The Old Gaffer

This is a plea for sanity. The promulgation of theories on Environmental-Whatever, Global Warming, Ecology etc., you name it, is a new industry, rapidly being built and for no sane reason - its only product is a bandwagon upon which all the politician are scrambling for fear of being thought uncaring of the state of the Earth, at election time. Scientists have been warning them for many decades, and it is only now the flavour of the month. Hundreds must be beavering away at statistics, theories, slogans, advertising, speeches, spending taxes and going to meetings, but none seem to have looked into the logic of their platform, especially No 10.

We represent 0,67% of the world population of 9 Billion, we have lost all our heavy engineering to the very countries not too worried about global warming, but we still buy from them. In spite of the goading we are receiving, we are steadily improving pollution and waste and the message has got home here, if not in those huge countries with the huge populations including the USA. But the thing I found most absurd was the latest publicity, which probably cost a bomb, energy saving by switching off standby systems. Some systems use almost nothing, others from 1 to 5 watts, some can’t be switched off without inconvenience - rechargeable phones and satellite TV, (the TV itself should be off for safety,) but they are low anyway and are at night, when more electricity is being generated than used. Weigh this sort of saving against the School Run - but of course, revenue comes from petrol, the sale and resale of cars, taxes etc - a rethink on Public Transport would not match up. In the 40’s and early 50’s, we couldn’t afford a car, we travelled everywhere by an efficient, readily available public system - Progress??

The Chameleon Theory Seven years old, now inured to Africa, I adopted a chameleon. We watched one another, daily, although it mostly watched insects - as dinner - from a bush beside the front door. I was enthralled by the stillness of this ugly creature, its strange jerky movements, and the speed of the rapier-like thrust of its long tongue. It was probably there because the door had an insect screen and at night fall the light from inside attracted insects, an electric larder. My father kept repeating that old clich?. “Do you want to know how to drive a chameleon mad? Set it on a tartan rug’. I spent some part of every day watching the mostly motionless, bulky body supported on its spindly legs, change hue as the sun moved round, wondering if it really could assume the pattern of a tartan. Years later I devised the Chameleon Theory which states that an individual, in the presence of strangers and acquaintances, changes his identity by an amount
proportional to his degree of insecurity. The ‘telephone voice’ is a common example. where the accent changes as soon as the instrument is lifted.
The theory was formulated on that horrendous ‘first day’ as a sailor. I was instructed to report to the recruiting office and there joined about five other sheepish youngsters with a general air of quiet trepidation and no idea what awaited them. I remember we hung about quite a lot, a foretaste of long periods of hanging about to come. We did some form filling, were sworn in, given travel warrants and some documentation, and then were sent on our way to Skegness via Victoria. The change in one of our number as soon as we were clear of the recruiting office was amazing. Another chap and I chatted quietly. One man was quiet to the point of being stolid and kept himself to himself, but there was one, Smith, who made the trip a real event. The further the train went the further from home we all were, which seemed irrelevant to the rest of us, but it was having a marked effect on the man in question. I would guess he had a Chameleon Factor of about 90%. He started by making a great play of offering cigarettes and lighting up with a great flourish. This he followed with expletives interspersed with bawdy comments and by the time we reached Victoria, no real distance, his language was appalling, and he was beginning to assume what he believed were the attributes of Jolly Jack Tar, I had the impression that even his gait had a roll to it, but that was only the curtain raiser.

We crossed London to Liverpool Street Station and a long delay. Smith insisted we should all adjourn to the Salvation Army canteen supplying tea and food on one of the platforms, for servicemen passing through, Smith by now was convinced he was a sailor through and through even in civvies. Servicemen rarely wore civvies in early 1941, they would have been excess baggage we could all do without, our issued kit was more than enough when it included a hammock and bedding. We were stupid enough, or too reticent to object when this idiot over-ruled us. We felt extremely self-conscious at presenting ourselves for free meals when we still thought of ourselves as civilians. We wanted to go to the buffet but apathy and his persistence won the day. I can still feel the embarrassment as this idiot sat shouting his bragging, implying we were all well seasoned sailors on leave, fooling no one but himself, but including us by implication in his shoddy fantasy world. Even when later he was in uniform and went ‘ashore’, (the Navy’s name for leave from any base be it afloat or concrete) he implied he was always just back off convoy with tales of derring-do. No one believed him as the people of Skegness would know he was from the Butlin’s camp, Life in the services, and especially the Navy is a very intimate experience and tolerance is paramount for the general good

Shipbuilding is probably the most complicated and detailed engineering exercise, outside aeroplane design. The size of a ship, various hull designs, its use, all give multitudes of options from the thickness of the plates, to the design of door handles. All the equipment has to be installed which involves designing the positioning, the fixings and the power. Multiply this throughout the ship and the complexity of design is mind boggling, and is transferred to construction on the day the contract is signed It is therefore no wonder that in 1943, Belfast shipyard, Harland and Wolf, among others in Britain was working flat out with an enormous workforce.

Drafted in, in ‘43, I joined the Port Wireless Officer’s Staff. We had a small office, a shed, on the edge of the largest dry-dock in the shipyard, the Thompson Dock. From there we telephoned our headquarters, Belfast Castle, and reported to the Port Wireless Officer, (the PWO), everything was going well even if not, and enquired his pleasure. The Castle had been the property of Lord Shaftsbury, and prior to the war, used for public functions. The HQ of the navy in Belfast, was HMS Caroline, a concrete bottomed WW1 warship. The Castle had already been taken over, divided into small offices. Ours, in the old ballroom was one of the nicest, with a view over Belfast Lough. In a tower at the East end was a large signalling lamp, which Wrens used for asking ships coming up Belfast Lough to identify themselves. The shed on the dry-dock had a couch doubling as a bed, the usual office equipment, plus our tools and spares for the radio sets we fixed. Our job was to inspect all the radio wiring and installations, make sure the equipment was in order, sail on the first trial and approve the work, - ships as large as the cruiser The Black Prince, and as small as landing craft. Sometimes I would also have to go to places like Greencastle, County Down, to repair sets for the Coastguard.

A Stupid Ritual, A Near Disaster
It was just before the Italian landings that several Landing Craft Tanks (LCTs) were brought into Belfast to be fitted out as Landing Craft Guns (LCG’S). They were in several of the dry-docks, and the work was so urgent all the trades were working together, so there was controlled chaos, which meant that I had to work at night when thing had quietened down. The modifications to the LCGs consisted of making living quarters in the centre of the ships which would house the gun crews of Royal Marines and would also act as the support for the 4 inch guns they proposed to use for shelling the shore before the landings. To enter the dry-dock one passed through huge wrought iron gates, at least twelve feet high, supported on Gargantuan pillars. The gates were most impressive and were opened every morning and closed and locked every night. When I had finished work at two one morning, I found the gates were closed. It was dark, and no street lights due to the blackout. With a torch I managed to see enough to tie all my tools, meters and equipment, together with a length of flex. Wrapping the flex round my wrist I climbed to the top of the gate, hauled the gear up one side and down the other, and finally clambered down the gate, safe and sound - just - it had been a hazardous experience. The jolt came later. As I was walking back to the hut I found the walls on either side of the gate had been blasted away in the Blitz - I could have walked round the pillars and out of the dry-dock. I was l told the unions insisted the gate keeper was an essential part of security and he was to be retained. to continue opening and locking the gates morning and night. Such are the rocks of precedent upon which our war effort was built.

When I arrived back at the hut I was too tired to put up the blackout, instead I put on the electric fire and crashed out on the couch. After a while I woke thinking I was taking the flu, coughed, turned over and went to sleep again. I awoke twice more, but on the third occasion I lifted mytorch to see the time only to find the beam of the torch was no longer than two feet, the room was filled with a white choking smoke. Immediately I went to the door, I was both sick and dizzy. It transpired that someone had leaned a coil of rubber-covered telcathene cable against the fire and it was burning. I am convinced if I had gone to sleep just once more I would never have awakened.

At intervals the Hunt destroyer had to go into dock to have the boiler tubes cleaned as they became choked with salts from the water used to make steam. Part of the crew not on watch was allowed on leave for the four days it took. I decided to go to London to see my Mother and friends. My family, like many at that time, while not unique were still living as if Victoria was still on the throne. We didn’t show emotion, and sentiment was laid on like gold leaf. Kissing was certainly a rarity.

On board the night train from Edinburgh to Euston, I was to learn the rules of the game of Brag, a version taught by stokers, Those night trains were an experience. Almost totally blacked out, masks had been placed over the corridor and carriage lights, illuminating a narrow strip of light in stops and starts along the gangway and across the knees of the seated passengers in the carriages, so they could read. People were just vague figures with illuminated laps in the case of women, generally in rough khaki or navy-blue serge, with brown or black lisle stockings emerging from a short skirt. I found a seat in a compartment where a naval great-coat covered the knees and Brag was being played. . From the start it was totally loaded against me because by the time I had learned what few rules there were and mastered the rudiments I had lost every penny I had on boarding the train, which amounted to about two months pay. Having borrowed the tram fare, I left Euston, deflated and depressed. As I got closer to home my spirits rose, after all I was a sailor home from the sea, and proud of it. I envisaged big hugs of joy because I was still in one piece. I had forgotten Queen Vicky! As I walked down the hall I saw my mother working in the kitchen, ‘Hello!’ she said, turning her head. ‘Put the kettle on I’ll be with you in a minute’, and that was that, it was as if I had only come home from the office. I should have remembered.

So it is not surprising that I find the current practice of hugging and kissing on meeting, even between casual acquaintanceships, bizarre to say the least and embarrassing in my own case. For me kissing is a significant expression of love and reserved for my special few. Some years ago I used doggerel to vent my views. I am incapable of posting doggerel on the Blog as it is normally writ- read it at your peril!

KISSING - THE LATEST CRAZIEST SOCIAL MORE

They’re kissing air, kissing past my face, never hitting base. Kissing everywhere, Kissing into space. Am I unclean, just a bit malodorous? Maybe not - perhaps just too presumptuous. Kissing me, would Beauty find preposterous? Maybe else, cosmetically disastrous. I find it strange, this current craze, of course I know, it’s just a phase, started by the Arty, worried what they’d catch at a party. When I was young you kissed your Mum, and Aunts with plenty of lolly. When I was older and bolder, it was all just fun and folly. Then came the bit where kissing meant something more, a sentiment, not taken in jest, not lightly, the meaning clear and unlikely to be confused, misunderstood. From then there was no likelihood that kissing was a social grace, an empty gesture with no place for subtle nuances of love, paternal, filial, and above else sexual connotation, not for general misquotation. So please forgive me if you find, I’m not a kisser, the kind so prevalent today I find, I’m really not at all inclined