The Royal Navy & Me
by
Frederick Rodgers
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Frederick Rodgers on Smashwords
The Royal Navy & Me
Copyright © 2009 by Frederick Rodgers
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This book is dedicated to the memory of Eleanor.
26th June 1944 - 1st March 1994
Hushed is the world from toiling
Quiet from fret and care
Evening has spread its shadows
In sunset and twilight air
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Acknowledgements:
I extend a very special thank you to my friend B Gerad O’Brien, a great Irish writer with a love and talent of storytelling. His best selling books include Once on a Cold and Grey September and Dreamin’ Dreams.
Special thanks also to my sister-in-law, Alma Birt, for her valuable assistance in the editing of this book.
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HMS Ganges
Inscribed upon a plaque at the entrance to the gymnasium, this poem best describes the goal instructors sought to achieve from the young boys who passed through that now long disappeared training establishment.
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies
Or being hated, don't give way to hating
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will that says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you
If all men count with you, but none too much
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
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The Royal Navy & Me
Chapter One - Kippers for Breakfast
Chapter Two - The Annex
Chapter Three - The Main Establishment
Chapter Four - The Road to Singapore
Chapter Five - Islands
Chapter Six - Homeward Bound
Chapter Seven - HMS Eastbourne.
Chapter Eight - Radar & Wrens
Chapter Nine - Submarine Training.
Chapter Ten - Diving Stations
Chapter Eleven - Ouch! That Really Hurt
Chapter Twelve - The Trap is Set
Chapter Thirteen - Crossing the Atlantic
Chapter Fourteen - Caroline is Born
Chapter Fifteen - Back to Civilian Life
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Chapter One
Kippers for Breakfast
It was Tuesday, the fifteenth of March 1955. I was on board the Belfast to Liverpool steamer, one of six new Royal Navy recruits en-route to HMS Ganges. Crossing the Irish Sea from Belfast had been unusually calm. Perhaps it had something to do with the misty overcast weather.
Still, I was grateful for a flat sea. It would have been hugely embarrassing to be seasick on my very first day as a sailor. Not that the other passengers would have noticed anyway. To them I must have appeared as just another silly young boy.
During the last hour of the crossing I stood alone at the ship’s guardrail, quietly daydreaming. I imagined myself on the bridge of a warship, a stalwart seaman, feet firmly planted on a pitching deck and binoculars at the ready, searching for an enemy fleet.
The ship’s foghorn suddenly sounded overhead, breaking my salty reverie. The ship was slowing down as it approached the wharf at the Albert Docks. My five companions joined me on deck and we watched the Liverpool skyline gradually materializing through the fog.
Twenty minutes later the gangway was in place and the passengers began to disembark, and six young Jolly Jacks finally set foot on a Liverpool jetty, thus ending the first part of our epic journey.
Our next task was to find the Seaman’s Mission, where we were to spend the night before travelling on to London the following morning. The address was clearly listed on the sheet of instructions given to us by the recruiting officer in Belfast.
After asking a dockyard worker for directions, we set out on foot to find it. Having no luggage to carry, we decided to walk and save on bus fares. I almost regretted this decision because, as we left the docks area, I spotted a line of trams. They were parked in front of a huge building. At the time I assumed it was the City Hall but I later discovered that it was the Mersey Port Authority Building.
The sight of the trams rekindled some fond memories of the old Belfast trams that were taken out of service in 1952. They had for years been my favourite mode of travel around the city. The Liverpool trams were the same familiar Chamberlain models, but in their drab green paint they didn’t look nearly as grand as my Belfast ones.
But now wasn’t the time to reminisce about the past. I had far greater priorities on this important day.
We continued down the main street, taking in the sights and sounds of an unfamiliar city. Ten minutes later, on the opposite side of the street, we spotted the Mission sign on a two-storey red brick building.
One of the boys noticed a cinema a couple of doors down from the Mission which was showing George Orwell’s ‘1984’, and he suggested we should go there after supper.
At the Mission we were assigned our beds and issued with pillows, blankets, towels and soap. The menu for supper was bangers and mash, tea and rice pudding, but we were notified that it wasn’t available until 6 pm. So, having an hour or so to kill, we decide to test our bunks and rested up before eating. We smoked cigarettes, talked about nothing in particular, and laughed at silly jokes.
We were nervous and anxious, but also impatient to move on to the next stage of our adventure.
After supper we agreed that we should go to the cinema as it would help pass the time, but it was a strange film about an imagined world some thirty years in the future, and I didn’t particularly enjoy it. I had little interest or comprehension in such a futuristic world. 1984 was just too far in the distance to bother thinking about.
The sleeping quarters in the Mission was just one large dormitory containing approximately thirty beds. We cautioned each other to sleep with our wallets under our pillows. Liverpool was a busy seaport and the Mission was filled with a variety of merchant seamen from many different countries. In fact our sleep was disturbed several times during the night by the noisy arrival of a drunken sailor or two.
This was my first introduction to a sleeping environment that consisted of loud and various sounds that involved snoring, farting and belching. However, sharing a small space with so many bodies was something that I would soon become quiet accustomed to in my chosen career.
I arose around six the next morning and headed to the communal bathrooms to wash and brush my teeth. There was very little movement at that early hour because most of my neighbours were still sleeping soundly.
Trevor Weir, a wee lad from Ballymena, appeared shortly after me and we finished our ablutions together. We got dressed and then returned our bedding to the used-linen hampers provided. With twenty minutes still to go before breakfast, Trevor suggested we take a walk around the block and have a smoke.
Outside, the morning air was crisp and clear, and there were few people about as we sauntered down the street puffing on our Woodbines. Trevor, who was just as nervous as me, started a conversation about how he imagined life would be at HMS Ganges, but neither of us came close to picturing what lay in store for us once we passed through those barrack gates.
As we returned to the Mission a clock was chiming the hour from somewhere across the city. I was hungry now and my thoughts turned to a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, toast and a large mug of tea. When we entered the dinning area the four other recruits were already standing in line waiting to be served so Trevor and I collected our cups, plates and cutlery from a table at the side of the counter and lined up behind them.
When my turn came I held out my plate and the cook dumped something on it that I didn’t recognize. He was a big burly man who didn’t look particularly happy with his lot in life so I decided not to ask him what it was and I joined my friends at the table.
We had all been served the same thing, and I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what it was. One lad did, however, and he gleefully informed us that we each had a pair of smoked kippers.
I was none the wiser, but I was equally sure that it was something I wouldn’t normally eat for breakfast. Or at any other meal, for that matter! So I had to content myself with bread, margarine, marmalade and a cup of tea.
I soon learnt that kippers were a popular item on the Royal Navy’s breakfast menu, and they were better known in Naval terms as ‘Spithead Pheasant.’
With our less than scrumptious meal finished we collected our coats and departed the Mission. Lime Street Station wasn’t far away, so again we decided to walk and conserve our dwindling funds. We had ample time. The London train didn’t leave until 8.30am.
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The next leg of our journey began with a five-hour train ride to Euston Street Station in London. The six of us clambered into an eight-seat compartment just behind the engine.
In the nineteen fifties, British Rail still used the old style carriages. There was no corridor, so the passengers were confined to their own compartment until they arrived at the next station. So it was incumbent on everyone to use the public lavatory before they embarked on the train because the next stop could be hours away. And there was no way of knowing how long the train would stop for then. The duration of the stop could be anything from two to five minute, which was often way too short to make it to the toilet and back again.
Of course, in desperation, one could always use the window.
This, however, was only an option if the compartment contained only your shipmates. And it was also very risky, requiring careful aim and timing. The wind rushing past the window could cause an embarrassing spray, which you could say was getting your own back.
It was also a big risk going to the station cafeteria for a cuppa and bun because it usually meant you had to compete with a dozen other passengers all doing the same thing, and it always seemed that, just as I was being served, the whistle would blow, signalling that the train was about to leave. With a surge of panic, and trying not to spill several mugs of tea, there would be the mad dash back to the carriage. With the train juddering and gathering speed, I’d frantically pass the mugs to outstretched hands as I ran alongside, finally managing to scramble on board just as the end of the platform loomed large.
This scenario would be repeated many, many times during my Naval career, though in later years it would be with pints of beer rather than mugs of tea. I became quiet competent in platform racing, and though I had some close calls I never actually missed a train.
Apart from that the journey to London was uneventful, and we arrived safely at 1.30 pm on Wednesday afternoon. The next part of our schedule was rather tight. The train to Ipswich departed at 15.45, and we needed to navigate our way through the London Underground System to Liverpool Street Station.
The London Underground is indeed an amazingly simple system, and even fools like us found our way around it without any mishap. At Liverpool Street Station we sought out platform fourteen to begin the final leg of our journey.
At the gate we saw dozens of boys milling around, and we knew instantly that we’d arrived at the right place. There were close to a hundred boys of all shapes and sizes. The platform was alive with their noisy chatter and laughter.
On the train I sat beside a boy who looked closer to twelve than fifteen. His name was Jameson and he was joining from the Royal Hospital School at Holbrook, the same place where I had almost ended up in1952. He was known as Jamie, and though we couldn’t know it then, we would be shipmates for the next three years.
During the journey to Ipswich everyone in the compartment talked excitedly and constantly. On arrival, the carriage doors flew open to discharge their eager cargo. We had arrived.
Several Petty Officer Instructors from Ganges were there to meet us, and it quickly became evident that it was not to roll out the welcome mat!
Suddenly we were being yelled at, told to shut up and sort ourselves into three neat lines. This was my first taste of Naval discipline.
Over the next twelve months, forming three neat lines would become a way of life. We marched smartly out of the station. Well, we thought we were smart. Several dark blue lorries with canvas covers were lined up in the parking area. Emblazoned on the cab doors in large white letters was RN.
In an orderly fashion we were loaded into the vehicles, and the convoy set out for the base at Shotley village. The cold and uncomfortable drive took about twenty minutes.
Sitting in the back of a covered lorry, you can only see where you’d been, not where you were going, so when the lorry made a sharp right turn, I was surprised to see a huge ship’s mast with a white ensign flying from it. Below the mast was what looked like the main entrance to HMS Ganges.
Then I got a bit confused. It appeared we going in the wrong direction, away from the main camp. Suddenly we were in a much smaller camp, and the lorries swung in a wide circle and came to a stop.
The next instant our world exploded to the shrill of numerous whistles, people yelling and shouting. Bewildered and frightened, we flew out of the trucks and landed on a parade square where Petty Officers attempted to organize us into a division of three neat rows. I noticed that several of the boys in uniformed were wearing white gaiters and, like the POs, appeared to have some authority over us. In fact they were the ones doing most of the shouting and shoving.
“Three rows, you idiots!” they screamed. “Tallest on the ends, shortest in the centre. Move, move, move!”
Once we were finally formed into three somewhat ragged lines, a silence descended as a Chief Petty Officer and several Petty Officers stood in front of us with clipboards in their hands.
“Listen carefully,” the Chief Petty Officer said. “When your name is called, fall out and go to the Instructor Boy on your left.”
So that’s who these guys in the white gaiters were, Instructor Boys.
When all the names had been called I realised that we had now been segregated into three separate groups, and only one of the six lads from Belfast was in my group. Being separated from my travelling companions initially caused me an anxious moment, but it didn’t last long, though. Things were moving too rapidly.
The camp, I later learned, was known as The Annex. All the buildings were spread evenly around the parade square. At the top end were the Instructor’s quarters, along with an area known as the quarterdeck. I would soon learn that the quarterdeck was perceived to be a very sacred part of the ship. When entering this area, we were required to salute and then march at the double across it. The mast, a ship’s bell and two ancient cannons identified the sacred area.
To the left of the quarterdeck was the guardhouse and two accommodation blocks. Facing the mast at the other end was the mess hall, the shower block and the laundry rooms. On the right was the last of the accommodation blocks, and this was to become my home for the next six weeks.
Our group was ordered to turn left and march in single file into our mess block. To achieve this single file, two Instructor Boys shoved and pushed us, calling us stupid in a variety of colourful Naval terminology. Once inside, we were told to stand at attention beside a bed, no talking, no moving. The Petty Officer who had called out our names entered the block and told us to stand at ease.
“My name is Petty Officer Birmingham,” he informed us. “For the next six weeks I shall be the most important person in your life. At all times you will address me as Sir, and you will only address me when I say you can. Instructor Boys Mathers and Moss will be in charge when I’m not here. They too, will be addressed as Sir.”
I was beginning to wonder why they bothered to tell us their names. Obviously we’d never be allowed to use them.
The Petty Officer gave us a brief outline of what lay ahead, and what was expected of us in the coming weeks, and by the time he’d finished there wasn’t a boy who was not scared. Perhaps a few were even terrified
Instructor Boy Moss told all the boys on his left to turn right and follow him in single file.
Those of us remaining were told to sit on the long bench in the middle of the mess. We were handed a pencil, some paper and an envelope, then ordered to write a brief letter letting our parents know that we’d arrived safely.
By the time our letters were completed the other group was returning. They carried bedding and clothing that were piled so high it was difficult for them to see where they were going.
Then it was our turn to march out in single file behind Instructor Boy Mathers. We followed him into a supply room where the clerks, giving us a quick once-over, decide what size clothing we needed. In rapid order we moved along the supply line, and the pile of blankets, pillow and clothing we were given grew ever larger. We then marched in single filed back into the mess to join the rest of our group as they finished their letters.
The next order took us totally by surprise, and it caused us considerable embarrassment.
“Right,” came the command. “Strip! Everything off, underwear, socks, the lot! Put everything on your mattress, and stand by you beds again.”
Twenty-seven red face boys were now standing stark naked in front of a room full of total strangers, trying desperately not to look at each other. Then the senior Instructor Boy held up a pair of newly issued white underpants. To our immense relief he told us to find ours and put them on.
Next he held up a vest and again told us to find ours and put it on, and our acute embarrassment receded as we quickly dressed by numbers.
Within two minutes we were fully clothed in our new working uniforms, which are known as Number 8’s. We looked a sorry sight; though, with every item of clothing stiff and ill fitting. I’d always imagined myself as a dashing figure in my smart new uniform, but what I looked like right then was neither smart nor dashing. In the following weeks, of course, after washing our kit over and over again, the new unworn look would soon disappeared, and as my skill with an electric iron improved too, I soon began to look a little smarter as well.
On that first day we were told to gather all our civilian clothes for packing. We wrapped every single item, socks, underwear, and hankies - the lot! And when the pile of brown paper packages and the stack of one page letters were addressed and ready, four boys were detailed to collect them all and follow Instructor Boy Moss.
Those remaining were told to march in single file to the washrooms, wash our hands then fall in three deep outside the mess hall. It was now almost 1900 hrs, and as we were marched into the mess hall for supper we quickly realised that there were no cooks on duty. The Annex wasn’t officially operational until the following morning, so we were issued with mugs of kye (cocoa), bread, margarine, cheese and jam.
When the meal was over it was back into three lines to march back to the accommodation block where we were told to strip again! It was time to have a shower. A very cold shower!
I was learning fast that there was neither modesty nor privacy in the Royal Navy. The shower room had about eight or ten showerheads, and twenty-seven boys were all told to get under the freezing water together and wash. Our newly issued kit included was a large bar of soap known as Pusser Hard, and this was used for washing everything, including yourself.
In the showers, a few boys barely got wet before dashing for the exit. But dodging a cold shower was not possible. Petty Officer Birmingham stood at the exit, waiting to inspect each one of us. If he decided a boy wasn’t clean, it was back under the showers for him.
Shivering badly, we tried desperately to dry ourselves with our newly issue, almost totally waterproof, towels. Then, with our towels around waists, we marched in single file back to the mess and stood by our beds.
“You have thirty seconds to get into your pyjamas,” was the next order.
Quietly and quickly, we complied. We were freezing.
A bed was dragged to the centre of the mess and Instructor Boy Moss demonstrated the Navy’s method of making up a proper bed.
The owner of the bed was then severely disappointed when it was pulled apart again. We were learning that nothing was ever going to be done for us.
It took ages to conclude the exercise. Instructor Boys marched up and down, pulling beds apart that didn’t meet their exact standards. Then at long last, when everyone finally achieved the requirements, twenty-seven totally exhausted boys climbed between the sheets and sighed with relief.
It was now 2100 hours, time for lights out.
We were given one final, stern warning not to talk. Just one sound and everyone would be back out on the parade square to practice their marching skills for an hour.
Utter silence fell on the place. I lay quietly in my bed, gazing at the rafters. I was tired, but I was very happy. I had arrived.
Thus ended the first day of my Naval career.
Chapter Two
The Annex.
My pleasant and dreamy sleep was suddenly invaded by the glare of lights and the shrill sounds of whistles blowing hysterically. It seemed like I’d only just gone to sleep and now I was out of bed and standing at attention.
A few heavy sleepers, or perhaps they were just trying to avoid the inevitable, remained under their covers. It was not a good idea. Their beds were quickly flipped over, empting blankets and bodies onto the deck.
Instructor Boys loomed over the hapless late sleepers issuing dire threats of punishment. The most unpopular of these punishments was to double march around the parade square with your rolled up mattress on your back.
After that first morning everyone naturally became light sleepers. We were out of bed the instant we were called.
At 0500 hrs on that dark and chilly Thursday morning we were ordered to wash and shave. It mattered not that most of us didn’t need to shave. It was wiser to do what we were told without objection.
Everyone lathered up and, with our newly issued razors, we removed imaginary stubble, bum fluff and peach fuzz from our baby faces. Shaving for the first time was made even more difficult by the fact that the water was very cold.
By five-thirty we were stripping our beds and folding the bedding. Like the night before, this was a long-suffering exercise. Once more, our two Instructor Boys paraded up and down the mess throwing any blanket or sheet that failed to meet the required standards onto the deck
With all the bedding finally folded in the uniform fashion we were ordered to dress in our number eights, with boots and gaiters. Number eights consisted of dark blue trousers, light blue shirt, boots, gaiters and cap. We were issued with a pair of khaki gaiters that set us apart from the Instructors, who wore white gaiters.
Out on the parade square the first rays of daylight were appearing as we separated into two squads. Instructor Boy Moss was in charge of my squad. I was glad about that. Of our two young mentors he was the more gentle, although gentle probably isn’t the best word to describe any Instructor Boy.
Boys spilled out of the other two barracks to join us on the parade square. It was drill time! Drill requires total concentration, listening carefully to each order that was issued by the Squad Leader. The exercise was made doubly difficult by having six separate Squad Leaders all yelling similar orders at the same time.
The next hour was spent marching, doubling, turning left, turning right, and about turning. It was a disaster. A lot of the boys didn’t appeared to know their left from their right and this sent the Instructors into a frenzy of more hysterical threats.
At 0700 hrs we were dismissed and told to form a single line outside the dining hall for breakfast, and by now we were very hungry indeed. Our last meal had been a meagre supper of bread and cheese. Added to this was the hour of rigorous early morning drill. We had become a ravenous hoard.
When I finally reached the food counter I surmised that the cook must be related to the one at the Liverpool Seaman’s Mission. My plate once again held a mystery food. It turned out to be kidneys on toast, better known in Naval terminology as ‘Shit on a Raft’.
I’d never tasted a kidney in my life, but with such a powerful hunger I swallowed every bit of it, washing it down with generous gulps of tea. I finished my breakfast by polishing off several thick slices of bread, margarine and marmalade.
Breakfast was followed by a very hectic morning. We collected the remainder of our kit, and we had to stamp our name on every single item.
At the same time haircuts were taking place on the parade square. Several barbers (boys in training) from the main establishment were doing the shearing. I doubt any of them wouldn’t have been hired to shear sheep. Supervision came from two totally disinterested civilians, who I assumed were qualified barbers. The parade square was a scene of lost curls and locks with occasional traces of blood. When it was over selling Brylcreem or a comb would have been almost impossible.
Through the course of the morning we learned that we were to remain in the Annex for six weeks. It was necessary to undergo basic training before moving to the main establishment to begin the actual seamanship training.
Boys in the Annex were known as Nossers, a somewhat detrimental name applied to newcomers and rookies.
During basic training our names had to be sewn into each article of kit with a red cotton chain stitch. To accomplish this task we’d been issued with a sewing kit, better known as a ‘housewife.’ A great many boys spend every free minute of the next six weeks with their ‘housewife’ because no one could leave the Annex until the sewing was completed. And no one wanted to be left behind to start all over again with the new intake.
In our naïve and simple minds we believed that once we reached the main establishment things would get easier.
Four particular things stand out in my memory of the Annex: sewing and folding, washing and marching. And marching, and marching. I believe we spent more time on the parade square than we did in bed.
Our first visit to the laundry was a severe shock for everyone. Hand washing our kit with ‘pusser hard’ soap was an experience none of us could have imagined. I suspect that the laundry and the sewing were a nightmare for many boys. The boys with long surnames suffered the sewing chore more than most.
However, many boys with short names who were woefully inept with a needle didn’t fair much better. Our Instructor Boys inspected each item of kit, and often made us cut the thread out again and redo it. I can’t remember the exact number of articles in a Naval kit but at the time it seemed like hundreds.
The most unpleasant experience in the Annex, and the one I consider a blemish on an otherwise fair training system, was the laundry. Ganges training was indeed very harsh, and it’s true that sometimes the Instructors went too far. Nevertheless, if you carried out your duties properly you could generally stay out of trouble.
The Annex laundry was a different matter entirely. The person in charge was a civilian named Knobby Clark. It was rumoured that he’d once been a Royal Marine Corporal, and if that was true it did nothing to enhance my image of the Marines. He was a bully and tyrant, deriving pleasure from picking on the smaller boys in our division. He carried a sail baton and he used it liberally, and mostly without cause, on many a bare buttock of his hapless victims.
His golden rule was silence! Should a boy dare to speak he was struck maliciously and made to put a wet woollen sock in his mouth for the duration of the session. This was a doubly unpleasant punishment. The dye from the sock ran into your mouth and dripped into the sink. Washing your whites while avoiding the blue dye dripping on them was almost impossible.
Each washed item was held up in front of Clark for his inspection and approval, but he rarely approved of anything the first time around. He enjoyed grabbing the wet article and, in a swinging motion, wrapping it around the unfortunate boy’s head.
He enjoyed inflicting punishment, and his face seemed permanently fixed in an evil grin. I no longer remember his actual features but I retain an image of an unshaven, overweight bully with a half-smoked butt in the corner of his mouth.
Looking back now, it’s disappointing that our Instructors didn’t step in and take control of him. It will forever stand out as a serious blemish on the Ganges organization. To employ such an ill suited person and place him in a position of authority over defenceless boys was, to say the least, shameful. From that dreadful laundry experience I have often wondered if the term ‘put a sock in it’ originated at Ganges.
Beside my bed was a kit locker. Its doors were always open to display my (hopefully) neatly folded kit. A photograph of how a kit locker was supposed to look was placed on the mess notice board. Our lockers were supposed to look identical. Unfortunately many a locker failed to meet the standard and, like our beds, was often tipped over.
Once a week we had a full kit inspection. All kit items had to be laid out on our canvas hammock. Every article of clothing had to be folded to the same length and width as our seamanship manual. The sewn on names had to be centrally located on each folded item. Spit and polish was soon added to an already overwhelming list of chores. Petty Officer Birmingham expected to see his face in the shine of our boots. Dawn to dusk was filled with work. If we found a spare minute it was used to complete our sewing.
A variety of other training events were happening at the same time. The mess hall was cleared one afternoon and a boxing ring set up. We were paired up regardless of size, and ordered to punch each other’s lights out.
On a cold and windy April morning we were ordered to strip to the waist and form three single lines on the parade square. I was covered in goose bumps with my teeth chattering as we waited in line for inoculations!
I still shudder at the methods employed back then. Three tables were set up at the end of the parade square. At each table sat two Sick Bay Ratings (nursing assistants of a sort). On each table was a Bunsen burner that was used to sterilize the needle after each use. The same needle was used on approximately thirty to forty boys.
We were lined up in alphabetical order. For those at the rear, which included me, the blunt needle felt more like a six-inch nail being driven into one’s arm.
We were never given more information than necessary during our day- to-day training in the Annex. So imagine our surprise when a rumour began to circulate that we were going on leave the following week.
I couldn’t believe it. Three weeks in the Navy and we were already going on leave. It just didn’t seem possible. Nevertheless, it was true. The following Wednesday the entire camp was closing down for three weeks Easter leave.
The news was both good and bad. It was obviously exciting to be going home wearing our uniforms. However, it was a serious interruption to our training, just when we were adapting to the harsh routine. Going on leave now could mean having to start all over again when we came back. It was also a temptation for any unhappy young lad to consider deserting.
Organizing the leave of hundreds of boys and dispatching them to different locations across the nation was a grand example of Ganges efficiency. Everyone was separated into a local zone and my group consisted of approximately thirty boys all going to Northern Ireland.
A handful of boys from the South of Ireland had to travel in civilian clothes. It was considered very unwise to wear the Queen’s uniform South of the border.
Ipswich Station was thronged with young sailors looking for a space on the packed trains. Almost everyone travelled down to London first, and then fanned out and disappeared into various tube stations.
On the train I was amazed to see many of the boys from the main establishment busily sewing a variety of badges onto their tunics. They had exchanged their Ganges cap tallies for those of sea going ships. We Nossers from the Annex sat apart in our plain, and obviously brand new uniforms.
Nozzers were considered wet behind the ears and the boys from the main establishment ignored us completely. Sailors for barely three weeks, we had yet to learn the trick of looking smart and natty in our new uniforms. Boys from the main establishment had learned to bleach their blue uniform collars. After many washes the collar turns a lighter shade of blue, and it was the sign of an old salt. My own collar, along with my companions, was dark blue. In fact it was almost black.
During my time at Ganges I would see many a collar ruined with bleach and a variety of other experiments used to lighten the colour. I would surmise that the replacement of uniform collars from slops (Supply) was high in demand.
My first shore leave as a sailor was very quiet, and it required the constant explanation as to why I was home so soon after joining. Also, having only been in the Navy for one payday, I had very little money to spend. Then three weeks later I was back in the Annex to complete my basic training before moving on to the main establishment. When that big day finally arrived we were divided into our new divisions and introduced to our new Instructors.
I joined Drake Division, and I was allocated to number 40 Mess. We were further divided into two separate classes, number 16 and 17.
Our new Instructors were Petty Officers Booty and Russell. They would soon prove to be much harder on us than the ones we were leaving behind.
Chapter Three
The Main Establishment
Drake division was located at the top end of the short covered walkway, and Number 40 Mess was almost directly under the huge mast, just opposite the base Post Office. Trevor Weir was the only one from our original Belfast six still with me. Where everyone else had gone to I had no idea.
Training now took on a much greater variety of subjects, and the swimming test was amongst the first, and the hardest, to pass. The test entailed staying afloat for twenty minutes in the deep end of the swimming pool whilst wearing a canvas duck suit. Any boy who grabbed onto the side of the pool failed immediately and was listed as a backward swimmer.
I was lucky, and I passed first time. But I have to tell you, wearing a canvas suit makes the job very difficult because the canvas quickly becomes waterlogged and extremely heavy, making swimming very tiring.
To be listed as a backward swimmer was not good. If you were one of those unfortunate boys, it meant you had to attend the pool every morning at 0500 hours for thirty minutes of swimming. The early hour and cold water made your life very unpleasant. Sunday was the only day you were excused.
However, it also proved an effective training strategy because the boys were motivated to become stronger swimmers very quickly.
Like the Annex, we seemed to spend more time on the parade square than we did in bed. Petty Officer Russell was our drill and gunnery Instructor, and he put us through a series of exercises. We learned how to crew and fire a four-inch gun, a common weapon on most of our warships at the time.
We were taught how to function in a gas filled environment with our gas mask removed.
On the range we practiced firing the Lee Enfield .303 rifle. This rifle had a violent recoil action and it could cause a nasty shoulder injury if it was held incorrectly, so we quickly learned how to hold it properly. During the range training I qualified for my first badge, the Marksman Cross Rifles badge. I was very proud.
Petty Officer Booty taught us seamanship, tying knots, splicing ropes, and rigging a block and tackle. We learned the alphabet of the semaphore code, which at the time began Able-Baker-Charlie-Dog etc, and was use for signalling at sea.
But it seemed we had no sooner learned this system than it was changed to the international code of Alpha-Bravo-Charlie-Delta etc. Such was the life of a young sailor in training. We had no choice but to get on with it.
Before sun-up we would pull (row) a 32-foot Naval cutter up and down the Orwell River, racing cutters from the other divisions. To lose a race was unacceptable to our instructors, and it usually resulted in us doing extra time on the river. We learned how to sail a 27-foot whaler, and we often missed supper while trying to sail across the wind in a hopeless attempt to return to the jetty on time.
Sunday was hardly a day of rest at Ganges. It began with the whole camp on parade. Dressed in our Number Ones, which was our best uniforms with gold badges, we marched smartly past the Saluting Dais, following the guard, the boys bugle band and the band of the Royal Marines.
After the parade we lined up to attend Church services, and how the Navy decided who attended which Church has always remained a mystery to me. We were divided into three groups, the Church of England, Roman Catholic and the Free Church of Scotland. Anyone who didn’t belong to the first two churches had to attend the Free Church.
On Sunday afternoon we were free to climb the mast, play sports, or, if we had any money, go into Ipswich where we could stay until 1900 hours. But few of us had any money so we spent our time sitting on the yardarms of the 147-foot high mast, viewing the surrounding countryside.
The mast was indeed the landmark of Ganges, a spectacular sight that could be seen from many miles away. It was even more impressive when, on ceremonial occasions, it was manned by hundreds of boys in uniform. One boy, who was certainly braver than me, would stand on the button at the very top of the mast and salute. Below him on each platform, yardarm and halyards, boys manned the rigging, standing side by side with their arms and legs extended.
A total of more than eighty boys would spread out on each and every part of the mast, and it was a marvellous sight to behold.
Then, at the sound of a bugle call, and in total silence, the mast would be vacated in less than one minute.
*****
As the year rolled on I made good progress, and in June I was promoted to Badge Boy, or Leading Boy. I was one of four with this rank in the mess, and we were in charge of everything when the Instructors were absent. We took charge of our classmates, marching them smartly about the camp, to classes, meals and wherever else we had to go. We marched everywhere. No one dared to wander around Ganges.
While I was doing reasonably well, the same could not be said for my shipmate Trevor Weir. He was constantly in trouble, as he found learning the many drills and seamanship routines very difficult.
By far his biggest problem was his dress and deportment. He always seemed to arrive on parade in a uniform that was badly in need of ironing, or a visit from a needle and thread. His unsightly appearance was guaranteed to send our Instructors into a fit of rage. This made things bad for the whole class because we were often punished as well because of his sloppy turn out. Trevor quickly found himself very unpopular with his messmates.
We also had a full kit inspection on a regular basis, and these were usually a disaster for Trevor. His whites had taken on a greyish hue, and, like his deportment, fell far below the expected standard.
One day, returning from my second leave in August, I was waiting at the Belfast quay when his mother approached me. She asked me to help her son and naturally I agreed. But she didn’t fully understand what she was asking of me. Just keeping myself at the correct standard required was difficult enough. To help Trevor as well was all but impossible.
Of course we were encouraged to work as a team and to help each other wherever we could, but that didn’t mean washing his kit for him, doing his ironing, dressing him or supervising his drill. Every boy was expected to become proficient in these areas by himself. Besides, if you were caught helping someone lay out his kit for inspection you could well find yourself under punishment.
When Trevor returned from leave his whites were the envy of the whole mess. His mother had washed them until they looked as clean and pure as virgin snow. Alas, they didn’t remain like that for long. All too soon they returned to their usual dull grey, and so did his troubles.
*****
In October I was promoted to Petty Officer Boy. At about the same time a dance was arranged in the gym. Girls were invited from Ipswich and surrounding area. There was no shortage of pretty young dance partners, but the majority of boys at camp couldn’t dance.
Yours truly certainly could, my many nights at the Plaza now proved most beneficial.
I asked a pretty Ipswich girl named Carol Syrett to dance and was delighted when she said yes. It was love at first sight, and we danced together the whole night.
I saved my meagre funds to visit her in town the following weekend, and we wrote to each other and exchanged photos. I even wrote home telling Anna that I was in love and thinking of getting engaged. Anna, obviously somewhat concerned, advised me that I should wait a few years.
Her advice was wise but unnecessary. Things moved too fast at Ganges for romance to blossom. Seeing Carol on a regular basis was not possible. We soon drifted apart, and I suffered the first of the many broken hearts from which I somehow always recovered. Yet it’s strange that after all these years I still remember Carol, and her Ipswich address; Number 2, Pound Cottages.
Trevor’s career remained on a downward spiral; he was always in trouble, suffering one punishment after another. Petty Officer Russell, our Gunnery Instructor, became so frustrated with his constant grubby appearance that he ordered him to be scrubbed down out on the parade square.
Of all the unusual things I saw at Ganges, this stands out as the cruellest and most soul destroying of them all. A washtub was placed on the parade ground and filled with cold water. Both classes were made to participate in what followed. Trevor was ordered to strip naked and get into the tub, and we had to scrub him down with stiff scrub-brushes and ‘pusser hard’ soap. No one could avoid participating in this dreadful punishment. To try and dodge it meant we’d be next in the tub.
When it was all over Trevor’s skin was red raw, and tears streamed down his face. The pain and torture he suffered that day was surely better suited to an older Navy of cannon and canvas. I really felt Trevor’s awful agony, yet there was nothing I could do to console him.
I can’t remember the exact date, but some weeks later he disappeared from Ganges. He had been discharged as an unsuitable candidate for the Navy. It was dreadful news and I felt I’d failed my shipmate. I questioned if I could have done more. Had I tried harder, might things have turned out differently? But in retrospect, there was really nothing I could have done for him. Trevor just wasn’t cut out for a life in the Navy.
As March of 1956 neared, we prepared for the completion of our year of training. Many tests and exams lay ahead, but the fear of failure was tempered with the excitement of being drafted into the fleet soon afterwards.
We speculated on where, and to which ships, we might be sent. Many rumours circulated amongst us. Everyone hoped to go to a small ship, such as a frigate or a destroyer. We were well aware that on a larger ship like a battleship or a carrier, the discipline would be a lot stricter. Discipline was something we’d had more than enough of at Ganges.
As we completed out final exams I was promoted to Instructor Boy, and I was to be sent back to the Annex for approximately fifteen more weeks. This was a double edge sword; on the one hand I was over the moon at having obtained the highest rank a boy could reach, but it meant I would not go to sea for a further three months. It also meant I wouldn’t be going to sea with my classmates.
I never considered that I had a choice. I was conditioned to do what I was told and when to do it. Donning white gaiters with my uniform and packing my kit, I proudly returned to the Annex. I was teamed up with another newly appointed Instructor Boy named Jameson (Jamie). We knew each other from a year earlier when we sat together on the train from London. That seemed like a lifetime ago. But it was good having a friend to begin my new role of Instructor Boy.
The Navy was modernizing and suddenly we were no longer to be called Boy Seamen. We were now Junior Seamen, thus my new title became Junior Instructor.
The lengths of service also changed, although that wouldn’t directly affect me until I reached my eighteenth birthday. The new terms were nine or fourteen year’s continuous service. This replaced the old terms of twelve years, or seven and five reserve.
Becoming a Junior Instructor had some advantages and privileges. However, it was far from easy work. We were expected to set the highest standard at all times. Uniforms and deportment must always be impeccable. It was our responsibility to get the new recruits up in the mornings and into bed at night. This meant we were first up and last to bed.
Between new intakes the Annex was deserted, and we were left to do as we pleased. Besides enjoying a well-earned rest we were free to roam about the village. We struck up relationships with the local girls. If I remember correctly there were only two. The Canteen Manager’s daughter and the Church of England Padre’s daughter.
Naturally, great care was exercised in wooing the girls. Even with our privileged rank disaster could strike if their parents found out. I have no doubt our freedom to leave the Annex would have been instantly curtailed.
I can understand the saying ‘lock up your daughters’; it surely applied to those families living beside a camp of roughly one thousand hormonal young Jolly Jacks.
Chapter Four
The Road To Singapore
In early August Jamie and I were informed that we were leaving the Annex to join HMS Whitby, which was tied up alongside in the dockyard at Devonport. It was a temporary draft; and we’d soon receive new orders. I was excited and when I asked the Senior Instructors in the Annex what type of ship the Whitby was he said it was a new frigate designed for anti-submarine warfare.
Early on the15th August, along with several shipmates, I joined my first real ship. I was immediately put to work giving the hull a fresh coat of battleship grey paint.
Within an hour of arriving I had managed to replace my cap tally for an HMS Whitby one. I consigned the Ganges tally to the depths of the murky dockyard waters.
Jamie and I had to quickly adjust to our new shipmates. For the last three months as Junior Instructors we had been saluted, addressed as Sir and generally treated with great respect.
That was over now, and we’d returned to the lowly rank of Junior Seaman. However, with so many new and exciting things happening this turned out not to be too difficult a transition.
Our time on Whitby was indeed temporary. On the 19th August we were told to pack our kit and be ready to move. Not a problem for me. Having only arriving four days earlier I’d not found time to unpack.
My next draft was really exciting. With roughly two hundred other draftees I was flying to Singapore to join HMS Cockade. I saw flying as an amazing adventure. Like me, few of my shipmates had ever been near an aircraft, much less flown in one.
There was much speculation about this, such as wondering if we would be issued with a parachute. Air travel was quite rare in those days and it was still considered to be unsafe by a large segment of the population.
The Royal Navy chartered an aircraft as a cost effective method of replacing a whole ship’s crew while allowing the ship to remain on station. Skyways Airlines was the charter company selected for the Singapore run. They operated out of Stansted airfield.
Their fleet consisted of several twin and perhaps a few four engine prop jobs, with a carrying capacity of approximately fifty to sixty passengers and crew. I’m not sure what type of aircraft we flew on, possibly Handley Page or Hermes. Both were popular carriers in use with major British airlines at the time.
While we were packing and preparing to travel to London, events in the Middle East were coming to a head. In 1956 trouble was brewing between England, France and Egypt. The major concern was the Suez Canal. Large forces were being concentrated in the Mediterranean and an invasion appeared imminent.
Cockade’s new crew, while not involved in the Middle East problem, had to pass through that area landing to refuel along the route.
The flight to Singapore was estimated to take four days with two over-night stops in Karachi and Calcutta. There were some other refuelling stops. In London we were instructed to wear civilian clothing for the flight so that, if we landed in a country that was hostile to British intentions, we’d not be recognized as military personnel. Well, that was the theory, though I doubt we’d have actually fooled anyone.
The question of wearing civvies created a problem for us boys because civilian clothing had not been allowed at Ganges. Consequently we only had our uniforms.
I no longer remember who actually solved this dilemma, but I’ll never forget that ill fitting, oversized and worn out grey suit that was issued to me.
I had to turn up the trouser bottoms and gather in the waist, and hold it in place with my pusser belt. The white shirt draped my diminutive upper body like a huge robe.
I didn’t even attempt to wear the jacket. The only article of clothing that fitted me properly was my highly polished uniform boots. And I wasn’t alone. Poor Jamie, who was even smaller than me, wore equally ill-fitting clothes. We were certainly a motley crowd boarding the aircraft that morning. But who cared? We were about to fly to the other side of the world.
Racing down the runway, bumping and rattling, was quiet unnerving to us first time fliers. Nevertheless, we did our best to look cool and unconcerned. Finally airborne, we didn’t exactly soar into the great blue yonder. It was more like a slow lumbering crawl that just managed to clear the trees and buildings. I have no idea what height we levelled off at, but the experience was amazing.
The first leg to Brindisi took about four hours and we landed there to refuel. After experiencing a successful landing we were allowed off the plane to stretch our legs, though we were not allowed inside the terminal building.
Much later we landed in Karachi and we were bussed to a local hotel. The heat was oppressive and the only cooling in our room came from a slow moving overhead fan. Jamie and I shared a sparsely furnished room of two single beds, a mirror and a shower stall. We were fascinated at having a mosquito net over our beds.
Trying to shower the next morning was a total failure because we only managed to squeeze a few drops of rusty water from the showerhead.
The following night’s accommodation was much more classy. Landing in the early afternoon at Calcutta, we were driven to the Great Eastern Hotel. It was located somewhere near the city centre. It was definitely the finest hotel I’d ever been in. Our room was furnished in the traditional Indian style, complete with a very ornate bathtub that actually worked.
We were given strict instructions not to leave the hotel for any reason. After a wonderful meal in the grand dinning hall we returned to our rooms where we were expected to remain until morning. But it was quite impossible for six restless young men to stay indoors while outside a mysterious new world beckoned. Temptation finally overtook us and six greenhorns from Ganges ventured onto the street.
Immediately the most amazing sights and sounds confronted us. There were people everywhere, walking, riding bikes, pulling rickshaws and availing of lots of other strange methods of transportation.
And there was poverty such as I’d never seen before. People sat on the sidewalk while others slept in doorways. Throngs of half naked children swarmed over us begging for money.
While absorbing this incredible scene I became aware of someone tugging my foot with the obvious intention of polishing my boots. I protested that my boots were fine and didn’t need to be cleaned. But reluctant to appear rude, and unsure of what I should do, I let him polish them anyway. When he finished he held his hand out for payment.