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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, 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, in a day or two.

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 in attaining the acquired art and skill of filling and tamping a pipe, which had elements cigarette smoking rarely achieved. Carrying out these tasks induced a natural break in work which could be justified, 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.

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 Mates 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’

The 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 ingenue, 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. See It All Started With A Fish Box, to be posted.

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’s 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 to take my wife  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.

To put this occurrence in context I have to write some technical information. I have discovered that any mention of physics and peoples 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 thec 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 to 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!!.

The Changes WW2 Wrought On The Royal Navy 2 Once it had dawned on the Government that the war would not be over in a month, and Dunkirk reinforced this thinking, people were inventing new, and improving existing weapons and systems. fast, resulting in a constant state of change within the services. New categories of ranks were created, space had to be found for the new equipment and what was generally more difficult, for the men to operate and maintain it. I was one of those men and, to complicate it, I held a seaman’s rank, was educated to the level of a Petty Officer and dressed like one, without the gold-braid. I was a Leading, Wireless Mechanic later to be called Radio Mechanic, responsible for the maintenance of the Radio and Radar transmitters and receivers on the ship. The Chief Bosun, the Lower Deck mover and shaker, was at a loss where to put me, especially as the ship was crowded already. Unfortunately I finished in the Chief and Petty Officer’s mess, resented for my age, inexperience, being a Hostilities Only rating, and not having had to earn such an august place. Day and daily I paid dearly for that decision because I was resented by most of the members of the Mess.

We collected convoys at the mouth of the Thames and took them out into the North Atlantic to join other ships, and shepherded other ships home from the Atlantic to the Thames. From somewhere off Lowestoft, right up and beyond the Tyne minesweepers cleared a path for us and our charges, and buoys marked the cleared path. Over this stretch we were generally at action stations, especially at night. Then Jerry thought up a new strategy. He had fast torpedo boats we called E Boats. They were made of plywood and effective. They would tie up to the buoys in the dark and when the radar had an echo, initially it was ignored, thinking it to be the buoy. Then after a few ships had passed, Jerry would flash into the middle of the rest and sink a few, causing chaos. That stretch of water was called E Boat Alley. The Admiralty then inducted German speakers, who sat up at night listening for the plain language between the skippers of the E boats. When the German speakers established contact, we were off on a chase.

What goes around comes around. Having to find accommodation for them, a new Engine-room artificer, a Gunnery-artificer, the two German speakers and someone else, they took a small compartment 3.5m square and made a Mess for specialists, a place where we ate, slept, and lived when off watch, I was included and swapped my durance vile for overcrowded camaraderie.

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.