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It All Started With A Fish Box
One day, in calm weather, the Petty Officers Messman appeared on deck and sat down to scrape a fish box. No one took any notice, but as the day progressed so did the fish box. He shaped the sides, added supports to the bottom, made a hinged towing bar with a cross handle and started to paint it. We dropped anchor at Sheerness, waiting to pick up another convoy and when we went ashore the Messman went also and came back on board with four wheels he had bought. Within a few days we were treated to the rumble of a little truck being trundled round the deck, complete with small seat, swivelling front wheels and painted like a gypsy’s caravan. It was a present for his daughter. Needless to say that was not the end of the matter – far from it.
On our ship there were two brothers in authority and competition. Both were Chief Petty Officers, one was the Bosun, responsible for the smooth running of the ship and the other was the Chief Gunner’s Mate, responsible for discipline and gunnery. Both were of a jealous disposition. The little trundling fish box had given the Gunner’s Mate an idea. The next time in harbour he disappeared over the side with a bottle of rum in his hip pocket, only to return from the dockyard with lengths of steel strip and some sheets of plywood. We were all intrigued, none more so than my friend the Gunnery Artificer, an associate, if not a friend of Guns, as the Gunner’s Mate were generally called.
Our curiosity was soon satisfied, we were dragged in to help. I have often found that people in authority get a bright idea but expect everyone else to carry it out. In this case it was the construction of a doll’s pram. The Artificers were expected to forge the springs and make the axles, the seamen made the body and my bloke, an artist in civilian life who was doing a roaring trade in rum painting water colour portraits of wives and girlfriends from photos, was hauled in to paint those gold lines all good Tansad prams carried.
We arrived in port at the end of yet another convoy and who should come down the jetty and be brought aboard but Mrs Gunner’s Mate complete with Miss Gunner’s Mate – Happy Families indeed. They disappeared into the caboosh of the Gunner’s Mate only to reappear with the pram, a doll lying there and the last we saw of them was the proud child and the self-satisfied grin of the Gunner’s Mate. The Customs men never did discover the butter, sugar, rum and cartons of cigarettes the little girl wheeled through the dockyard gate so grandly and so innocently..
You might think the matter stopped there. Indeed you might wish it did, but history demands that I record the next act. Act III. The Rivals. The Bosun, Guns brother, could not be outdone, his reputation and self esteem demanded bigger and better, and bigger and better was what we saw. The two-ring Lieutenant, Jimmy the One, The First lieutenant, the Captain’s right hand man, was nobody’s fool when it came to conning a ship, dealing out retribution for misdemeanours, but he was putty in the Bosun’s hands. The Bosun approached him and explained that there were parts of the ship which needed repair and that the next time we were in harbour he would arrange to put it in hand, all he needed was a signature on a chitty. Jimmy signed..
The next time we were in harbour a forest of timber and steel appeared at the gangway, carried by dockyard ‘Mateys’. It was brought aboard and men were detailed to stow it. Off we went again. The next time we docked, the timber disappeared along with the Bosun and a bottle of rum. The Bosun returned empty handed. On the next trip we dropped anchor at Sheerness at the mouth of the Thames; where the Bosun went to a second hand shop, bought a cheap inlaid box, with a receipt written in pencil. Back at Rosythe a beautiful bed complete with steel frame, springs, polished like new, was brought on board from the dockyard.. My bloke painted Mickey Mouse and Minny on the ends, the receipt for box now read ‘One large child’s bed.’ and all was ready for transport through the dockyard gate. ‘Great oak trees from little acorns grow’

A Chiefs’ & Petty Officers Rum
This Mess treated Rum like the Romans treated Jupiter and the tradition also was unique in my experience. Daily at eleven o’clock a deep-sided dish was placed on the Mess table containing fresh water. Three average sized tumblers were place, upended, in the water for the men to take their rum from. Beside it was a small skillet containing the neat rum.
Each man, when it suited, either logistically or from preference, would enter the Mess, measure out his tot with a steady hand, making sure the maximum possible meniscus was formed on the top of the measure before tipping it quickly and deftly into one of the tumblers.. The speed of hand and the deft flick of the wrist ensured that none was spilled, no matter what the sea conditions might be; then the measure would be held to drip into the glass until every vestige of rum had drained from it – each drop was precious. When the rum had been sipped with relish – it was never drunk – the glass was then turned upside down and placed once more in the ‘rum water’ to drain’

One day, shortly after I had arrived on the ship, I found I was the last to collect my ration and after I had completed the whole ritual I moved to lift the dish with the ‘rum water’, prior to throwing it out. There were several Petty Officers in the Mess and with one voice, accompanied by several choice expletives, they wanted to know what the xxx hell I was xxx doing with the xxx rum water. I took this syntax as Navy-speak and it ran off me like water off a duck’s back I explained how I was just being tidy and was going to get rid of the dirty water. I failed to add that it was adulterated by the saliva of everyone in the Mess as well as the rum, and it was just as well I did because I was then treated to a lecture, a diatribe even, on my antecedents first of all, then my lack of mental capacity, my total unsuitability for Naval life and finally, the reason for the harangue – it was the Chief Stoker’s day to drink the ‘rum water’.

Apparently this water had a faint taste of rum due to the drips which had run from the glasses each time they had been used and each of the Chiefs and PO’s had their day in an unwritten roster to drink this spittle-soup. You can imagine, I was terribly contrite, I could not have been anything else in the circumstances, I was afraid I might burst out laughing. It is conceivable in 2006 that this was a prank played on an ingénue, but the fierceness of the attack and subsequent drinking, turn about, made it real and very earnest. Because I was a Killick (the equivalent rank to a Leading Seaman) in a Chiefs and PO’s Mess, and worse still an HO (Hostilities Only) hardly dry behind the ears, I was not only barely tolerated, there was an underlying resentment of the fact that I had been foisted on the C & PO’s and thus was benefiting from the privileges and freedom they had striven for over years, man and boy. The whole thing was understandable, but rough on me because I had to take the brunt through no fault of my own. I had to walk softly and I was not allowed to carry a big stick.

The Tradition and Importance of The Tot To the RN Lower-deck that I knew, the withdrawal of the daily Rum Ration, The Tot, must have been like the death of a lover. How, in 1970, a do-gooder managed to engineer the withdrawal without murder is astounding, as you will realise if you read The Chief’s Rum Water. The history of the Tot from 1687 was a pint of 100% proof Jamaican Rum, daily, modified in 1870 by an Admiral called Grogram, hence the word Grog, and cut off in 1970 – 300 years of alcoholic bliss. The Pussers Rum website gives a broad history of the Tot, and when I say I have been searching for the real thing for 60 years, you will understand it made a deep impression.
Rum was more than a stimulant, originally a soporific to deaden the hardships of life at sea, it became a tool, currency, a source of internecine warfare and theft, a persuader, a drug and totally ritualistic. It was unbelievable what a Tot would buy. A man would wash and dry a hammock, a mattress cover, and two heavy blankest for a tot. He would take a photo of a mate’s child and paint an incredible watercolour portrait. Take a bottle with three tots in it to the Shipyard and you’d be surprised what it would buy.
It was a status symbol. Men on courses, in barracks, on big ships qualified only for the diluted version – grog. Neat rum was issued on small ships because the conditions were that much tougher, and therefore it became a macho symbol – highly valued. The procedure of dealing out rum was a farce, intended to ensure the rations were carefully monitored and there would be no double dealing. The Supply Rating produced the rum from store, allegedly accurately measured against the register, with absentees deducted. The officer of the Watch approved it, it should have been drunk before him, a logistical impossibility, it then went to the Messes and there, there really were checks in place; as you drew your tot, every available eye was on you to see you didn’t have a crafty method for beating the system. Friendship with the Supply Tiffy was a route to obtaining what was termed ‘Gash’, spare rum – totally illegal – and the Tiffy further perks. Our cook went to Edinburgh one boiler clean for the regulation four day lay over. He came back hardly able to stand and, with the help of his friend, the Supply Tiffy, I never saw him sober again. He was a one-man-band, responsible only for keeping his mates happy by cooking the food, something he could do in his sleep, his condition never rose above the Lower Deck. We were a family and close.
On VJ Day it was my duty to serve the rum for the Chiefs’ and Petty Officers Mess. I was an instructor at the Signal School, just married, living in the Town. We were to get the afternoon off in celebration and I had promised my wife to take her to Portsmouth. It was at this point that the honoured rituals of Rum stepped in. For friendship, a payment, a celebration, one was offered to ‘sip’, ‘gulp’ or ‘bottoms up’ from a man’s glass when he drew his rum. These measurements were instinctive, accepted and carefully monitored, abuse was reported immediately throughout the Mess and a reputation instantly destroyed..
VJ Day was a celebration. I stood at the rum table, a huge billycan full of 100% rum in front of me, a pint of beer beside me, carefully ensuring that every measure I took had its ritualistic full meniscus before I tipped it into the man’s glass without spilling a single drop – it is an acquired skill. The man, being a Messmate, offered me sippers – little more than the wetting of the lips. Initially I accepted, but once the beer, the fumes from the billy, my own tot and the sippers started to take effect I slowed to a totter and managed to remain coherent for the rest of the morning. However at lunch, in our flat in the Town, I fell asleep – she never did see Portsmouth, but I hear about it from time to time – 60+ years on.

Travelling since early morning, provided with food vouchers, eating on the run was difficult. The trains were full, and one spent the journey uncomfortably seated on a suitcase, while guarding a small case and kit bag, with a hammock in the guard’s van, At big junctions there were barrows selling sandwiches and tea and there were always the canteens run by the Salvation Army ( God Bless ’em ), but the problem was that, if you were alone, you risked having everything stolen, or had to take it with you to make a purchase, and risk missing the train. One tended to buy food at termini and not on the way. When I arrived at the ship, it was late afternoon, she was about to leave harbour to pick up a convoy in the North Atlantic. My first impression was of how small it was, two hundred and fifty feet odd in length and only twenty odd in the beam was not what I had expected, but as I was hurried aboard and sent straight down below, I saw little in that first glance.

After saluting the quarter deck, giving my name to the Boatswain’s Mate, I dropped my hammock and kit bag through a hatch and followed gingerly down a steep steel ladder into a world of new noises and smells. The nickname for those ships was the ‘sardine tin’ and it was apt. Passing on the corridors, or ‘flats’ as they were called, was an intimate affair and all living a prescription for claustrophobia, even before they battened down the hatches on us at times of action. There were strict levels of social strata, unwritten rules concerning movement from one stratum to another and relationships across strata boundaries, but these rules, provided stability if not confidence. I had arrived just as the evening meal was concluding and someone asked me if I was hungry. I was starving, and was presented with a huge plate of roast meat, potatoes, and vegetables all swimming in greasy gravy. I tucked in. I have written elsewhere of my initial problems with being a Hostilities Only rating and in living in the Petty and Chief Petty Officers’ Mess.

We left the Firth of Forth even before I had finished eating and for a while I tried to get myself sorted. We sailed north and then followed a route the men referred to as ’round the North Cape’, which I took to mean through the Pentland Firth, and out into the Atlantic. That was where we really found the weather. The ship rolled and pitched for all she was worth and it was then I regretted the roast dinner; I was ill. At some point later, one of the Radar operators came and told me that one of the sets had broken down and that I would have to fix it. Seasickness was no excuse and duty came first, so I went. I discovered that soldering was called for and that was my personal Waterloo, in more ways than one. The radar set I was working on was large enough for me to be able to fix a bucket within its confines and use it as needed while breathing in the cloying and stinking fumes of the soldering flux, which only added to my nausea as I hung on for dear life, while the ship tossed itself about. At the same time, I was trying desperately to give a good account of myself on my first trial. From that moment until we brought the convoy to harbour more than a week later I was permanently ill, I could not bear the heat of the air at hammock level and slept on the floor of my office, which was not much better as the steel floor vibrated in tune to the engines. I prayed for death and gave not a single thought to those who would accompany me. I was prostrate, in pain and almost demented. When I ultimately went ashore, the jetty appeared to be rolling and pitching as the ship had, until my brain got itself in gear. This affect is not uncommon after very bad weather. The strange thing is that after that voyage, in similar circumstances later, irrespective of the weather and not withstanding that some of the experienced men around me were sick, I was never ill again.

I suspect my parents had always had made sure I was well fed. When working in Westminster lunch out was probably a useful supplement, but naval life was a different thing altogether. However, my hunger started immediately I joined, and as we were badly paid, ten shillings a fortnight to start with, I had to find other sources of food. The obvious place at the Butlins camp was the kitchens, supervised by Wrens. One or two of us therefore cultivated the acquaintance of some of the Wrens with the result we all benefited. There was also a scheme there, operated by the more deft and more unscrupulous, which enabled them to improve their share to the detriment of their mates and that was the multi-fork system. It was not for tall people, short people were better at it. It was pure theft, and not worth a mere couple of sausages, especially as one could not gauge from whom one was stealing as seating was random. The system was quite logical.. We were fed in the old Butlins dining hall, on food already laid out, on trestle tables in rows, even before we were allowed into the building,. The vultures armed themselves with several forks, move along between table and bench-seats to find a seat, and in passing, pierced a sausage from a plate with one of the forks and immediately secreted sausage and fork. This was repeated and then when the vulture sat down at his own plate he jabbed the forks, sausage and all into the underside of the table and then withdrew them one at a time to eat. It was a lot more difficult to do than describe. The injured parties would proclaim their loss and depending upon the whim of either the cooks or the supervising authority, the deficiency might be made good from the left-overs otherwise the unfortunate went without.

In Portsmouth Barracks, the rations there were so slight that they had actually to be guarded. Each class occupied a table in the dining hall and was supplied in the evening with a day’s rations of margarine, bread, jam and sugar which was all kept in what were referred to in those days as a ‘safe’ – a cupboard, with punched, zinc grills set in wooden frames for the sides and door. The cupboards were intended to be kept somewhere cool and ‘safe’ – that is, safe from vermin as they were often kept outside the house, particularly in summer. In this case the vermin walked upright. We were so hungry, one member of the class had to sleep on the Mess table with his pillow against the door of the safe, so no one else could steal the contents; although they could disappear through the day.. I still believe that one of the reasons for the lack of food was because a highly organised Mafia spirited some of the rations out through the gate, even assuming they ever came in.

Any barracks was set up for graft in a number of areas, and where long serving people in authority lived ‘ashore’, in the outside community, it was a racing certainty there would be shenanigans. There was the classic story of the officer in the twenties who stole the Admiral’s pinnace, a steam launch costing about half a million pounds by today’s standards. He had it loaded on a horse drawn cart and took it out through the gates, unchallenged because it had passed that way on other occasions on its way for repairs. The reason he was caught was because he had taken it up a hill which was too steep for the horses to pull.

At the Festival of Britain in the 50’s, one of the men building the Festival Hall was stopped at the gate each night wheeling a wheelbarrow full of straw, which he claimed was bedding for his rabbits. The security man discussed the keeping of rabbits at length to relieve his boredom, and let him go. This went on for a week and then stopped. A year later the security man was in a pub when he passed the man with the rabbits and enquired after them. The latter, smiled, put down his pint and said “God Bless you mate! I wasn’t takin’ straw out, I was takin’ weelbarrers.”