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There is nothing more stimulating than sitting on a button on a warship when it is gathering speed. Button is the term used for the round pancake of wood set on top of the mast to protect the end from the weather. Radar relies on signals received through a special cable which connects the set in the ship to the aerial array at the top of the mast and in rough seas, water might get in through damage to the copper casing of the cable making the aerial useless. Discovering this condition is simple, locating the damage is tedious and, in this case, hazardous. Normally this sort of testing is a routine carried out in harbour when the ship is still and everything is switched off, doing it at sea is only carried out in extremis, as this occasion.

On top of the mast and at various points down it are gathered the aerials of a number of electronic devices, including the aerials of the large wireless transmitter If the latter was operating on full power, the current could blow a person off the mast. To avoid this there were safety switches, small metal connectors which were removed from all the various transmitters and handed to the Captain in person, before the ascent was attempted and retrieved only on reaching the deck once more. It is therefore reasonable to assume the Captain is aware that one of his charges is up there sitting on the button fiddling with an Avometer. We were quietly steaming along at the rear of the convoy, at the speed of the slowest ship, about six knots. I had my legs firmly crossed round the mast, my arms wrapped round the aerial support and was busy testing away in the sunshine. The ship’s proportions were about 250 feet long by 26 wide, a midget greyhound of the sea, such, that even in the calm sea on that day, she still rolled and pitched. The crew used to say she would pitch and roll on a wet flannel. One minute I was looking down at the deck to starboard, the next to port, but it was a gentle rhythm easy to become used to.

I was nearly finished when I heard a shout followed by the clang of the engine-room telegraph, and a face from the bridge was looking up at me and gesticulating. He had no need, the shudder of the mast, the rise of the bow and then the wicked sway of the mast told me we had an emergency and I was dispensable. Now I could not only see the deck I could see the sea below me on alternate rolls and I estimated we had doubled our speed and still rising. I just hung on and waited. In the end I think the emergency was solved because the cause was never made clear to me and within minutes we had slowed and were quietly regaining station. I finished my check and then slowly climbed down and retrieved the special key from the Captain. He said nothing and who was I to comment? For an instant, up there, I thought I was in trouble, but as time went on and I seemed secure enough, strange to say I enjoyed the experience.

Stimulation has a number of meanings not all pleasant. When we were on convoy on the East Coast we would pass Whitely Bay. On one trip we saw a light in the sky which told us Newcastle was being bombed and this, understandably, always made the Geordies we had on board furious and worried. There was an instruction to the RAF to avoid convoys as the latter had a propensity for opening up first and asking questions later, because it was not unheard of for German bombers returning from an unsuccessful raid to jettison their bombs on ships. Apparently the wake of ships in a cluster is clearly visible from the air on the darkest nights
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One night, we were closed up at action stations when the crews on the guns and the people on the bridge heard a plane. There was a system where we could use a recognition signal through the radar to identify friend from foe and when the Navigator asked we were able to tell him if it was a friendly aircraft, probably a stray limping back from a raid, but unfortunately, in this case and by this time, the itchy trigger fingers of the merchant men had opened up and scored a direct hit. Down below we felt the ship gather speed and turn quickly and we guessed we were going to the rescue. We heard later from the men on the upper deck that they had seen the orange light which pilots had attached to their May West life jackets, which were energised when in contact with the sea, but when we arrived where he had last been seen, there was no sign of him nor the light. We were all subdued and there was even an element of guilt, although none of us had anything to feel guilty about, we had not been the ones to open fire.

The day came when more of the new breed of craftsmen were sent to the ship to supplement the work normally done by the regulars and to carry out duties which were occasioned by the advent of more and more new technology. For example, at night, E’ Boats were wont to tie up to the buoys along the swept channel running from the Thames Estuary to past the Humber and even nearly as far as South Shields. They would sow mines then lie there in the dark waiting for the convoys heading North and then to the Atlantic or returning from America. The radar operator would record a signal and shout up the voice pipe that he had “Echo bearing Green 30”, or whatever. The Navigator or the Officer of the Watch would consult the chart and, in the early days would shout back, “Disregard, buoy Number so and so.” and that would be that for a little while until a ship in the middle of the convoy would burst into flames followed by another and maybe more.

The Admiralty then sent us men whose sole purpose was to listen through the hours of darkness for the officers on the ‘E’ Boats communicating in German with one another in plain language, the specialists would then try to obtain a bearing on the ‘E’ Boats and we would be off in pursuit, irrespective of mines. These specialists had to be housed somewhere and as my accommodation in the PO’s Mess had met with such resentment the Skipper decided to start another Mess. To it were added the ERA, the Engine room Artificer, the Gunnery Artificer and a couple of other stray bodies. A small compartment about twelve feet by twelve, became home to us, it was cramped and uncomfortable, especially at night when most of the hammocks were slung, but we melded and that was the main thing.
The two specialists were German speakers, both straight from University with little or no training in the ways of the sea, even their dress, and their lack of interest in improving it, proclaimed them to be fish out of water. One was a lecturer and the other an Estonian who was a perennial student and had attended a number of colleges both in Britain and on the Continent. We were not resented by the rest of the crew, just treated as one would expect Martians to be treated if they were found to be benign. We would get visits reminiscent of those of children at the zoo seeing Orang-utang for the first time, with similarly inane comments. Slowly the novelty wore off and then we became the focus of attention for a different reason. We were all avid readers and our combined tastes were as catholic as a public library. Slowly, round the tops of the lockers the collection of books grew, and as it grew so men from all parts of the ship came to borrow. We had become a voluntary lending library. Even the Officers came and it was interesting to find that among the crew, the more uneducated the men were, the greater the number of the classical or informative books they borrowed.

Small ships, like destroyers, frigates, corvettes and mine sweepers had relatively so few crew in each Mess and the Messes were so scattered throughout the ship, that with watch keeping duties it was difficult to feed them in the way big ships did with what was called ‘central Messing’. In the latter case there were chefs and a dining area where the men were fed on the cafeteria system. On the small ships we had what was called ‘canteen Messing’ which would appear a strange name when we had no canteen in the accepted sense. In fact we had a little tiny cubicle about the size of the average bathroom which formed a shop, where the cigarettes, sweets and food stuffs were sold over a stable-door counter and which was run by the NAAFI. It was called the Canteen.

Each Mess was provided periodically with an amount of credit for the number of men to be fed, calculated on a daily basis, and it was up to the Mess to make up its own menus, buy the raw materials either from the little NAAFI shop or the supply Tiffy, or both, and prepare the food. You can imagine that at the end of a period there was either a surplus or more likely a deficit, and so budgeting was a vital art, as was the design of the menus for such small numbers of men. My job on the ship was almost unique because I was in charge of so little equipment that, providing it did not break down, I had hours on my hands with nothing to do. It was inevitable therefore that I was nominated as cook and Mess caterer. The system was fairly uncomplicated. I prepared the food, took it up to the cook, told him when it was wanted by, he cooked it and then I collected it and served it. If the preparation was arduous then others helped and there were occasions when others took over my duties, especially if I had work to do.

Our staple was roast beef and roast potatoes and sometimes I would make Yorkshire pudding. Therefore Toad in the Hole was an obvious choice, we also had stews and fries. I think breakfast was the inevitable bacon and eggs prepared and provided by the cook himself, so long as there were supplies of bacon and eggs on board. When the money or the stores ran low so the meals became more simple, but we managed to keep a high standard most of the time, even to the extent of having jam tart with four types of jam in the quarters to please all tastes.

The Charade Of ‘Defaulters’
I believe that the Service was suspended in the aspic of time, almost ever since the days of Nelson – until the war, with the sudden alterations in thought and deed which that emergency and the introduction of civilians forced upon it. In turn the Nelson syndrome was thrust upon us at every opportunity by those who had served, man and boy, for more than ten years before we, the HO’s, joined, ‘What was good enough for Nelson is good enough for me’, was the formula and radical though it may be, I have learned through experience, and therefore can appreciate, that change for the sake of change, and precipitate change in particular, not through attrition or detailed experiment, can be very detrimental. ‘Defaulters’ was a case in point The word ‘defaulter’ applied to anyone brought up on a charge, irrespective of how innocuous or severe. It was a presentation by the charging Officer or Petty Officer of a crime to the Officer of the Watch in the presence of the accused and had been played, probably unchanged since the days of Nelson, hilarious to the outside eye, dear to the heart of authority but not to us at that time.

The ceremony went something like this. Someone in authority put a man on a charge and the latter was duty bound to appear before the First Lieutenant at an appointed place at an appointed time. On that day the Master-at-Arms, the Regulating Petty Officer, the Writer, the Escort consisting of two sailors decked out in webbing belt and gaiters, and the criminals would gather, along with whoever was making the charge. The defaulters would stand in a line in order of appearance, some trying to have a crafty drag on the stub-end of a cigarette without being discovered, which would only add to the charge if caught. It was at this point that the whole thing, in my eyes, became sheer theatre. “Prisoner, or prisoners, fall in,” shouted the Regulating Petty Officer, only inches from the ear of the man selected, and the defaulter would stand between the two members of the escort. “Quick march,” roared the PO and the prisoner and escort would shuffle through the door and into the office for the hearing, being goaded on with shouts of ” Left, right, left, right…….” continuously until the word ‘Halt’ was emitted in high crescendo. With the lack of space on ships there was no way they could actually march but there had to be a semblance of the real thing and the interpretation ended up as an undignified shuffle, roughly in time to the shouting. At the word ‘Halt’, everybody stamped their feet resoundingly, the RPO then roared “Off caps” although there was only one cap to come off, and, if the man was in seaman’s rig, he would be very careful how he took it off, because many were watching, not least the Master at Arms. Apparently there was only one way, and it seemed to take ages to learn.

>From that stage on, things became quieter. The RPO was silent, thank God, the Master At Arms read the charge, ‘Jimmy’, as the First Lieutenant was universally known, asked the man who had brought the charge for details, the criminal was asked for his version and excuses, although the latter were never expressed openly; if it was in his province Jimmy gave sentence, if a higher sentence was demanded or the crime was outside his remit, the defaulter was bound over for Captain’s Defaulters and for very serious crimes, even he, had to pass the hearing on to a higher authority. At the end of the proceedings it was time for the RPO to come into his own again, all that noise and stamping was repeated once again. Fortunately on our little tub, through lack of space, we enjoyed a quieter version, we had no Master, no RPO in the true sense, and no room for the enactment, in fact it was all very civilised as I found out to my cost. See ‘Passing Out Parade’

By the time you have read this you will appreciate that there is more than one meaning to ‘passing out’ and the one in a military sense is not intended. We had suffered more than our fair share of bad weather and our convoy duty had not been so much dangerous as stressful as well as extended, with the result we were ‘chocker’, lower deck slang for disgruntled and fed to the teeth, and when chocker is said with venom, and is preceded by an epithet, it can hold considerably more emphasis, as it did then.

For some reason we dropped anchor at Southend, the only time we ever did, and those off Watch could not wait to belly up to the nearest bar, yours truly included. To get from the ship to the pier we were ferried in small boats we called ‘trot boats’, manned by locals. We then had to take a train, the one mile length of the pier and no sooner had we arrived on the promenade than we surged into the first pub we reached. Because the trot boat’s capacity was small, the number disembarking at any one time was also small, hence, when we reached the pub we found a crowd had already beaten us to it, and this was the story of the whole afternoon.

At that time there was a distinct lack of booze available of all descriptions and the landlords of the inns and pubs liked to keep most of it back for their regulars. It was not unheard of for a publican to aver that he had run out of beer or spirits or whatever, which often proved to be a lie, but who could blame him, we were there for a round or two, his regulars were there for life. The first pub where we achieved success said they had no beer, only a limited supply of gin, in the next it was only beer, in some it was even only port, with the result we had a brew swilling about in our stomachs which represented everything in the vintners list, consumed in the shortest possible time because we only had a few hours ashore; this was topped off with a greasy mix of fish and chips; but the real trouble was, we were still all as sober as the moment we had stepped from the train on arrival, and fed up about it, to boot – chocker!

There we were in the rain, waiting for the next train, apparently sober, chocker to the ‘n’th degree, after a shocking time at sea and the worst run ashore imaginable. The grumbling was vicious and the mood bad. If the Skipper had thought to release some of the tension by letting the Off-Watch ashore, it had misfired. In due course the train arrived and we boarded and sat silent through its long slow run to the end of the pier, at which point in the story I have to rely on reports as my memory of what took place is not so much vague as non-existent. Apparently I stepped from the train stone cold sober and then, without a sound, measured my length on the deck of the pier , out for the count, the alcohol fumes and the witches’ brew had caught up with me.

My comrades manhandled me into the trot boat and from the trot boat into the ship and down into our Mess where I was stretched out on a bunk, non compis, but my Samaritans had a problem. Immediately prior to the anchor being raised, it was part of my duty to examine the radar and radio gear and report to the Captain on the bridge. I was in no state to stand up, let alone look intelligent or talk sensibly. They drowned me in black coffee and salt water alternately until I surfaced, at which point it was ‘Show time’, I was due on the bridge. I remember saluting and mumbling something, but my condition must have been patent. The Skipper gave me one chance by asking was everything in order. My reply of “I’m —–ed if I know”, helped my case not one jot and I was dismissed. The fact that I then proceeded to trip over him, he was only about five foot in height, was the last straw. “Get off my bridge,” he shouted. “Clap that man in irons”, he roared, and they did. That is to say, I was not handcuffed, instead I was unceremoniously dropped through the hatch of the tiller flat on to a greasy steel deck where the chains leading to the tiller were connected to the gearing, and I was left there, in the dark, in the stink of oil and in my best suit – my ‘Tiddly Suit’, my pride and joy, made to measure of the best doeskin and embellished with badges picked out in gold braid and gold wire, while the ship set off on convoy once more.

I have to admit, I slept like a baby and next day appeared before the Officer of The Watch charged with being ‘drunk and incapable, ship under sailing orders’. I received a bit of a rollicking but I suspect the true circumstances had reached the ears of the Wardroom because I was awarded a loss of privileges for a period which meant I would lose one run ashore. I later found that the incident was not recorded on my papers, another sign of leniency .

It Had To Rear Its Head Sometime. If you have led as sheltered life, in a house full of women, the services will soon change all that. You soon become aware of life as it is lived. My first brush was when we had come in from convoy and repairs had to be carried out to the relief of us all – we would have a couple of days in harbour, instead of refuelling and revictualling to immediately turn round and head off again The Harbour had a Naval canteen where hot food and beer were dispensed at reasonable prices The canteen itself was dark and dingy, about as welcoming as a ward in the workhouse, so I preferred to stay on board and catch up on sleep or walk round the dockyard looking at the other ships. On this occasion I was fast asleep on a row of padded lockers which doubled as seats in the C & POs’ Mess. With my hammock spread out, lying on the palliasse plus the blankets with the ship absolutely still, it was pure bliss indeed – I was off to sleep in a moment. The rest of the Mess was either ashore in Edinburgh, or in the canteen.. The sailors’ hammock is made of canvas, tightly held between anchors by ropes attached to steel rings from which spread thinner ropes, called ‘nettles’ which pass through the eyes spaced along the ends of the canvas,. giving great versatility and comfort in all conditions There was no air conditioning so, by the judicious adjustment of the nettles and the use of a ‘hammock stretcher’,. to compensate we shortened the nettles in cold weather so the hammock cocooned us, and in hot weather we lengthened the nettles and forced them wide with a hammock stretcher, so the hammock was flat and open, The stretcher, was a piece of hardwood about eighteen inches long and one inch square with ‘V’ notches cut in each end so it could brace the outer nettles apart, either at the head or at each end, to allow room for a pillow and give ample room for moving one’s head. I was relishing my isolation when suddenly I was woken to find my face enveloped in beer fumes and stubble, I was being kissed awake by one of the Petty Officers. The fact that he was stoned was obvious but I was so surprised I did nothing for a second or two then, finding that pushing him off was too difficult from a prone position, I reached behind me where I knew the hammock stretcher was and clouted him over the head and shoulders until I reached his consciousness, at which point he stood, turned, walked across the Mess and threw himself down onto the lockers and went to sleep. I never told anyone about the incident, I never mentioned it to him, nor he to me. The matter was closed, he knew where we stood.

One day I was called to the radar office to find that a pin connecting the aerial turning wheel ultimately connected to the aerial on the mast, had sheared The Engine room Artificer loaned me the key to his office so I could use his lathe to make a new one. His office was attached to the After Mess-deck, occupied by the deck hands and guns’ crews. When I entered there was hilarity, and then I saw a small girlish figure cavorting between the hammocks dressed in pink bra and pants and the men were leaning out of their hammock either trying to kiss or touch the slim transvestite. It was a member of the Mess, a young seaman. The whole thing was light hearted and I took it as such. Later, I discovered the young seaman was indeed a ‘winger’, a friend, if you like, of one of the Petty Officers., something I would never have heard about either the games or the relationship with the Petty Officer if the pin had not sheared. Every Mess was an entity and what went on within, stayed within.

The third occasion I was to come across homosexuality was when I was teaching. My friend Fred was smitten by one of the Wren pupils in a class we both took. One night, under the influence of a few pints, he said he wanted to meet this girl but as one of her lecturers he thought it placed him in a difficult position. I agreed, and offered to find out what I could of his chances of success. The next time I took the class, during a period of practical fault finding, I drew one of the Wrens to one side and explained that Fred was interested in this woman and wondered whether he had any chance. She burst out laughing. Her friend who was standing nearby wanted to be in on the joke and when the first one explained she too laughed out loud. I quietened things down, although I realised that Fred’s secret ambition would be common currency five minutes after class ended, “Do you see ‘X’ ?” she asked pointing to a big blonde working in a corner with Fred’s light of love. I nodded. “Those two go to Portsmouth together every chance they get.” “So?” I said, not being up to speed on lesbianism. “They sleep together, she wouldn’t be interested in Fred,” the Wren said, talking to me as if I were as thick as two short planks, which in that field I was. Such a pity for Fred, his choice was probably the prettiest member of the class, but then she would have been snapped up long before he had seen her if things had been different, so I suppose it boiled down to the same thing in the long run.

For possibly the last time ever, I want to revive all those stupid rituals real pipe smokers took so much to heart and spoke of with such reverence. Now we rarely see, or even smell a pipe being smoked, I feel I must record, probably for the last time, the strange, ancient habits of the sailors of my day with respect to ‘baccy’, some perhaps, long since lost. Tobacco was rarely bartered except with people outside the Service. At sea we received our allowance and could buy named brands at sixpence a packet of twenty. Ashore we took enough to do us, and when attached to an establishment one could buy 400 tailor-made cigarettes for three shillings and four pence. The other Services denigrated sailors when they met, in the way sailors taunted the RAF by calling them the Brylcream Boys. We believed we were the Senior Service and some would boast it in the company of the other Services, often followed by an affray,. The other Services inferred our interests were ‘Rum, bum and ‘baccy’ which was not entirely without foundation. The regular duty free issue of, either pipe tobacco, cigarette tobacco or leaf on a regular basis, for a pittance, was another ducat in the lower deck barter game. It was a treasured perk. The tobacco was of the best quality, and, although it was illegal, a bare handful of non-smokers in any ship’s company, would take their ration and sell it either on board or ashore, or trade it for goods or services ashore, which was more common. Leaf tobacco was rarely taken as it was a bother to process, but I learned the art, which, while being complicated, dirty and smelly, was nonetheless rewarding, if one liked heavy plug pipe tobacco. I will post for the aficionados of pipe smoking, details of the process on board ship rather than in a factory, after a comment on the rituals of pipe smoking..
One took a plug of rich, very dark tobacco, pared it with a sharp knife, rubbed, the cuttings pleasurably and with anticipation between the heel of the thumb of one hand and the palm of the other, then, after carefully and expertly filling the bowl of a pipe, it could then be smoked with relish and satisfaction. To a sailor the advantages of a pipe over cigarettes were that it stayed alight longer, it did not burn down in a wind, nor fly ash into the face, particularly if the pipe was fitted with a wind-guard. It left both hands free, and had a macho element too. I distinctly remember actresses in films saying words, which today sound so utterly banal and ridiculous, such as “I like to see a man smoking a pipe.” Why? They were probably paid a fortune to say it, but there were those who mimicked it and believed what was said.
What is true, though, is that there was so much more to pipe smoking than cigarettes. The different sizes and shapes of pipes, made of so many different woods, at such a range of prices, they became more than a tool, they became an obsession. They could be collected for their own sake and it was a rare pipe smoker who had less than four. They were memorabilia, keys to events or people. Men sat and discussed the merits of this make against that, this shape or that, this tobacco or that. There were rituals which were almost unconscious but which had an inbuilt element of satisfaction. Even the mucky job of grinding out the build up of coke in the bowl had its compensation, it showed the pipe was mature. There was the ‘burning in’ of a pipe, the sacrifice of valuable tobacco, taste and pleasure over the first few weeks measured against the pleasures of a mature smoke for years to come. There was the tactile pleasure, followed by the visual one when the smoker ran the warm bowl down the crevice between nose and cheek to feel the smooth warmth of the pipe, like handling a smooth pebble, and to then admire the burr-walnut or fine wood which now shone in all its glory. There was again the tactile pleasure of the leather pouch and the teasing out of the tobacco. There were tobaccos with wonderful smells which assailed one as soon as the pouch was opened, some smelled like Christmas pudding, others were tangy, all turned grown men into Bisto Kids. Pipe smokers would hand their pouches round so others could experience the smell and texture of their chosen brand and then a long discussion on the merits of brands would ensue yet again, a script worn threadbare, but which never seemed to pall, and the dangers of smoking were rarely, if ever talked about.
Surprisingly there was great satisfaction to be had in attaining the acquired and precise art and skill of filling and tamping a pipe, which had elements cigarette smoking rarely achieved. The fact of having to carry out these tasks induced a natural break in work which could be justified at all levels and which allowed the mind a short respite for filling, lighting the tobacco evenly, which was an art in itself, and then dragging that glorious drug deep into the lungs if one inhaled. I write this long description because soon pipe smoking, which is now frowned upon, will be a thing of the past and people will have forgotten the rituals and the simple pleasures the pipe gave to the smoker, if not to the rest.

To put this occurrence in context I have to write some technical information. I have discovered that any mention of physics, people’s eyes start to glaze, so I will be brief and as simple as possible. Voltage is what gives electricity impetus to move along wires, across the ether, or, as in my case through the body from the hands to the nearest contact with earth. Current is the measure of the electricity passing, and mostly it is current which kills not voltage, A few years ago Sophie, my wife, who never studied physics, accidentally filled the works of her mixer with tomato soup. She cleaned up the mess, absentmindedly held an aluminium saucepan on the steel drainer and started the mixer again. The mains ran up one arm, down the other, through the pan and the drainer and to earth via the cold water pipe. She was lucky she only had a severe shock. She was receiving somewhere around 230 volts and all the current the mains could supply

It was on my second convoy when I received a rude awakening, a real shock to the system. I was brought from a deep sleep to a set that was as dead as a doornail, not a flicker, not a peep. It was housed right at the bottom of the ship in a small office about ten feet long and six wide. At action stations we were battened down, down there, as part of the system which cut the ship up into watertight compartments to avoid general flooding in the event of being hit. In time you got so used to it, it seemed normal. The set operated mainly at sea level, while we had another in an officer’s cabin mostly used to seek out aircraft. The ship was so crowded even the officers were not immune from their space being shared with some gadgetry and maybe operators on rota.

When I started to test, there were a number of simply translated signs and I soon discovered that a number of resistors had exploded, a feature new to me. These components, part of a circuit which transformed the ship’s voltage to one of six thousand volts, to operate the cathode ray tube and other sensitive bits of the Radar I switched off the power and set about removing the exploded remnants, but I did not get too far. Standing on a steel deck, in ordinary shoes, I touched the wrong end of one of the damaged resistances, and came too at the other end of the office, sitting dazed on the floor, being spoken to as if I was a hospital case in need of assurance. In the instant before I momentarily passed out I remember that every joint, from neck to ankle, felt as if each had been brutally pulled apart at the same time and twanged together again, as if made of elastic like a child’s doll. I was so dazed, I went back to the set and committed the same act all over again with the same result, except, this time, I had the shakes added to the blinding headache and pains in my joints from the second encounter. I sat there and took stock. It was then I realised that some of the components, the huge smoothing-condensers, sort of electrical storage tanks, still held their charge which the resistances were supposed to dissipate. I am sure I had received 6000 volts at least on the first occasion and nearly that the second time, but the current was small enough merely to teach me circumspection, not the rudiments of the harp – I should be so lucky!!.

For four days the stunted little warship had writhed and hammered her way through the green bowels of the storm until the most hardened member found himself praying. In their selfish agony a few prayed for death, little caring its cause or how many would die in its accomplishment. Men of sterner stuff prayed for respite and peace.

The watch-keeper descended the steep steel ladder, his glistening black oilskins stiffly standing out from his body as if shunning contact, while his smooth-heeled sea-boots skidded in the shallow, dirty water that was sloshing back and forth in the passageway, in time with the rhythm of the ship. His face, beneath four day’s growth of beard, was weathered to rawness and his fingers were pallid and stiff where they protruded from the over-long sleeves of his coat. He steadied his lurching body before the sliding door of the steel compartment that thrummed like a biscuit tin under the pounding of irritant fingers, braced himself against the fetid smell that he knew would heap nausea upon nausea and pushed back the door. A bucket hung stiffly on a rope from the deck-head, arcing to and fro like a stuttering pendulum in tempo with the buffeting hull, while an excess of heavily laden hammocks, suspended above like strung maize, mimicked the jerking pail.

Entering this sordid home of his to waken his relief, and then to try to sleep, he cursed as he always cursed his existence, where privacy and freshness were highlights shining from the past, or beacons of the future, where the present was dull, grey and featureless, and where it could be conceivable that the stale, greasy smell of sailors’ hot cocoa could herald warmth, comfort and a change of mood.

He shook the hammock above him and waited for the familiar wakening pattern to unfold. The grunt, the stretch, the short staccato oath and then the appearance of the grey sea-boot socks as the long legs bestraddled the hammock to be bumped alternately by the swing of the exhausted bundles on either side. While he waited for the next phase, he looked down and absentmindedly watched the articles on the Mess table skate back and forth, and with senses long since deadened felt neither surprise nor criticism as one of the stockinged feet descended to squash flat the wedge of margarine as it too tobogganed on its saucer across the table top beneath the hammocks. The face that looked down at him was bruised with exhaustion and sucked dry with fatigue.

“God save me from looking like that!” he thought.

In my time in the Navy, the people most respected as groups, were the Submariners and the Divers. Not totally because of the risk, but because the conditions of their training and work were the toughest. Subs were merely lethal weapons first and last, and the comfort of the men was well down the list of priorities. Large ships, Carriers, Battleships, Cruisers, were like floating barracks, with all that implies. Small Ships, Minesweepers, Corvettes, Frigates, and small Destroyers, of which the Hunt Class was then the latest, were unique in that the crews thought of themselves almost as a family and behaved like a family in a lot of respects
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It used to be said that the Americans put the men in the ships and fitted the hardware round them, while the Brits did the reverse. In about ’42 the Tuscaloosa and the Wichita, two American cruisers, tied up near us in Rosythe. The Yanks, invited aboard our Hunt, could not believe our cramped conditions. When we went on their ship we understood why. They had two places to sleep, they had canteen messing with sectioned trays for eating off, and could select from a menu. We, as a mess, bought and prepared our own food, took it to the galley, where the cook put it in the oven and told us when to collect it. We were green with envy. Our system was forced on us as we had small, mixed messes, some members were watch-keepers, some were permanently on call. Hence men were eating at different times, and what they could, when they could, in periods of ‘Action Stations’. The Officers and Petty Officers had stewards or messmen to provide for them.

It takes years to produce a warship, from the early decisions, the designs, the prototype, to the final Class, with the result that the ship in wartime is out of date even before they laid down the keel plate. Through the pressures of war with its rapidly evolving new techniques, like Asdic, Radar, men to listen to the talk between the Skippers of the German E-boats, gunnery and so on, extra space was needed, space for more men and equipment, resulting in a life of unimaginable propinquity – privacy, even for the officers was unknown. I believe that under peacetime circumstances there would have been constant friction under these conditions, but while there were minor disputes, the seriousness of our lot welded the crew as nothing else would have, come what may we were in it together, Life ashore in barracks was entirely different – every man for himself.

I think that the experience of bad weather on a Hunt Destroyer can best be summed up by a brief descriptive piece I wrote a long, long time ago, it is called:- The Change Of The Watch

At the end of three months at Newcastle we were dispatched to the Isle of man where we were billeted in boarding houses on the front at Douglas and further along, similarly housed but behind barbed wire, were the Italian internees, mostly harmless waiters and restaurateurs who would probably have been a greater asset to the war effort than some of us.
Strangely, at the time, none of us realised who the welcoming officer was, he was just another voice instructing us what to do when he was not trying to inveigle us into contributing to the overall entertainment on the Island. He was John Pertwee, the actor, later to be of Dr Who and of Worsel Gummage fame. With a pleasant, innocent smile he enquired if we played rugby and those foolish enough to admit to it were promptly enrolled in the team and issued with navy blue kit. Later he was back recruiting volunteers for an amateur show to be put on at the local theatre.
The rooms in the boarding houses had been modified and we finished up in small ‘cabins’, the naval euphemism for a hatbox, sleeping on two-tiered steel bunk beds. The ground floor was given over to a dining room and a lounge in which we were supposed to study, but in which we mostly played a gambling bastardisation of Ludo called Uckers.
Each morning we were marshalled on the promenade and marched up to Douglas Head. The building there, once a hotel, had been converted into a radar signal school. Radar in those days was incorrectly called RDF, or radio direction finding, as a cover for what it was and really did, as the Germans were understood not to have it. . Originally the first commercially produced version of radar had been designed for use in aircraft and consequently was small and of limited range. Later there were more substantial versions for use in ships and we were being trained on both of these versions.
The theory was difficult to master in such a short time, and the distractions of being on the Isle of Man, where the war seemed so far away, didn’t help. There was a dance hall where we tried to keep up with the local girls’ terpsichorean expertise, then there was poker, Uckers, and the local services canteens. Finally, of course there was Lieutenant Pertwee and his bloody rugby, and I use the term advisedly.
He had omitted to tell us that the RAF personnel stationed on the IOM had, since the dawn of time, been gathering up and sifting anyone with a penchant for rugby, especially if they had a ‘blue’ or better still an international cap. It seemed that to retain a posting to the IOM as a member of the RAF required only one perquisite – to be an established, seventeen stone member of the rugby elite. Anything less and you could be on your way PDQ. We, the newly arrived Navy, eager to get off study, no matter the excuse, uninitiated into the mores of our sister service, – we thought of them as sissies – ran out onto the field of carnage with a light heart.
I remember very little of the game except as it applied to me. I was not, I fear, seventeen stone, I was barely ten and a half, and this was a vital statistic. I don’t think we, as a team, were doing too well. There was one bloke on the other side whom I’m sure was referred to in terms unfit to be repeated. He was an oft capped international, was easily heavier than three of us put together, and belligerent with it. At one point in the game he picked up the ball, practically on his own line and started lumbering straight down the field. He had managed to evade a number of those late tackles the coaches take exception to, the ones where the tackler hits the ground gently, but only after the runner is well past. Mistakenly I thought that I was made of sterner stuff. I knew how the job should be done, and proceeded to demonstrate – silly me! I tackled him around the knees, head on – literally. About three minutes later, when I was brought round, I heard that I had not even caused him to stutter in his lope for the posts and a score, I had made no impact in any way, I was as a mere gnat, I was also unconscious. My first and only brush with first class rugby had been ignominious and salutary. It reinforced the laws of the lower deck, ‘never volunteer and always plead ignorance’, and to think how gentlemanly and simple the game was then, fifty years ago, I would be dead today