. The W/E branch is quite diverse.

Staggering off the train at Newport with my Navy issue suitcase and pusser's kitbag, my first thoughts were of finding my girlfriend and getting a pint or several in before heading to the family home. Lesley was walking towards me, smiling and my heart beat faster as I dumped my bags wrapped her in my arms and pulled her body into my own. Stirrings in my nether region reminded me of my recent enforced celibacy and suddenly the idea of more beer didn't seem quite so important.

We exited the station to find no taxis in residence, so walked the short distance down Cambrian Road to The Greyhound. This had been my 'town local' for the past few years and walking in Lesley and I were greeted by calls of “'eh up, the fleet's in” or “Lock up your daughters, the navy's arrived” and the like. I called a general hello, found drinks already waiting for us on the bar and a number of hands waiting to grab mine: how nice it is to have friends. We joined the crowd, slurped the beer, laughed and joked but I slipped away after a little while and 'phoned a taxi to whisk us away.

Making love to Lesley that night was a marathon session pushed on by a greedy need. The first attempt was over all too quickly, but the second, third and forth were much more satisfying!

I spent my leave making my away around the various family members, drinking and having unlimited sex: absolute heaven. I even got in a game of rugby when it turned out my old friends in the Monsanto club team were short of a prop. What more could a boy ask for? The ten days soon skipped by though and as my departure drew nearer my thoughts turned to meeting up with Tit and Buster again either on the train or when I arrived at Collingwood.

My journey down to Fareham was uneventful and although I scanned the compartments I saw no sign of my mates; we were obviously travelling on different trains. I found a taxi at Fareham station and was soon paying off the driver at Collingwood's main gate. My first impression was that HMS Collingwood was much bigger than HMS Raleigh and looked a lot more modern.

One of the things you get used to in the Navy is joining new ships at strange times of the day: commonly a sailor must join his new ship before 07:00 so theoretically can travel through the night. I'd travelled down on the morning train to Portsmouth Harbour and by mid afternoon was settled in my new mess, had found my way to my designated dining hall and the location of the NAFFI.

It was late afternoon and I was laying on my bunk reading a book when the mess door burst open and there stood the two reprobates I'd hoped to find on the train. Buster was talking about food and Tit calling for beer; I navigated both to the NAFFI via the dining hall. With stomachs lined, the beer slipped down a treat; when we eventually got back to the mess we were all three sheets to the wind. We'd arrived.

The following morning I joined the rest of my new class as we worked our way through the ship's joining routine. Visits to various offices, classrooms and workshops and introductions to officers and senior rates we'd get to know during our stay at Collingwood. As Radio Electrical Mechanics our branch training would last nine months.

During the first couple of weeks our training would be cross-matched with both Ordinance and Control branches. There's a general need for all electrical types to know and understand some basic principles, like Ohm's Law and current flow. We also needed to know how to solder, wire wrap and insulate. These simple practical exercises and mathematical routines could just as easily be achieved in a large groups as in small.

Life was interesting during the working day, even if some of the theory wasn't exactly new to me. The initial training over, we split into our branch classes and got down to more complex tasks. One of ours was to build a simple valve based radio receiver. We did this from scratch, folding an aluminium base to hold the wiring harness. Valve bases were inserted into the base unit to hold the tubes and all ancillary components, with the exception of the tuning dial and power transformer unit, were mounted beneath the surface. I was stunned to find, when my ungainly beast was completed, plugged into the mains and switched on, that as a radio it worked!

Alongside our educational activities, we spent time on the parade ground and in the gymnasium. I also spent some time in the pool, for my own satisfaction as much as anything because I was determined to improve my aquatic prowess.

My off duty hours consisted of evenings in the NAFFI either with my new friends or with Buster and Tit, visits to the base cinema and trips into Fareham. I kept promising myself I'd go and explore Portsmouth at some stage, but hadn't ventured that far as yet. I'd also made a tentative enquiry about the ship's rugby club and arranged myself a trial with them. The other thing I did a lot was write letters home: we had no telephone back then, so I used to write to Lesley pretty much every day. This became a habit and continued during my time at sea, when other forms of communication were virtually non-existent. Looking back on it now, I must have kept Basildon Bond in business!

Comments

Captain's Guard

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 19:47:00 +0200

Completion of basic training at HMS Raleigh always ends with a passing out parade. All the intake's classes get to march past the Captain and his guests and it's the recruits first big ceremonial occasion. Pride of place goes to the class who've performed most consistently during their stay at Raleigh; they're honoured by being named Captain's Guard for the occasion, a role that is very high profile and much sought after.

Winning the Captain's Guard competition is a big deal and all stops are pulled out to try and make the grade. The points achieved by every individual and their respective classes are tallied and in the event of the result being close, a penalty shoot-out takes place during the last few days of the final week. The prestige that falls on the winning class also reflects on their class tutor.

We knew our class would be close because we'd performed well, but having achieved a few black marks during our stay we didn't really expect to end up in the play-offs. When PO Hollings told us we were expected on the parade ground dressed in our No 1 uniforms and wearing webbing and gaiters, we knew we'd made the cut and there were smiles all round.

Talk on the messdeck was of nothing except the coming Sunday's parade. We marched to the GI's block beside the parade ground, giving it plenty of swank and with heads held high. Pride was very much at the forefront of all our minds.

We were in competition with two other classes, there being nothing between us points wise. The final decision would be made depending upon our performances on the parade ground and the assault course.

We performed foot drill, rifle drill and continuity drill. We sparkled, but then so did 35M, one of our competitors.

The following day at the end of our normal routine we shoved off to the assault course. It was just to be us, 35X, and our main rivals, 35M. The third class had already been pulled on the previous day's drill performance.

The GI's ran through this part of the competition with us. The whole class would go together as a single unit. This meant the wall would need to be rethought slightly. No mistakes, was the order of the day. Certainly no repetition of my previous stupidity on the assault course.

A coin was tossed and the running order decided. We would be first up, so would set the guide time and be the team to beat.

We went on the whistle and performed as best we could. No mistakes, no tardiness; a good solid performance, but not one that would set the world alight. Nothing for it now, but to watch 35M and, cross our fingers and hope.

They looked very quick over the first part of the course and looking over at PO Hollings' face I knew he thought we were in second place. Of course, we didn't know which of us had been marked highest the day before so there was still some hope.

As 35M progressed to the wall I turned away, not wanting to see them complete ahead of us. I was remembering the night we'd dragged Sandy back to base pissed out of his brain and been awarded demerits. Shit!

A shout. Another. I swung round and there on the deck beside the wall was one of 35M. He'd made the same mistake I had and tried to leap and run. Foolish boy. What a break for us though. His fall meant they'd lose points and time too. We'd won!

PO Hollings was as chuffed as we were; his class were tops. We were his first charges, although we didn't know it then. That little gem came out after a few beers when it was all over. He'd done a good job with us, but I like to think we'd been pretty good to work with.

Tradition had it that classes took their tutors out on the RAS at the end of basic and we arranged to meet Mike (first names ashore) on the Saturday evening. We'd spent pretty much all of the day preparing for Sunday's parade. Cleaning, pressing, polishing, just making everything perfect. Now it was all done and we were free. Off we went into Plymouth to strut our stuff and get smashed. A hugely enjoyable evening.

Sunday dawned and we nursed our hangovers through breakfast, then started the cleaning routine all over again. Boots were freshly polished, uniforms were freshly pressed, brasses and webbing given the treatment. Church parade was at 10:30 and our passing out parade would follow. We'd done everything we could and looked superb, even if I say so myself.

Church over we mustered and collected our weapons for the guard. Standard issue SLRs but with chromed bayonets and white webbing straps.

Divisions were called and the various classes marched on to the parade ground. The Royal Marine band was doing its stuff and those people who'd come to witness their sons, brothers, etc. pass out were seated enjoying the occasion. The band broke into Hearts Of Oak and off we went, all polish and swank. We marched around the perimeter and eventually paraded in front of the dais, where the Captain and his honoured guests would be.

The dignitaries arrived, inspections were performed and eventually the various honours bestowed. As Captain's Guard, we were last to get our mention. A proud moment for us, our families and of course for Petty Officer Mike Hollings.

The band played, the big march past went without a hitch, the guard escorted the Captain from the parade ground and it was all over. Our time at HMS Raleigh was at an end. We would disperse that afternoon to our various destinations for a short leave before being drafted to our respective training establishments for specialist training. We were members of Her Majesty's Royal Navy and ready to progress.

Comments

A Fine Day Out

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 09:24:56 +0200

The assault course at HMS Raleigh is much like any other assault course with all the usual obstacles. We would get three goes it during our basic training and the expectation was that our time would improve with each visit. I’d enjoyed it on our first meeting, but knew I could shave seconds off my time by using a better technique over the scramble netting, jumping from the wall as opposed to climbing down, and one or two other tweaks.

The class was sent over the course in groups of five or six and my group was third in line to go. We watched the first bunch as they performed and saw the second set away before taking our position at the start. The whistle blew and we were away.

All was going well as we progressed down the course, along the ledge, over the scramble nets, climbed the rope and swung across the water. The next obstacle was the wall.

It was obviously too high to go over singly with any speed, so we followed the usual progression: first man (me) runs to the base of the wall and stands hands hooked to form a living step. Second man is boosted to the top of the wall, secures the rope and stays there. Third man goes straight over taking the rope end for the rest of the team’s decent. Forth man joins second man on top of the wall and between them they help the rest of the team over. Lastly, the two guys on top of the wall hoist the first man up before going over themselves and running on. Last man off the wall is the first man to have arrived there. It worked more or less perfectly.

I leapt off the wall in star-shape, with the intention of being right into my stride as soon as my back foot hit the deck. Hadn’t don’t this before, but how hard could it be? John Wayne et al made it look simple enough on the silver screen. My back foot hit the deck, not quite square and I ended in a heap not unlike a sack of spuds.

Knowing the need for speed, I rolled from the fall pushing myself upright. The stabbing pain from my right ankle as I tried to stand was intense. I collapsed in a heap for a second time. I stood, my weight taken by my left leg. I stepped forward and tried the right leg. Pain. Shit!

I limped as best I could toward the climb up to the death slide. A PTI arrived, grabbed me and guided me off to the side of the course before sitting me down and removing my right boot. My ankle was already badly swollen.

They stretched me off to sick-bay where a pair of gentle WREN hands examined my ankle. An officer arrived and I knew by the red band between his lieutenant’s rings that he was a doctor. The WREN gave her opinion that my ankle was not broken; he prodded a little and manipulated the ankle nodding his assent. “Strap him up Cheever” then turning to me said, “I’m going to sign you off for light duties. Try and keep off that for a day or so.”

Walking, even with my ankle strapped, was painful. Marching was out of the question. I made my way back to the mess as instructed and found PO Hollings there waiting for me. He took one look and shook his head, the expression on his face saying “You pillock! How the fuck did you do that?”

I explained all and added what the doctor had said about resting the damaged limb. Hollings quickly wrote out a plan of the classes activities for the next couple of days, adding locations so I’d be able to follow them around. “I suppose we’ll have to arrange for you to do the exped with another class? I don’t see how you’re going to manage otherwise.”

The exped referred to was an orienteering exercise scheduled five days away and involved us being dropped in groups on Bodmin Moor with a map, a compass and an eighteen mile hike ahead of us. I really didn’t want to miss doing this with my class.

The next couple of days were a doddle. I didn’t take part in any physical activity, so just sat and watched while my colleagues drilled, spent time in the gym, etc. and walked slowly to the various lectures. I attended sick-bay and had the ankle re-strapped at the beginning of each day and by the third day after my ‘accident’ was able to walk pretty much normally. On the morning of the fourth day I hatched a plan. I had my ankle dressed as usual, rejoined my classmates and told PO Hollings that I was fit enough to return to normal duties.

A two hour stint on the parade ground caused me little discomfort, although I’ll admit to not performing with my usual gusto. I was confident that I’d manage the coming exped, with a little help.

A visit to the NAFFI stores provided me with one essential part of my plan: a two inch wide roll of surgical sticky plaster. I planned to get my ankle strapped that afternoon and to bind the fresh strapping with the plaster to add extra support. I also intended to beg, borrow or steal a roll of bandage from the sick-bay.

The morning arrived and I dressed without showering as I didn’t want to get the bandaged ankle wet. Buster applied the plaster over the top of the bandage and helped me get my boot over the top. I figured that if I laced my boot tight over the strapping, it would also add support. I packed the extra bandage and what was left of the sticky plaster into a pouch pocket.

The bus took us up onto Bodmin; we were split into groups and briefed with our individual group objectives. The teams studied the maps and discussed their routes. It was 8:00am on a fine Friday morning when we set off.

I was surprised at how well my ankle held up during the day; far from causing me any problem at all, I easily kept up with the pace of the group and indeed forced the pace on a little when it became apparent that we would miss our lunchtime rendezvous if we didn’t get our fingers out.

My passion for being outdoors is almost as strong as my passion for the sea and sights and sounds of the moorland lifted my soul. A couple of the group had undertaken bronze or silver Duke of Edinburgh’s Award and I had done some orienteering with the ATC; between us our map reading skills were more than good enough to get us through the day.

The only mishap of the exped was the near loss of Walters, who had mistaken a patch of boggy ground for tufted grass and stepped straight into a sink-hole. He’d immediately disappeared up to his waist and was sinking deeper as he struggled to get free. His sudden disappearance and the resulting screams alerted the rest of the group to his danger and we set about getting him out as quickly as possible.

The stench rising from the mire as Walters’ legs were heaved free was disgusting; his lower torso was covered in a kind of brown flecked vomit. We had no change of clothes with us of course, so as the day progressed and the sun’s heat increased the fetid Walters was consigned to the rear of the group. Interestingly his No 8 trousers still stank even after two trips to the laundry!

Comments

Water Torture

Wed, 19 Apr 2006 19:52:25 +0200

In Nelson's day when half the persons serving in His Majesty's Navy were pressed men, very few sailors knew how to swim. Things are different nowadays because everyone's a volunteer and one of the things every sailor has to do before s/he can serve at sea is pass the navy's standard swimming test.

Now I love the sea, but I've never been much of a swimmer. That's not to say I couldn't swim then or can't swim now. In fact I'm quite at home in the water, even deep water, but an Olympic swimmer I'm not.

They told us about the swimming test, “It's just a splash in the pool, lads. A little swim. No need to worry.” They lied!

The allotted day and time for this new trial arrived and we dutifully marched through the camp to the swimming pool with a towel, a pair of swimming trunks, a boiler suit and a pair of boots tucked under our left arm.

We stripped out of our No 8 uniforms, put on the swimming trunks, then the boiler suit (buttoned all the way up to the neck) and finally pulled on and laced the boots. The idea was, we were supposed to jump into the pool and swim a quarter of a mile then remove the boots. I remember thinking this was going to be hard, but hey it's only a quarter of a mile, I'd make it.

Next we were supposed to tread water, remove the boots, tread water again. For five minutes. No touching the bottom, no touching the pool sides.

Then we had to swim again: another quarter of a mile. Shit this was going to be really hard and I wasn't so sure I could do that.

At the end of the second swim we were supposed to tread water again, remove the boiler suit, tie the ends of the legs and sleeves to form air-traps and make a float. All the time, treading water. Bollocks, I was going to fail, I just knew it.

With our newly formed float we had to swim again, using the aid for additional buoyancy, for a further half a mile. I knew I must have gone pale because Buster asked me what the matter was? I told him. He smiled, “You'll be alright mate, don't worry.”

I did worry. I worried a lot.

The PTI blew his whistle and we all jumped in: the pool was open air and the water was bloody freezing. I started swimming. Someone had hold of my feet and was dragging my legs downwards. I looked behind me, no-one there. My feet were still developing a life of their own and trying to reach the bottom of the pool. Bugger!

I swam harder, reached the end of the pool and turned. I closed my eyes because my arms were starting to hurt, dug deep and swam harder. A whistle blew and I realised I'd completed the first part of the test.

I struggled with the boots trying to tread water waving opposite arm and leg while reaching down to undo one boot. It didn't work too well, so I tried undoing the left boot, treading water with the limbs of my right side. I eventually managed to get the boots off by drinking half the contents of the pool while sitting on the bottom. My boots were merrily walking along the pool floor, but I was free. I felt light, renewed, I could do this. I trod water. I started swimming again.

The second quarter mile was much easier than the first. I found myself being whistled at several times because I'd missed the first indicator that my quarter was complete. Thank God.

I trod water and undid the buttons on the boiler suit. Getting the thing off my arms wasn't as easy as I'd hoped now that it was wet: the denim clung to the skin as though glued. Was everyone else suffering? I certainly hoped so!

I tied the arms and legs, then smacked the open top down into the pool to trap air. It worked! I looked. It hadn't worked too well. I tried several times, but couldn't seem to inflate all the limbs. Shit. I was knackered and would have to go with what I'd got.

You can trust me when I tell you that I tried to swim the last part of their 'splash in the pool'. You can also trust me when I tell you that I failed. I have no idea how near, or far, I was from the finish point, but I'd reached exhaustion point. I'd never learned to swim the easier, less energy sapping strokes and had relied on my own peculiar version of the front crawl: that was my big mistake.

The only thing left to me now was to join 'remedial swimming' classes, in my own time of course, if I wanted to go to sea. I joined. I learned to stroke breasts in the pool, a life-skill that has come in handy on many an occasion since.

The moral of this story is: if some hairy arsed sailor ever invites you to go for 'a splash in the pool' tell him to piss off, unless of course you enjoy drinking chlorinated water that some bugger has probably pissed in!

Comments

Encounter Ashore

Tue, 18 Apr 2006 05:49:31 +0200

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.

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Jack Of All Trades

Mon, 17 Apr 2006 15:12:30 +0200

Basic training for all trades back in 1970 included a grounding in a wide variety of disciplines. We learned to climb ropes, tie knots, row boats, shoot guns, master assault courses, fight fires, shore up leaks and of course to perfect certain manoeuvres on the parade ground. None of us would have claimed to be expert in any of these activities and certainly some were more enjoyable than others.

I was already a proficient marksman, having attained the RAF marksman standard while in the Air Training Corps. I was a little surprised when we first visited the range to find my old friend, the Lee Enfield .303 still being used for target practice. A fine rifle and standard issue for British servicemen during WWII, it was deadly accurate at distances up to half a mile and more in the right hands.

We popped away at the usual charging man NATO target from 200, 300 and 400 yards. I grouped well from all three firing positions and found myself dispatched to the butts to help with the patching along with a couple of other potential Wyatt Earps, where paste and paper was sloshed over the bullet holes our colleagues inflicted on Fritz. A thoroughly enjoyable morning as far as I was concerned.

Having never been one for messing about in small boats, I found the first session in the whalers a bit of a trial however. For the unknowing a whaler is a glorified rowing boat with room for 8 oarsmen and a cox. If you've ever watched Hornblower, you'll have some idea how proficient boats crews are supposed to be. The crew of the whaler I was assigned to was less that useless by comparison. We made a complete mess of tossing the oars, were incapable of giving way together, continued to travel down stream when feathering and managed to lose one of the long stick-things overboard when shipping oars. If these skills were handed out at birth, we obviously hadn't reached conception yet! This turned out to be a long and painful afternoon.

The day they taught us how to wear gas masks is one that will remain with me until I die. We tried the masks on, adjusted the straps and took them off again. We coated the screen with demisting agent and went through the trying on thing again. Next they took us to an old bomb shelter and locked us in. Poof! Off went a tear gas grenade and we all donned our masks. Very good. We assumed we were finished, but oh no, not a bit of it. A gunnery instructor explained in words of single syllables that we were about to experience the joys of tear gas. We were going back into the bomb shelter where more gas would be released, only this time we would already have our masks on and would have to take them off.

In we trooped and once more, poof! Off came the masks and a disembodied voice yelled “Breath in!” It was dark in there and I thought, why? I kept my mouth shut tight and held my breath. Time passed. My eyes watered. The voice shouted “Breath you bastards!” I clenched my nose between my finger and thumb and clapped my other hand to my mouth. Someone punched me in the stomach; hard. I breathed. I chocked. I breathed some more. I retched. The door opened and daylight flooded in. We flooded out, a bunch of little boys bent double and spewing their guts onto the grass. Tear gas has no lasting effect they say, so why can I still smell the stuff whenever I think about that day?

I quickly learned that in the modern navy experience was everything. They taught us how to use fire hoses, bulls blood and carbon dioxide because fire is still one of the most fearful events that can happen on a ship. The instructors were good, very good. We learned quickly how the apparatus worked and what nozzle to use in which situation. We created walls of water that we could walk behind. We directed high pressure jets into raging infernos. We put on breathing apparatus and protective helmets and were lead through burning buildings. Exhilarating stuff.

Finally, they took us to a four storey building with an external staircase. We were still wearing the BAs and helmets. We reached the top and entered a door. The building had no floor levels, just an open metal gallery around three sides at each level and with stairs leading to the level below. At ground level was a large oil pan filled with something volatile and already alight. The building was filled with smoke and flames: all we had to do was walk around each floor level making our way ever downwards until we exited at level one. Some experience, believe me. The heat was simply amazing.

I had no idea how useful the exercise in the burning building actually was until I had to face an oil fire on a ship at sea almost three years later. That was a real-life bowel moving experience.

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Into Basic Training

Sun, 16 Apr 2006 09:18:55 +0200

The transition from induction to basic training meant we new recruits were segregated into more structured groups. Whereas the dynamics of the Nissen hut had been open and varied, we dispersed to new accommodation by trade. All the Weapons Electrical types moved to one building, the Marine Engineering Mechanics to another, the Seamen to a third, etc. We were also assigned duty rosters (watches) and when not part of the duty watch could go ‘ashore’. We were restricted to ‘Cinderella’ leave though and had to be back ‘onboard’ before midnight.

We were Class 35X and our first task of the day was an introduction to Petty Officer Hollins, who was to be our class instructor for the next six weeks. PO Hollins would be available to us 24 hours a day and was tasked with our pastoral care in addition to our general education.

The rules for our immediate existence were explained. These included the watch system and what to expect from being part of the duty watch. Also how leave was allocated and more importantly, how we might get leave that very evening!

With the prospect of a night out in front of us, we turned to with a determined air. Once the move was completed and our kit stowed we were drilled for remainder of the forenoon. The afternoon was spent cleaning and polishing: our new hut to the standard needed for it to pass muster, which it must, before leave would be granted.

I know lots of people who say they cannot understand why the military inflicts such harsh regimes on new recruits. The question “What’s the purpose of all that square bashing and cleaning?” is often asked and can be simply answered.

Drilling instils both discipline and precision in both the individual and the group, but it also helps both mental and physical fitness. You’d be surprised how many calories you burn marching up and down, especially when doing so with a rifle.

Cleaning routines are essential where any large number of bodies is brought together for protracted periods: this is especially true onboard ship where conditions are frequently cramped and air exchange may be limited. One person with poor personal hygiene can ruin the atmosphere in a messdeck.

We split our mess into two groups watches (port and starboard): port watch set to clean the accommodation and starboard the head. I was in port watch.

Always start at the top. We dusted the rafters, washed down the walls, cleaned the windows, dusted and polished the lockers, tables and chairs. We swabbed and dried the deck then polished the lino with bumpers and Purser’s Polish. The messdeck shone like a new pin, we were well pleased with our efforts.

The team cleaning the head worked equally hard and we were certain of our promised run ashore.

With everything clean and dry we re-entered the mess in socks feet so as not to damage the shine on the deck. Next came the laying out of the kit.

Our bedding, three sheets (two on the bed, one in the wash), pillow, pillow slips (two, one in the wash) two blankets and counterpane needed to be bundled to proper naval fashion and set at the head of the bunk. Next came all the various items of kit, No1 uniform, No2 uniform, No 8 working dress, boiler suit, white fronts, No 1 cap, sea jerseys, underwear, socks, housewife, mug, cutlery, washing kit, shaving kit, boots, shoes, etc. The whole effect is quite pleasing when properly achieved, but looks terrible if not correctly done. The distance between each item and the next being precisely measured to achieve perfection: there is an illustration and measurement guide in the naval ratings handbook, so everyone knows how it should be done. I laid my kit out according to the book and looked around to see how others were doing. One or two were still hard at it trying to get things right, most like me were nervously observing everyone else. One person had finished completely and was now outside smoking.

I looked in horror at the ‘finished’ kit: it was a complete mess: the boots weren’t polished, the various parts of the uniforms not ironed. The hut was bound to fail the muster unless something was done. We dragged the offender back in and asked what the hell he was playing at? He really wasn’t interested. One other thing, standing close to him I now realised he was a messy as his kit. Janner, six feet two and built like a wall, grabbed him by the upper arm, “Listen Bowden, if we don’t get ashore I’ll fucking mash you!”

We did what we could with the errant kit in the time allowed, but it wasn’t enough. The mess failed its first muster and our shore leave withheld. This reflected badly on us as a class and on PO Hollins as our class instructor.

We were given two hours to put things right before a second muster. Amid scowls and mutterings the work was shared and the kit cleaned, pressed and re-arranged. Hollins supervised, Bowden sulked. We scraped though, but the penalty stood; still no leave.

A few of us found our way to the NAFFI and talked about what we were going to do over a pint. The general consensus was to keep a weather eye open and make sure our tormentor didn’t put us in the same position again, so we started to take a little more notice of Mr B.

Janner made good his threat, Bowden was suitably mashed.

In the coming days Bowden’s personal habits came under close scrutiny. He was dirty and refused to shower, his kit was unkempt and a disgrace to us all and we all suffered because of it. We talked, shouted, begged, cajoled, but all to no effect. We sought advice from our PO and were told there was little he could do except to threaten Bowden, so we’d be better off trying to persuade Bowden to conform.

In the end we took the law into our own hands. At 02:00 one morning, we dragged Bowden from his bunk and through to the head. He was stripped naked and forced under a cold shower, where he was pinned to the deck and scrubbed using long handled scrubbing brushes and abrasive bathroom cleaning paste. His skin was raw by the time we’d finished.

In the morning he complained, but back in those days the services tended to turn a blind eye to activities of this nature if they believed they were justified and nothing was done. A week later, Bowen not having learned to keep himself or his kit clean, saw a repeat performance. Two days later Bowden was gone.

I’m in no way proud of my actions during this distasteful affair, but justify what took place as being for the greater good. Churchill said, “Action this day” so when Bowden refused to listen to reason, action was taken.

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Induction

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 18:39:49 +0200

The naval induction process for new recruits back in 1970 took two weeks and gave anyone who considered they'd make a mistake three opportunities to leave. The first of these chances to escape came on the morning of our first full day.

The day started at 6:30am, our sleep interrupted by the blaring of a bugle through the Tannoy system. Bodies tensed, heads shot skywards, the hut door burst open and in strode a screeching, yelling thing advising us to get “hands off cocks, hands on socks!”

Having experienced something similar as a member of a cadet corps, I wasted no time in making my way to the 'head' for the morning ablution. Not everyone was quite so prepared to leave the land of Morpheus however and at least one recruit made the mistake of covering their head with a muttered “fuck you”. The mistake was short lived however because the screaming thing simply tipped them, bedding and all onto the floor, er, deck!

After breakfast we were taken to a welcome to the Royal Navy session, where we learned a little about naval parlance. In essence, the floor isn't the floor, it's the deck. The ceiling is the deck head. Bulkheads are walls, hatches are doors, port holes are windows, the toilet is the head (also the bathroom). Port is left and starboard right, fore the front and aft the rear. Confusing? Yes a little. Before we left for lunch, the question was asked: anyone had enough yet and want to leave? Yes, one hand rose. I've no idea what his name was, but he'd cried during the night and was obviously unsuited to this lark.

We were to lose two others when the same question was asked again at the end of weeks one and two. One was Bomber's mate, Chris, who I'd met on my journey down to Plymouth.

As the day progressed we were issued kit and taught how to iron. Naval uniforms have creases in the most peculiar places and all are supposedly exact sizes. Getting the creases right is a battle that has to be won.

A naval rating's cap has a ribbon tied around it depicting the name of the ship on which the rating serves. The ribbon of course doesn't fit as you might expect and needs to be cut to size. The most difficult task here is getting the bow that joins the two ends of the ribbon right.

Uniforms come as standard without badges. Badges are issues separately and need to be sewn neatly onto the uniform in the right place, with the correct stitch size. We learned to sew.

Those of us who didn't already have the skill also learned how to polish brass, leather and anything else that could be made to shine. Time to visit the ship's barber.

Now you may be under the misapprehension that a naval training establishment is a bunch of buildings situated on Terra Firma and you'd be right. But hey, that doesn't mean it can't be called a ship, even if the chance of it sailing off into the sunset is less than the survival of a snowflake in Hell. So, the ship's barber. I'm happy to say this butcher is nothing like the ones you see in American GI movies, but believe me when I tell you your hair is not your own. Royal Navy haircuts must not be shorter than one inch in length (so you can be grabbed by the hair if you're drowning), must not encroach on the ear or the neck: it doesn't leave much to play with.

It's been a hard day and I for one am looking forward to a pint, but no, as a new recruit you're not allowed one. No shore leave and no entry to the NAAFI. Bugger!

Day two is more of the same with the introduction of the parade ground and the absolute necessity to be able to walk around in a regimented format: in the services they call it marching. Another lesson, the parade ground is 'holy ground' and must not be walked on under any circumstances except when drilling. If you do need to cross this piece of tarmac, you first salute it then run (march at double time) across it.

The bugle woke us every morning: our cocks were dropped and our socks grabbed. We learned about the navy and its traditions, we sewed, cleaned, polished, ate, slept and every day we spent time on the parade ground. The days merged one into the next and suddenly our first two weeks were over. We were still confined to camp with no shore leave, but we'd earned the right to visit the NAFFI: a pint never tasted so good as the handful I sank that night.

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Leaving Home

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 07:54:10 +0200

It started the day I boarded The Cornish Riviera at Newport station; I was bound for Plymouth to join the Royal Navy.

As the train pulled out of the station I was filled with both excitement and sorrow. The pain from seeing my girlfriend waving frantically from the platform and my mother clutching a handkerchief with a tear in her eye. The excitement because I was an 18 year-old leaving home for the first time.

I settled into my seat, back to the engine, and watched Newport castle disappear as the train crossed the River Usk: when would I see it again? No leave during basic training, so not for eight weeks at least and I had no clue what would happen after that.

We pulled into Bristol Temple Meads, one of Brunel’s master pieces. The loco detached and was taken to the back of the train. When we departed I found my brother had been right and was facing forward for the rest of the journey.

My head was filled with images and I hardly noticed the countryside slipping past the windows. It was early August and high summer, but that didn’t matter as the cattle in the fields just merged into the landscape. I was musing about what would happen at Plymouth station? Would there be other youngsters on this train as eager and intent as I? What would happen if I missed the pick-up? How would I find my way to HMS Raleigh?

A shock of tight sandy curls landed beside me, beer can in hand, “Are you on your way to Plymouth then?”

A positive answer; who the hell was this?

“Thought so, me to. Joining up are you? Where’re you from?”

“Yes that’s right. I’m John. I've come from Newport and I’m going to join the navy.”

“Thomas,” he said, “from Swansea, see? What branch?”

“Weapons Electrical. How about you?”

“Me too Butty. We’ll be messmates. C’mon, we’re having a beer.”

I followed Thomas along the corridor until he swung into a compartment with two other guys already seated inside. “Look” he said, “I’ve found another one!”

I was introduced to John “Bomber” Brown and his mate Chris, given a can of Courage and told to park it. I parked. Conversation filled the next hour or so as we headed south west and suddenly we were approaching Plymouth.

There were a bunch of uniformed naval types at the station and we had our travel passes checked and were guided toward a couple of buses. Like all new arrivals, we had very little in the way of possessions; instructions are specific regarding what you’re supposed to bring with you.

The short bus ride from the station to HMS Raleigh took around 20 minutes. As we entered through the main gates, I was a little appalled by the view that greeted us: our living accommodation was obviously to be one of the Nissen huts that populated both sides of the roadway. Our bus stopped outside one of these and we were ushered inside.

A fierce looking Chief Petty Officer with a clipboard stood inside waiting for us. We gave our names and he pointed each of towards a bed. “Right gentlemen sit down. We’ll go around the room and introduce ourselves. When I call your name, stand up and tell the rest of us your first name. Clear?”

We bobbed up and down, each giving our details and I became aware as I was called that my new mate Thomas was still waiting. It’ll be Williams I thought, the Davies’, Evans’ and Jones’ having already gone.

“Thomas!”

“Thomas, Chief.”

“Not your bloody surname you idiot, your first name. Let’s try again. Thomas!”

“Thomas, Chief.”

“Oh I see. First name same as your second name is it sonny?”

“No Chief. My second name’s Ivor.”

A few of the mess started to snigger and as the rest of caught up open laughter broke out. The CPO turned to a colleague and muttered in a stage whisper, “Bloody hell George, we’ve got a right tit here!”

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