Old Gaffer

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  • Random Thoughts No 9, I ‘m Either Going Deaf or Daft

    When one gets to the point in life where you have outlived most of your friends and those you haven’t are probably in sheltered accommodation, one can be excused for questioning every change in the routine of life. My current problem is diction, other people’s diction, on television and on film. In an essay I did on secondary schools in the 30s, I recounted the fact that, in my school, in South London, the new boys had elocution lessons for one hour, every week for the first term to eradicate the Cockney accent. Later, post-war, the Rank Organisation trained all its actors to speak in the same way, clearly, succinctly, and with a manufactured accent, which I can’t bear to listen to now. However recently I have found it very difficult to understand what people on television are saying for a number of reasons, they are either speaking with regional accents, always regional accents at high-speed, or it could be that the bit of my brain which translates speech into thought is going to mush. Somehow I don’t think it is the brain, because when I see films made from the 40s to the 80s,I understand every word. The modern films made particularly in America, where people speak with American regional accents, often not moving their lips, and also at high speed, I find totally unintelligible, but. as some of my grandchildren recommended me to watch the films, I feel that the jury is out.

    Writing about the films of those early days also brings to mind the fact that a high proportion was light-hearted, almost to the point of light weight, set in environments out of reach of most of those in the cinema, but they were fun, not to be taken seriously but to be thoroughly enjoyed. Round about the 60s we had that spate of the kitchen sink dramas, in which life was real and life was earnest. They had their day, and then there were the lighter films, like Notting Hill, and Four Weddings And A Funeral, but we don’t seem to get as many today as we did long ago. The ones in the 40s and 50s were clearly a reaction to public need having had four years of war. The fact that Pride and Prejudice is never off our TV screens is an indication that a lot of the public, tired of the headlines, the murders and the rapings, which are a daily diet, and the stresses of modern living, would appreciate amusing, clever, even if cynical, light-hearted films to be displayed on television. From where I sit, it seems that the films are enacting the headlines, or the headlines are paralleling the screen – what politicians would call a double whammy. I’m not against regional accents, I could listen to Sean Connery for as long as he likes. My problem is with those accents that are so thick and enunciated so quickly and indistinctly I can’t make them out, so the whole point of the film is lost

    A final plea, to stop an old man wondering if he is either deaf or daft, let’s have some light-hearted, clever and amusing, films in which the diction is universally understood. I think it comes down to the difference between entertainment, the blanket term, and amusement, the latter raising the spirits at times when needed.

  • Royal Navy 1941 to 46 in order, You’re No Use To Me.

    As Part of the Newcastle training we had to learn lathe work, forging and bench work at the Metalwork classes, a re-run of my Matriculation syllabus. This was an opportunity for me to relax. One day I was working on a lathe when I found a note complaining that the machine had been left dirty. During the day factory trainees, mainly women would use the equipment and then we would move in at night. The note was in verse. I showed it to those round me and they said I should answer it, which I did, with their help and hindrance. On the next occasion we were there I found another note and this went on for a week or so until there was a suggestion that the writer, a woman, would like to meet the unknown poet. One thing led to another, mostly pressure from my peers, and I agreed to meet her one night in an ice-cream parlour. Remember I was a na?ve 18 year old, and this not only shows my inexperience and innocence, but that of the others

    The night arrived and I went there, and sat and waited. I was conspicuous by being in uniform. A woman entered who was also conspicuous because she too was in a uniform, but of another kind entirely, but one I was too naive to recognise. She was a lot older than I, heavily made up, and a lot more experienced. I bought her something or other and we sat and talked and then suddenly she got up and said, ‘Come on, we’ll get a tram.’ It was then that I began to have misgivings, I had expected to make what running there might be. We caught a tram, and as we both smoked we went up onto the top deck. Politeness and expediency demanded that I let her precede me. Mainly the latter, because I wanted, to put what little spare cash I had in my shoe. I had no idea what I had let myself in for, but I intended to see it through. Anyway, I could never have lived with myself, not to mention the barracking I would have got from the other ratings, if I had chickened out. When we were seated and I had paid the fare she turned to me, ‘You know’, she said, ‘You’re no good to me, I’ll take you somewhere that will be more in your league.’ This left me completely at sea, and not a little subdued. I took the remark to be a criticism of my manhood. I was now having lurid fancies of being taken and robbed, but I stuck it out.

    We left the tram and walked along a road where the terrace house-fronts met the back of the pavement and were like many of the house built during the industrial revolution for mill workers and shipyard workers. Belfast used to have miles of them once, but now has only a few. We stopped, the woman knocked and a man in his shirtsleeves, opened the door and stood aside when we entered,. I was led into a living room cum kitchen and introduced to his wife and daughter. The woman made some excuse and left me there, stranded like a beached whale, feeling totally foolish and out of place. On her way out, I could hear her muttering to the wife at the front door, but as I could not make out what was being said I had to make the best of it. Desultory conversation had me embarrassed and I tried to think of a way of extracting myself without giving offence. I was not allowed to discuss why I was in Newcastle, but I suspected the woman had intimated what she knew. Tea was produced with a cake and then, as so often happens, the appearance of food broke down some of the reserve and we started to chat. I discovered the daughter was the manageress of a cake shop in Newcastle and she suggested that if I liked to call in, she would give me something for me and my friends. Ultimately, when it seemed decently possible without being rude I left and took a tram back into Newcastle.

    As can be imagined the class was agog to hear how I had got on, and when I described the woman I had met at the ice-cream parlour there were a few ribald remarks passed. When I told them about the cake shop they nearly had me out the door there and then, on an errand of mercy, – on their behalf. I was not too eager to start a relationship, especially for purely mercenary reasons so I didn’t take the girl up on her offer for some time, I was also feeling a little stupid about the whole incident. I was finally pressured by my hungry friends to go to the cake shop and sure enough, I received a whole cake. For a while after that the young woman and I became friends and went to the cinema and met in the cake shop on a casual basis, but that was about all. My final judgement on the extra-curricular activities of the woman whose lathe I shared was correct. The family who took me in and fed me cake were looking after her daughter. I had had a very strange evening when at times I had been apprehensive. That it worked out well was certainly more luck than judgement. Education comes in many guises.

  • Royal Navy 1941 to 46, in order,The injustice of being Billeted in a Brothel.

    It must be understood that about 1940/41 the whole of Briton was going through an incredible time of change, at home and in the forces. There was evacuation, rationing, which induced the Black Market, bombing, recruitment, and families being split. In the forces, the need to recruit men and women in vast numbers, clothe and train them, move, and temporarily and strategically accommodate them was paramount. The logistics were complicated and enormous, with the result anomalies arose, leading to strange outcomes. Being billeted was one of them.

    In Newcastle on Tyne, the Billeting Master-at-arms was overwhelmed by the number of sailors who would shortly descend on Newcastle for specialist training. RDF, Radio Direction Finding, the forerunner of Radar, was being fitted in ships and they urgently needed operators and maintenance staff, and these were arriving in days, me among them. Ferried by train and bus we arrive at a street of three storey Victorian houses and were delivered to the awaiting landlady.

    At that time, the U-Boats were in ascendancy and many of the students sent on courses were long serving men who had volunteered, having had enough of the dangers of convoy work. We were given merely a bunk in a room full of cheap, black steel beds and we kept our belongings under the bed. With many of us to a room, there was just enough room to move between the beds. Almost as soon as we were in the room, the older guys, presumably from past experience, knew exactly where we were, in a brothel, and to make the point, pulled back the sheets to reveal stained mattresses. The quiet of that night and those following were broken repeatedly by the stamp of feet on the steps of the house next door, where trade was still in progress.

    My nature, and that of most of the men there, was that if you have no solution to a problem, then forget it and get on with life. However, because it was so extraordinary I foolishly wrote and told my mother in humorous vein, but she could not see the funny side. Instead she, innocently, wrote a letter of complaint, to a naval Commander friend she knew. She forgot two things, the Navy is a club, the Commanders are trained in the tactics of war and the best form of defence is attack. They attacked.

    The only meal we had on the premises was breakfast, prepared and given by the girls from next door. One day some of the lads were having fun with the girls when a pewter teapot got damaged This was all authority needed, all of us were put on report for riotous behaviour, when there was hardly elbow room for breakfast let alone a riot. For the rest of the time that we were boarded in the brothel, we were forced to scrub out the school rooms when not being taught. After that we were found new individual billets. I never did admit to my mother’s letter, ‘if there is no solution…’

  • Royal Navy, 1941 to 46 in order, Leaving Butlins for Newcaste.

    Leaving Butlins We were in basic training for a month, at times it seemed endless, at others it passed quickly. How we felt was a barometer of what was happening, how interested we were or what Chalky White was putting us through in the rain.. A week to ten days before our departure we had a celebration of sorts, which involved blanket tossing. Some poor specimen would be persuaded or shanghaied into getting into a standard Navy issue blanket and then about six of his classmates would start counting, heaving the blanket on each count and then, when three was reached. throwing him up in the air. Inevitably it was my turn and they threw me so high I could see over the roof of the cabins. I made the mistake of telling them so and that was my downfall – from a great, actually an even greater, height.

    An error in communication was hardly surprising with that lot who, out of reach of authority, rarely stopped talking. One of the group suggested they should count to four but only those in his immediate vicinity heard him so the bulk of the tossers were counting to three. I described an arc, a parabola? – Who cares? I was still seeing over the roofs, but landed on my hand, feet away from the blanket. There was a tiny amount of consternation, mostly ensuring none of the blanket tossers were held responsible. I assumed I had an acute sprain. I thought I should report to the Sick Bay and have it attended to. This prompted advice and discussion, mostly on how I should relate the incident in case it would affect my pension, some on denying any direct responsibility, but there was very little talk of how hurt I was. I went to the Sick Bay and on the way concocted a story about tripping over a kerb. In hindsight this was stupid as any Sickbay Attendant would probably consider you can’t break anything just tripping and so he would take my word for it that it was a sprain, wrap it in lead solution and send me on my way, which indeed was what happened. For the next week or ten days I endured my sprain until it was time to go on draft at which time I was presented to a Surgeon Commander who made me have an X-ray and the result showed I had multiple fractures with torn ligaments. It was a well autographed, plaster cast which weighed me down on my way to Newcastle upon Tyne.

    The Newcastle Period I had made some good friends among the Geordies in our class even before we knew our next posting, so I was luckier than most. Sent to Newcastle I had my feet metaphorically under a number of tables even before we had arrived – which was obviously a great asset. It is a clich? but nonetheless a truism that the Northumberland and Durham people are the salt of the earth, shining examples of the widely held theory that those who have suffered deprivation not only help one another but can be generous to a fault. As an immigrant, I couple the Northern Irish in the same category.

    To make the point about the Northumbrians, one night I had been to a dance and had taken a young woman home afterwards. I had missed the last tram back into Newcastle and started back following the tram tracks as a guide until I arrived at a set of points, a fork, and then I was completely foxed as to which line led to the City Centre. I noticed there was a light in the downstairs window of one of the houses near the junction and rang the bell. I explained my dilemma to the man who opened the door, he said it was miles into Newcastle, invited me in for a cup of tea and, when he had given me the once-over, suggested I doss down on his couch until the first tram at about five or six next morning. In fact his wife gave me breakfast before sending me on my way. That was not an isolated case, a number of my friends had other experiences equally open handed, equally trusting, I think it is inbred.

    Permanently broke, permanently hungry, we worked long hours. Lectures went on after the evening meal, we attended evening classes for metal work and electrical practicals; then there were parades and we had menial duties connected with Rutherford College where we were being taught, with little time for socialising, just an hour or two here and there, and Sundays. At night the four of us, the Geordies, who lived at home, and myself would walk back from class into town singing in harmony, eating chip butties covered in salt and mustard to make them seem like sausages, generally relaxing after a day’s study, before going home to do more homework. In one of the streets there was an optician’s shop with a tortoise in the window wearing tortoiseshell spectacles as an advertisement. One of our group thought the tortoise looked like me and after a lot of persuasion the others agreed and I was called Torty for the time I was in Newcastle, not only by them, but everyone they came in contact with who also knew me. I had no say in the matter.

  • Royal Navy 1941 to ’46, in order, Butlins.

    The New Boys We spent the first month at Butlins Holiday camp at Skegness which had been renamed HMS Royal Arthur and sounded in our ears like an aircraft carrier. Inevitably the result was that Smith and some others were able to give rein to their fantasies in the local pubs, not realising that the girls of Skegness had heard it all before as each new batch of amateurs arrived and was put through the mincer – within the proscribed month of basic training – so that we came out marching, thinking and looking alike, transformed in to automata, or so the Navy vainly hoped.

    At the holiday camp we occupied the made over chalets, two to a chalet, ate in the dining halls and relaxed in other parts of the buildings, Once again the Navy showed the English lack of appreciation of Irish traditions. Two men from Belfast, one Catholic and one Protestant, were put together because they were Irish. I occupied the next chalet and the fights which went on inside the Irish domain were often fierce to the point of becoming bloody, but make some derogatory remark against the Irish and they were both at you.

    The first week passed on wings, there was so much to learn both about being a sailor – with knots, lashing ropes, boxing a compass and so on. Then there were the traditions of the Navy, the reasons for the ridiculous uniform, as we were decked out in ‘square rig’, called that because the whole uniform was square, presumably because sailors in the time of Nelson were expected to ‘make and mend’ their own clothes and the design had therefore to be simple. Even the term, ‘make and mend’, had come down to us for ‘free time’. The collar was square, the tunic jersey was square, even the trousers were square and made wide enough to be kicked off in the sea if the need arose. The front was designed with a quick-release system, in that there was a huge flap which dropped down to reveal two side flaps crossing the lower abdomen as well as one’s underpants – a quick flip of the buttons and the trousers would be off in moments. Nelson was never recorded as having made any comment on any of the other advantages of his design, or, on second thoughts perhaps he did.

    When the sailors got hold of the uniform there had to be further amendments to show that they were sons of the sea and not civvies dressed up. The tunic was altered from a ‘V’ in the front to be squarer showing more of the shirt, and the blue edging to the shirt. The whole collar were scrubbed and washed with all sorts of prescriptions to bring the colour out, with exactly that intent, if a sailor had been serving for years his collar would have been washed hundreds of times in sea water and would therefore be faded. Ergo, all new entrants wanted to appear anything but a novice. Some were persuaded, by ruthless shopkeepers to buy collars of a light colour, but they soon realised the synthetic colour was an even bigger badge that they were initiates, rather than an indication of long service. The washing never gave an even colour change, there were always corners where, because the ribbon over-lapped, the colour was stronger. Such vanity did not stop there, the trousers had to have gussets set in to make them even wider, and a silver three-penny piece had to be sewn into the centre of the bow on the hat ribbon, an accomplishment I was good at which augmented my ten shillings a fortnight with the sale of my services in this regard.

  • Royal Navy 1941 to ’46, in order, First Day In The navy

    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 nightfall 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.

  • The Futility of Terrorism

    Having lived with terrorism for close on 40 years, and still living with it, having been threatened and held up by terrorists, including youngsters with Molotov cocktails, I have thought about it repeatedly. To some extent, I can understand internecine terrorism, even if I think it’s futile, but international terrorism seems pointless. The only people who are going to suffer are the innocents. A bomb in the centre of London, with all sorts of different factions claiming responsibility, whose philosophies are totally unknown to those people they have managed to kill and maim, achieves nothing, except misery for those involved, including the ones that have to clear up the mess.

    Domestic terrorism, like Northern Ireland, achieved very little in the long-run, it possibly shifted power marginally, with different people committing the same excesses that perpetrated the original trouble. A select few become wealthy, vast numbers are either dead, been injured, traumatised or inconvenienced. It was not worth it, all of us are far worse off than when we started.

    I am convinced that apart from those in charge of the terrorism, the manipulators, a large proportion of the rest are in it for kicks. Today, here, young children and teenagers lay traps for the services, police ambulance and fire, dial 999, and then when the service arrives they are pelted with bricks and Molotov cocktails. This is entertainment, an adrenaline rush, excitement and different from the perpetrators’ meagre lives. Terrorism is not a war, in spite of the fact that the terrorists would like you to think it is, they are making war on the innocents, in every way, increasing the taxes, causing disruption, killing and maiming mostly people going about their daily lives, probably with very little political opinion. In a face-to-face war, both sides are there for a reason, and they know what it is. Initially there may be fear when things start but then one gets on with what one is trained to do, to one’s best ability, possibly helped by adrenaline. This is a different sort of war, innocents get hurt, but that is not the raison d’etre, as in terrorism. I am convinced from my own experience, that the young people who become suicide bombers, bomb makers and terrorists’-tools, do so, not out of any political persuasion, but either for the excitement, or because they have been led to believe their name will go down in history, like hunger strikers. There is also the excitement of being sent to another country to learn one’s trade, and the actual teaching is also exciting, the thought of suicide, capture and incarceration is put in a blind spot, in the way serviceman believe that it is always someone else who gets killed, that it won’t happen to you, ,and only after having experienced a tour, does one know what one is getting into.

    Everyone knows the Basque Separatists’ reasons, but what man in the street can tell you why that bomb was placed in London?. The IRA bombs, here and in London, were intended to make the British Government so sick of Northern Ireland politics, that they would agree to Northern Ireland becoming part of Eire. This involved damaging the economy by doing as much structural damage, and disrupting our way of life as much as possible. One aspect of the Northern Ireland Troubles which I believe is not unique, was the outside finance, technical and political help which was provided by the Irish Lobby in America. I am convinced that these people had never visited nor had much knowledge of the true situation in Northern Ireland, but nonetheless they enjoyed the excitement of being involved, by running fund raisers. They wanted into the act vicariously and were happy to provide the help, the weapons and the money, to have innocent people slaughtered, some by mistake, for which an apology was given. This also is a ludicrous state of affairs

    Terrorism is now worldwide and interlocking, which might lead one to believe that in fact it is an industry, with aims not as altruistic as we are supposed to think. Some of the IRA were trained in Libya, the IRA sent people to South America to train people there, one can believe that it is a network, especially when there is no way that anything will be achieved. Terrorism is like kidnapping and blackmail, one cannot pay up, or it’ll grow like a rash. For this reason and those that I were enumerated above, to any sensible person international, and all terrorism would seem to be a futile exercise.

  • Random Thoughts N0 8, The Boy Who Set Himself Alight

    At the beginning of this week a boy in North Belfast set himself alight while committing arson in a derelict house. I don’t need to dwell on the misery of the parents nor the stupidity and blind ignorance of the child. This incident raises so many aspects of today’s living that I have decided to comment on them individually. The aspect of this one which frightens me most is the fact that when a contractor and his men went to pull down some of these houses on behalf of the council, they were attacked with Molotov cocktails thrown by youths who looked upon the derelict houses as an adventure playground. What comes out of this more than anything is a complete disrespect for authority, and the knowledge of the law that these children have. They know that it is not worthwhile taking them to court because they will not get a custodial sentence, merely a rap over the knuckles.

    In my day we had hanging, birching and all the other ills of the penal system, and while it was obvious to most that recidivists were incorrigible, there was still an innate fear of what could happen if you stepped over the mark. We were caned in both school and home for minor infringements and our attitude to authority was virtually unwavering in its respect. One would have no more thought of even answering back let alone hitting a teacher, and my wife, Sophie, who was a good teacher, only had to resort to detention or some other minor punishment to maintain discipline throughout her career. She like many teachers who have now retired, who were good teachers in their day, would now not dream of entering the profession. The pendulum of respect, has swung too far in the opposite direction, mainly through ginger groups, basing their doctrine for the general on only a few individual cases of excessive physical chastisement. They have persuaded governments that corporal punishment in any form, is psychologically bad. One only has to look at David Attenborough’s wildlife films to realise that in nature parental control is also a matter of physical chastisement. As one who was chastised both rightly and erroneously, I believe that unless the form of chastisement has done some permanent physical damage, the discomfort is forgotten fairly soon, and in most cases the lesson is learned. Year in and year out we in Northern Ireland have seen children and youths hurling stones, bricks and Molotov Cocktails at the army and the police, and we have been frustrated that the laws were such that these young people were allowed both by those in charge and their parents to repeatedly enjoy this form of entertainment, because that is what it was.

    I cannot stress enough how the standards of courtesy, respect, and decency have dropped as a percentage of the general conduct of life, in an exponentially increasing rate since the end of World War 2. .If one were to blame the reduction of parental control as one of the primary causes, then the outcome is bound to be of a steadily increasing nature, because each successive generation has not had the same parental control as its predecessor and so it will diminish with time.. Assuming that this basic premise has some merit, the fact that children are demonstrably leading less active lives, and also the nature of their social lives, introduce another factor, that of emulation or the effect or the lack of it.. Those who are in gangs are emulating all the wrong principles. It is difficult to see how the trend can be reversed. In my childhood the churches, the Scouting movement, the Boys Brigade, coupled with a more simple approach to life, more open spaces and more outdoor activities, ensured the intermingling of the children of all ages, and a more gregarious childhood. A stop must be made by councils and government on the handing over of playing fields, parks and open spaces to housing and supermarkets. Safety in all its forms is now a priority, and when it comes to open spaces this is a burden on the local authorities. They have to protect the children using those facilities. Hardly a day passes than we hear of children being taken, stabbed, and stabbing one another – all symptoms of the disrespect of one for another, and of the law. I believe that we require an open forum to which all can contribute their experiences, their worries and their fears, their needs and their aspirations. Perhaps when this information is categorised and analysed a solution may emerge, which is applicable to all, workable and sustainable.

  • Royal Navy, 1941 to ’46, in order, The Change to Naval Life in 1940

    Prior to 1940 the Navy in today’s terms was a cross between a monk’s seminary and a football supporters club. Lower Deck life aboard ship was hard, totally masculine, and without any privacy. Shore leave was limited, often only a few hours and lived at strength 10. The sailors were proud of the Navy and proud to be in the Navy, but their relationship with society was varied. Allegedly, notices on establishments in towns adjacent to a dockyard read – ‘Dogs and sailors not admitted.

    WW2 was tough on the regular Navy and even tougher of the poor innocents joining. Prior to it, most of the Navy Lower Deck was recruited as ‘boys’, many from orphanages. More than their home, it was a secure haven, they had camaraderie, almost every need was catered for, and every year was like the rest. For those with ambition there was a limited ladder to climb. The chasm between them and the Wardroom, not only didn’t bother them, they accepted it. From the Wardroom aspect, there was a glass wall and no matter how high a promoted man might rise as an officer, there was an unwritten view expressed or not, ‘he was Lower Deck, you know!’

    Then came the HO’s – Hostilities only – volunteers or recruits, of every class. Round pegs in square holes, some found their vocation, and then the rest. In the beginning all HO’s were resented by the Regulars. The phrase HO was an insult. a put down, and it took several years for the stigma to be dropped, because the HOs had proved themselves. We, from sheltered civilian life, in our teens, knew nothing of life,. Four letter words interspersed into sentences and even between syllables were rare in the ’40s at that age. Talk of brothels, sexual deviance in all its forms, living in crowded conditions for weeks on end with little respite, having to guard food because of hunger, or misappropriation, all had to be accepted. Punishments through ignorance, misunderstanding, or with good reason, could be cruel and unnecessarily harsh, all without putting a foot on a ship. This is no exaggeration as later pieces will give proof. One had to be a tortoise, with a thick shell, keep one’s head low, preferably close to the ground for scuttlebutt, say little, be cautious of whom to trust and go slowly.

    JAIL I had been a quasi-sailor for all of three weeks when I was put on cell duty, at cells which contained two men accused of attempted murder. We had a Chief Gunner’s Mate who took us for drill. His favourite punishment for serious offences like talking in the ranks, being incompetent, not obeying orders properly was to make a man run round the parade ground with a rifle held above the head at full stretch. Be assured it is very painful after a while, especially in pouring rain without an oilskin. The two men had attacked him, one with a knife, the other a bayonet on different occasions, our sympathies were with them. Naval Jail in those days included picking Oakum – teased out hemp rope, used on tall ships for filling the seams of the deck planks. A piece of rope about a foot long and two inches thick was weighed, then the prisoner, with just his fingers had to reduce the twisted rope to its original hemp fibres, the wear and tear on the fingernails had to be experienced to be appreciated. At the end, the huge pile of fluff was weighed again. The prisoners were only given meat on one or two days a week and had to eat with a spoon. To an innocent civvie, this all seemed extreme and as I was sympathetic with the prisoners, I smuggled proper meals into them, begged from the Wren kitchen-staff and helped them pick oakum, hardly realising that if I was caught, I would be in there beside them.

  • WW2, 1940 to 41, in order, Cluttons Part 3 of 3.

    Following on from items Cluttons 1 and 2, I write this because it highlights the differences between business in the late Victorian era, my time there, and today

    Aspirations outstripped resources, with ideas beyond my station, like going to the theatre. In London, at lunch time I would rent a folding seat, at the entrance to the theatre ‘Gods’, to reserve a place in the queue for the evening. In The evening I claimed and sat on it, being amused by the buskers until the seats were collected. This all cost – economies were made. I discovered the Express Dairy in Victoria Street. Lunches then had to consist of a small current loaf, cut through the middle and buttered. This I ate in the Embankment gardens or St James’s Park, swapping a roast with two veg and a sweet, for an evening in the Gods at one of the City’s theatres

    My next posting in Cluttons was to the Rent Department and a certain Miss Veezey, a charming if slightly tentative young woman, not happy with being brought face to face with the seamier side of life. The Management had decided I was a more robust specimen. I was called into the Secretary’s sanctum, proof enough that I was either to be honoured or dressed down. Headmasters Studies had taught me I was unlikely to be honoured. I went with my tail between my legs. “Ah! Riggs!” No suggestion of sitting down. – a bad sign! “Do you possess a hat, Riggs?” “No. Sir.” I said mystified. “You will understand that this Firm has a long tradition. It is not long since all the staff were required to wear frock-coats and top hats,” he said with equanimity, and not a smile. I just nodded, aghast at what might be coming next, my mind distracted with the vision of tens of my colleagues going in and out of the office in stove-pipe hats and frock coats. He continued. “To represent us you will need a hat. If you can’t wear it you must carry it, and never go anywhere on business without it.” Class dismissed. As I went back to my new department and desk I thought it a bit rich, making me buy a hat, when I was paid only a pound a week, less deductions. I consoled myself that I was lucky; my predecessors had had to pay in hundreds for their tutelage, They, probably had to buy a frock-coat and a topper to go with it. I duly purchased what was then the height of fashion for the young office worker – a Porkpie Hat,.

    Rent collecting was really a juggling act, especially in the rain. There was the rent book with hard cover and all the names and payments carefully recorded, held by a thick red rubber band. Then there was the cash pouch under the jacket, the inevitable hat, the pencil, the householder’s rent book and last, the rent itself, with only one pair of hands. The routine was to stick the hat between the knees, take the money, hand back the change, mark up the book, mark up the householder’s book, say a nice thank you, put the rent book under the arm and retrieve the hat. Easy? Try it with an umbrella as well. Miss Veezey was no fool. Of course that was only the basics with the silent minority, there were always the garrulous ones who were difficult to leave politely, withholding the book and cash until they had told all. Short of wrestling I was a captive audience. I needed training by a milk rounds-man. There were the flats – climbing uncarpeted stairs which children had dampened when the need arose and the atmosphere was thick, or some elderly, undernourished, bodiless hand with a greasy, brown paper covered rent book with equally mucky money would appear through the four inch slit between door and jamb. That particular house was the last straw with respect to Miss Veezey.

    Once I had shown myself capable of collecting rent I was transferred upstairs to the Holy of Holies, the Surveyor’s Department. There they spoke a different language, had more freedom of movement. Instead of writing draft letters for correction, like like essay-time at school, we dictated own letters,. The dictating machines recorded mechanically onto a rotating tube of a black shellac-type material, and the playback needle was of bamboo. When the typist had typed the letters she would engage a shaving device which scraped a thin shaving ready for the next offering. I’m amazed how far we have come in so short a time, to voice recognition transference, dictated straight onto paper, a system I now use. My main job then was to take a taxi each morning and visit the areas of our property damaged by air raid since my last visit and make superficial estimates of percentage damage, both structural and cosmetic, to enable the registration of War Damage claims. Sometimes, when the raids increased and occurred in daylight as well as at night, I could actually be out recording when further damage arose. The day came when I received my papers and was about to head off to the Navy. On that day before I departed, I left a huge ‘Property Vacant, This Space For Sale’ standard notice with a little poem I have long since forgotten.