"MOB"STER IN TRAINING

AT HMS GANGES

I was told to report to a Petty Officer at Ipswich railway station on the morning of the 8th of January 1952, then being 15 years and few months old. I had as little as possible of my personal effects with me, only the stuff I might need for a day or so, as ordered in my joining instructions.

     As I was a native of Ipswich, the nearest town to the place, I was about the only boy to approach the railway station from the road. All the other boys having arrived, as I learnt later, by special trains. I duly reported to a PO who just checked my name on a list and told me to stand with a group of other lads milling about. After double checking his list a couple of times, I noticed there were a couple of boys missing. (I often wonder what might have happened to those lads. Did the Navy just let it go? Or were they hauled from their mother's arms? The boy and his mum both having changed their minds about him joining the Navy?) Eventually satisfied that the boys that were present was the total that were going to turn up, we were then ‘marched?’ into the railmen’s canteen. We were given a meal; what it was I can’t recall, but my bet would have been fish and chips, which seemed to be standard in this sort of situation as I found out in the future.

    Having had the meal, though most didn’t eat much, we were then ordered to embark on the buses now waiting outside Bedfords. They were naval blue with the RN painted in white on the sides. We piled in, no one really speaking at this time, and set off towards HMS Ganges, our destination in both senses of the word.

    Ganges was one of the two remaining boys training ‘ships’ (barracks); the other being HMS St Vincent. As far as I remember the name came from one of the two wooden ships berthed below the village of Shotley at the end of the 19 century. Shotley stood on a promontory at a point dividing the rivers Stour and Orwell. It was to prove to be a very cold and windy place to be in.

     Most of the boys just looked out the bus windows at the flat bleak landscape, covered in a thick dusting of snow and hoare frost. The cattle in the fields we passed were huddled together to try to keep warm. Their every breath ejected as though from a steam train. The steam from their bodies ascended into the air over them before it froze to drop onto their backs to start the process over again.

     It seem as if we were on another planet. The scattering of houses along the roadside seem devoid of any sort of life; even when passing the village of Chelmediston. Apart from a light in the window of the store no one seemed to live in this area. We passed The Boot Inn, shut down also with no sign of life.

     Then we came into the first part of the village of Shotley and the first glimpse of the place which was to be our home for the next 12 months (although I should say I never heard anyone at all refer to that place as home).   

      On our left we could see the green grassy playing fields; recently used judging by the fact that there was very little sign of snow or frost on them. Sticking up from them the 'H' poles for rugby, and the small field hockey goals. Beyond them we could see a long brick shed sort of place, with windows in the top half of the building. Then to the right the most striking thing of all, the Ganges mast! 185 feet high I was led to believe. As we got further along the road we could just see the main gate and the guard house before we turned in the opposite direction into what, we were to learn, was called the Annexe.

     Here we soon learnt we were to spend the next eight weeks (it could have been six, but I honestly don’t recall). The buses stopped in a parade ground area, and we disembarked with some trepidation, and our limited belongings. Eventually, after lots of shouting and bawling (not from us I might add) we were detailed into ‘classes’ and then into separate huts. This was where we would be living for the duration of the basic training phase of our new lives in His Majesty’s Navy.

     The huts were pretty standard as I was to discover in later years. They were brick built with corrugated roofs; inside by the entrance was the ablutions; further in there were rows of single iron-framed beds, divided by lockers made of some sort of alloy metal, about 30 in all.

     There was bedding already on the bed and after a quick wash, most of us crawled into our pits (beds)  exhausted by the journey and the high tension we were all suffering from. That night I could hear a number of boys sobbing, and one or two calling for their mothers.

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SHORN

On the next day we were marched (if you can call it that) in batches to the main training school, while about half of the new entries were marched from the Annexe in batches of a dozen or so to be issued with their kit. We had a role call from a Regulating Petty Officer (sort of a Naval Cop) named Sharp. Having called out and ticked off all the names on his list, he came over to speak to me.

     “Cooper, is it?”

     "Yes sir.” I replied.

     “I know your father I believe. Big fella; good darts player; works on the docks?"

     “Yes sir." I again replied.

     “Your dad told me to keep an eye out for you.”

     “Yes sir.” Once more I replied.

     In fact one quickly learnt to call everyone other than another recruit 'Sir'. If it moved you saluted it, or at least called it Sir. Particularly if happened to be wearing a blue ‘fore and aft’ (an ordinary sort of suit); not a sailor's suit with bell bottoms etc. If it didn’t move, you painted it, (not quite true as we found out later on) but when a new recruit, you erred on the side of safety.

     My little group arrived outside the hut in which the barbers did their worst. And they were very good at doing their worst! One by one the group was told to enter the barber's shop, which was a 12x12-foot square wooden hut. Eventually it was my turn.

     RPO Sharp yelled my name and in I marched. 

     "Ah!” said the barber; a man in his 50’s wearing a white coat; almost bald; with horn rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You're not the son of ‘Sonny’ Cooper, are you?"
     'Blimey!' I thought 'I’ve heard of people getting about on a bike, but my ol’ man should be in the Tour De France!'

     “Yes sir.” Up to now the only words I had needed to get along in the navy.

     “Good darts player, your ol’ man,” he said. “he’s often up this way with the Racecourse pub team in their Charabanc to play us at darts.”

     'Thank goodness for that' I thought. I could see my father biking here, but after a few games of darts, and the jars of ale that go with it, I couldn’t see him getting back, so it was the darts team bus that he got home on. Not that my father didn’t get to all sorts of places by bicycle. Still, I digress, thinking to myself 'Well, now both of these men know my father'.

      “But” he continued, “there will be no special treatment for you just because I know your father!”

     I had a nice haircut before I came with a good short back and sides. Maybe I will come out of this less shorn that those that I had seen coming out prior to my turn! I sat in the chair, and a sheet was draped around my neck and shoulders and the barber began. I quickly realised that this chap was to barbering as the Marque De Sade was to babysitting. Starting on the left side over my forehead, he moved the clippers straight over the top of my head until he was opposite where he started; then back again in case a whisper of hair had escaped the first sweep. He was done in about one minute. I had entered the shop with hair like on a tennis ball, and looking at myself in the mirror (I often wondered why they bothered with a mirror) I was leaving with a head looking like a billiard ball. 

     Having been given my haircut (if what had been done to my hair could be called that) I fell in with those that had already been done, when RPO Sharp sidled up behind me.
     “Where have you been Cooper?”

     “In the barber's shop, sir.” I answered. 

     “Well lad, while you were in there you were supposed to get your bleedin’ ‘air cut! Now get back in there an have it cut!” 

     “ But...but?” I managed to blurt out.

     “Move yourself lad! Get back in there an' get a proper ‘air cut!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

     Believe it or not the barber did me all over again! Now my billiard ball look was nice and shiny just like the real thing. No special treatment indeed.

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KIT ISSUE

     The following day, the roles of the two groups were reversed. Now it was our turn to go to the 'slop' room, where clothing is issued. Inside the clothing store was a long corridor room, with a bench running along the outside wall with metal coat hooks above at intervals all the way along the 15 to 20 foot length of the room. Opposite was a lino-topped bench running the whole way with a large entrance to the clothing store room beyond it. Behind the bench, waiting to fetch and issue the kit, were about four or five bored-looking Stores ratings. About eight of us stood in front of the bench while the Stores personnel eyed us up and down. Then someone told us that we would have to collect and place the issued clothing in the Kit bag provided.

     This having been said, the first thing that was thrown at us was the ochre coloured kit bag. Five feet in depth and about two feet in diameter. This was swiftly followed by all sorts of stuff and I amassed things that didn't ever seem to fit properly (not that much did). Underwear was awful stuff made of knitted cotton, which the moment it was washed stretched to hang below our knees, with the vest (an undershirt) vying with the underpants as if to see which could make it to our ankles first.

    Then came socks; stockings; white fronts; black seaman's jerseys; blue sailors collars with three white stripes around the edge; and blue and white shorts (sports, for the use of). As these items were chucked at you, you had to try to try them on for size. There was a blue money belt; hair brushes; a toothbrush; an enamel mug with a shaving brush (even though at that point in our lives most of us didn’t shave); and soap of sorts, but not the nice smelling toilet soap - the soap was lye-based stuff - hard as a rock with an awful smell. Because of this property it was thus called 'Pusser’s Hard’. Pusser is a word derived from a Chief Purser (chief of all stores in the old navy). Then came the shoes and boots. One pair of boots were the Army type. There were also the old fashioned, stiff leather football boots - ones with the leather studs; Plimsolls; a pair of black deck slippers with a buckle fastening, and other brown canvas shoes with leather toe-cap and heel finishing. Last but not least came boot polish with brushes to put it on and brushes to polish it off.

     The stuff was chucked at us hard and fast. After a while we all stopped trying to stuff the kit in the bag. A black sailors hat would be plonked on your head, then a white one, probably of completely different sizes! They even included a small attaché case, and a round tin box in which to place the caps.

     Then we were issued two pairs of 'number eights' which consisted of a light blue work shirt and navy blue trousers. We would soon to learn that every rigout or type of uniform, and also mix-and-match parts of uniforms all had a number to describe them.

     Then came the uniforms, hence the slight pause by the stores people before the issue started (that was the fitting). The uniforms that they now dished out were of very rough serge. Navy blue of course, and in the main were not too bad fitting, bearing in mind the fitting had not been done with a tape measure, but with the Stores staff 'Mark One' eyeball. We were also issued with pyjamas and a large black oilskin waterproof coat!

     There were many more bits still to follow: a pair of khaki gaiters (almost knee length); two pieces of large oblong strips of black nylon called 'silks'; a couple of thin rope lanyards; a 'housewife' (a sewing kit of needles and the like); and lastly and most surprising, a couple of skeins of red silk thread. Of course there were other things issued too: seamanship books, and more (which I now can’t remember). What I really remember is that we were inundated with clobber.

    Many of us, me included, had never had more than one decent suit; a couple of grey flannel shirts; maybe one pair of shoes. Some might have been new, but lots were hand-me-downs from mum's friends with older kids than me. But being issued with this much gear I just couldn’t understand why we should need it all, and having seen the locker beside my bunk, where the hell were we to keep it?

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FROM MAKING BEDS TO MARCHING

One of the first things we had to learn was how to make our own beds. Not just fling the covers over like at home - the beds now all had to be stripped with the sheets and blankets folded in a certain way, and stand by if the PO didn’t like the way you had done the job.

     For the majority of us, once we realised that (according to our Instructor) getting the folds correct and all the sizes uniform was a matter of life and death, we got the hang of it pretty quickly. Some lads who had always had everything like this done by their mum took a little longer, but they learnt the hard way to get it right. If the PO was not satisfied with the bedding when you returned to the mess you would find your bedding strewn all over the hut! Everything depended on discipline and uniformity!

     During this initiation period we also had to mark all our new kit. Trays of black and white paint were laid out - the paint soaked in old serge cloth. Practically everything we owned had to be marked with our marking stamp. At first we thought this would be a quick and easy job. We were mistaken. Stamping light stuff black, and dark stuff white was a simple task. But it wasn't. We should have known nothing was going to be that easy! It was at this point, once the paint had dried, that we were informed why we were issued the red silk.

     Every bit of kit that a needle would go through had to have our initials and last name sewn in with the red silk using a cable stitch. Naturally this had to be done on our own time. 'What bloody time?' we all thought.

     Now this was a similar task for us all, but poor old Higginbottom almost broke down at the news. By now we were all beginning to take a bit of pride in ourselves, and when some of the boys with shorter names had finished they gave the poor chap a hand.

     Even our footwear had to be marked with iron stamps. This was then followed by the almost mindless task of cleaning and polishing them - not forgetting the soles! We constantly had to keep spit and polishing all our shoes until they were black. The only pair that didn't have to be done was our casual brown canvas shoes.     

     We spent most of our days being drilled: quick marching, doubling (double quick time), and slow marching, turning right and left, about turning. Miraculously after a week or so we would actually find ourselves all pointing in the same direction? We also learned how to salute: at attention, and how to salute to the right and left while marching.

     A byproduct of all this walking was that we all had very tender calves where the gaiters constantly rubbed against the rough serge, which in turn rubbed our legs really sore (not to mention the dark blue line left around our legs)!

     One evening one of the ex-private school boys thought it would be a frightfully good wheeze if we had a pillow fight! As a result we spent a good two hours stood to attention in the middle of the night in our pyjamas in the centre of the parade ground - in mid January.

    Toward the end of our initiation time in the Annex, we learnt that the king had died - so we were now in the service of Her Majesty.

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CLEANING THE HEADS



As a new boy, with just a week or so of being in the Mob, I was taught some other lessons which basically had nothing to do with seamanship, marching, tying knots and so on. What it turned out to be was discipline. One of the first jobs I was given was to clean out the heads in the toilet block prior to the following day's inspection. In fact we were under scrutiny the whole time one way or another. But Saturday morning rounds was all about cleanliness of the barrack room as well as ourselves!

     Arming myself with the appropriate gear: broom, dust pan and brush, scrubbing brush, and everything else I could think of, I was determined that there would be no way that my part of the cleaning effort would be questioned. I worked very hard. I scrubbed the place from top to bottom. Everything was gleaming. Inside all the pans; even urinals that had a black tarred substance in them were shining like freshly polished boots. No way would anything be found amiss! I even took up the little brass domed cover from the drain in the centre of the urinal trough, and polished it. While I was doing this, other boys were scrubbing the deck where we ate, while others polished the remainder.

    Neither one of those tasks were easy, as the floorboards were made of rough pine planks. There were splinters aplenty to remove that night. Boys were inside and out, polishing the windows, using just damp newspaper and a great deal of elbow grease.

     Other lads were cleaning all the eating utensils: knives, forks and spoons. The spitkids were also polished (though no one had ever dared using them, certainly not for their intended use as in western movies). We didn’t even dare drop a piece of paper in them.

    The cleaning effort carried on until about 9 o'clock in the evening, and what with the way we were run from pillar to post every day, most of us were pretty near exhausted. Then our Petty Officers came to check on our progress. I felt very confident that my heads were spotless and couldn’t be faulted!

     The PO came in, looked around testing for dust and the polishing, and I was sure he would be satisfied. Then with a flourish, and the use of a pace stick he carried, he pointed to the highly polished drain cover.        

     "Have you cleaned down there, lad?” he asked, flicking off the cover with his stick. “Look lad," poking the stick down the drain, "it’s filthy!" 

     I replied. "But I haven’t anything to clean that with, Sir!”  

     “Go and fetch your toothbrush!”

     When I returned with it, he said "There you are, son, the perfect tool!”

     "But, Sir," I asked, "how will I clean my teeth?”

     "That’s your problem, son. I shall be back in 10 minutes.”

     I did as he ordered, and as he promised he came back about ten minutes later. Without even looking at the offending drain pipe, he just said “Now that’s better, lad.” 

     Then, upon handing me a new toothbrush still in it's wrapping, he said, “There you are, son, I just happen to have this in my pocket!”

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SWIMMING TEST

All sailors had to be able to swim, but contrary to popular belief, there were those of us as new entries that naturally couldn’t do so. So to find out the prowess of us boys, one day we were marched over to the main part of Ganges to the swimming pool. This was done by taking each mess deck; about 30 or so at a time.

     The pool was 25 feet long and about 15 feet wide. The deep end was over 6 feet and about 3 feet or so at the shallow end. The deep end was dominated by three diving boards; the first (off to one side) was a spring board; the second was about 10 feet up the tower; the other, right at the top, was about 15 feet high. Both the upper boards had safety rails. 

     Having stripped to our swim costumes, we had to pass though foot baths to enter the pool area and we were then lined up at the side of the pool. All of us were cold and shivering, some were very apprehensive! The test was then explained to us: we had to swim the length of the pool, return to the centre, dive down to retrieve a black canvas-covered house brick, then swim with it to the side of the pool and place it on the side, but not touching the side ourselves! Once this was done, we had to go back to the middle of the pool and tread water for two minutes. If we were successful then we could get our strip off. Oh, did I mention the entire test was carried out wearing an old fashioned canvas sailor's suit, which we had to strip off at one point during the two minutes of treading water! The last part of the test was to go to the top diving board and jump off. Being close to the front of the line alphabetically, I was in the first or second group of about five boys, and with my background in swimming as a youngster, I carried out the task in hand very easily.

     As I left the pool I had my name taken, and wondered what I had perhaps done wrong. Later I was to learn that this was just a note to see if I was suitable material for the Ganges swimming team.

     The test was not so easy with a number of the boys. A few couldn’t swim at all. Some could hardly swim. Many could not get to the bottom of the pool to retrieve the brick. If it was obvious to the PTIs (Physical Training Instructors) that some boys just could not complete the test they were hauled out, and had their name taken for future swimming lessons. However, if it was the case that a boy showed that he probably could do it but just gave up to swim to the side, he was gently pushed back into the middle by one of the Instructors using a long, bearing-off pole!

     Many a boy balked at jumping off the high board, but they were informed that jumping would be the only way they would be allowed down. After much inching to the edge, looking down and retreating, most boys did eventually jump.

     There was one boy who just would not jump. Time and again he peered over the edge, only to retreat to the back of the board. By the time the rest of us were told to get showered and dressed he was still up there. In fact, I heard it was about midnight before he eventually did jump. I doubt this had anything to do with overcoming his fear, he was probably starving by then!

     There was one other test (if you can call it that) that we had to partake in about that same time - we had to fight each other. I was never into boxing, and being classified by weight, at my height I was at a disadvantage, after all the object was to fight, not box. The boy I was up against was about five or six inches shorter than me, and the whole of the fight he had his head down and kept his arms flailing. Every time I tried to hit him all I succeeded in doing was hitting his arms. I tried to step back and jab, but then he was all over me like a rash. Neither of us was hurt, but his arm was raised as the winner for pure dogged aggression.

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THE BIG MOVE

    Having almost finished our basic training, our thoughts began to turn to what fate held in store for us when we were to move across the road and into the main training establishment.

     We had learnt our left from our right; we had been taught how to wear the uniforms and the many variations or combinations of many uniforms and other gear that we had been issued, which in most cases only fitted where it touched. 

Some had been taught to wash and iron; chores that I had been used to doing for a long time; one or two had also been given lessons in their own cleanliness. There was no mum to check they had washed behind their ears, or that they didn’t have a ‘tide mark’ around their neck! 

The uniformity and the fact that we all were in the same boat, began to manifest itself in the first signs of comradeship, self-discipline and pride, but still there was that unknown factor which would face us when over the road. 

Although we were edging towards uniformity, we were still not quite a team, we all knew that once over the road most of us would be split up to go with boys selected (I assume we were selected and not just picked at random) to join them in a new mess over there.

     One day we were marched over to the main barracks to be shown where we would be residing. Then we were shown the drill shed, the swimming pool (again), and the many huts the boys were in, which were grouped by divisions; about 4 to each division, all named after past Admirals. 

We looked at the vast areas of the playing fields - some level with the main road and more or less behind the drill shed; others almost down to the waters edge of the Orwell on the left of the peninsula and the Stour on the right. 

There was an L-shaped wooden jetty with a couple of dozen boats up on davits (the arms on which the boats hung). We were lead back up the three flights of steps called Faith, Hope and Glory; past the base workshops and up the hill past the laundry; overlooked now by the 185-foot mast and its rigging.

Then we were marched just outside the main gate and into the brand new school, which brought on more thoughts of what was to happen to me once moved.

     The thing I dreaded was that my lack of any sort of decent education would place me in a class of 'no hopers'! 

We had already been told that we would not only be in messes with some of our present group, but others too, and that those groups would be selected based on education. 

     The groupings were as follows: 

GC (general class): at least 90% of boys would be classed as such. AC class (advanced class): this would consist of the better educated, or maybe smarter kids. And last but not least the other 2% were AC-H (advanced class - higher). 

I was pretty sure where my fate would lay, but since I chose this career it would be up to me to make the best of it. 

The last separation was that of the chosen career path. A fairly large proportion of boys would have joined as signalmen, and they would be messed together.

     Finally we were allocated to our new mess deck in the main camp. That evening there was a great air of excitement in the whole of the Annex. We were all told to pack our kit ready to leave in the morning. 

The kit was to be taken by lorry to our various destinations and we were to march to our new messes. On arrival we would be given details as to which class we were to be placed in. 

I, with about 30 to 40 other boys, was designated to form up in a certain position and we were told we would be placed in Hawke Division #47 mess. Someone in the group whispered “Blimey! That’s in those old two-story huts near the swimming pool on the edge of the parade ground!"

     We were marched in a long column out of the Annex and over the road through the main gate. At this point we were joined by a couple of Boy Instructors. These were lads from a previous intake who had been given a white stripe on their arm and white gaiters to indicate their status. They were called Leading Boys. The Petty Officer Boy was dressed likewise, but he had a crown on his arm and he was in charge. 

Although the Leading Boy and Petty Officer boy were sort of a nominal heads of our classes, the overall control and teaching was done by two regular adults. A Chief Petty Officer Coxswain who was to be in charge of our domestic training and seamanship lessons, and a Petty Officer Gunnery Instructor who was also responsible for our domestic training but mainly in charge of our parade ground drilling. Both shared duties such as boat crafts that we had to learn, and that sort of thing and both were available at all times as they shared duties between them. Weekends one would be given from Friday until Monday morning off; the other Saturday lunchtime until Monday weekends. A couple of the Hawke Division staff would be on duty - in overall charge of the whole division - for the rest of the weekend.

     First thing when we arrived was to find ourselves a bunk and locker. I decided I would like to be more or less in the middle of the left hand side. And this was indeed where I was told to go as I passed the class Chief Petty Officer; a very large imposing man. My thinking was that if I was too near the door, there would be drafts and if would be easy to get detailed for jobs. I thought it would be better to keep a low profile; stay out of the limelight, and therefore out of trouble.
     Once we were all in, we were ordered to stand at attention at the end of our beds. 

It was then we were told our designated class numbers. Those on the right side of the mess (looking down the dormitory from the door) were informed they were in GC. Those of us on my side were told we were to be known as AC-182-H. 

Knowing smiles came from a couple of the lads, but as for me I was absolutely dumbfounded. All I could do was to stare at the floor thinking to myself “This has just got to be a mistake! They will shortly move me to the other side of the hut!" But they never did.

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SPORTS

  

Not all the activities in training were about being taught to be useful to the Navy when we were sent to sea. It was also about building teamwork and pride in our class, our ship, our Navy, and our country!

A great deal of our ‘leisure’ time was spent in the playing of various sports. Most boys in those days had some kind of sporting background - remember this was the days before children vegetated in front of a TV or worse still video games! Ganges was well equipped to cater for practically any attributes that boys had in almost any sport played by them before joining up. There were sports fields aplenty  behind the parade ground hall, and others on what were called the lower sports fields. We played hockey, rugby, football (soccer) - and then of course there was the indoor swimming pool.

     As a youngster I had indulged in quite a few sports - mainly football and athletics; but from the age of about 11, swimming was my passion - most of the other sports I just played when I had to at school.

     The boys were of different backgrounds and in their education. Those from grammar schools and some that had been in boarding schools tended to gravitate and excel in rugby and cricket (most of the class I was in). However, 80% of the boys had never played rugby and rarely played cricket. But with about 2,000 boys in Ganges there were plenty to play almost any game.

     Me? I hardly ever got my sports gear dirty. I soon found out why my name was taken on the completion of the swimming test we had all taken earlier. Tthe first sports session was one of sorting out which boys played what, then having sorted out the boys into their various sporting attributes, my name was called out. “Cooper! Whenever your class has a sports period, you are to report to the PTI at the swimming pool.” This, of course, suited me fine. When the next sports period came up I duly walked 50 feet from my mess to the swimming pool, there to report to the physical training Chief Petty Officer; at this stage knowing from my recent experience, and therefore expecting to be given some task or other to carry out. This was so, but the task was a pleasure, not (as of late) a pain! I was asked ”What was my preferred stroke and had I raced before?” Having given the answers ‘Breaststroke; and yes I was the champion of this that and the other’ the instructor told me to go change and report back to him. He then said he was going to time me over 50 yards and, after a rest, the 100 yards. On completion, having taken the times, he seemed quite pleased, and asked me had I ever been trained, to which the answer was “No sir!” He then confirmed that during every sports session my class had I was to come to the swimming pool where I would be trained. As it turned out I was with a few other boys who apparently had the same sports rota as myself. I remember a lad called Ford who was training at diving. I was also told that when boys were sent to actually learn to swim, I would be with them in the pool to give them a bit of confidence and generally help them pass their swimming test, which again was fine by me, no standing about in an almost blizzard trying to see where the ball was (freezing to death), I was in a nice heated pool!

     Over the next few months my time was reduced on covering the 50 and the 100-yards; my technique was honed and I was also taught the finer art of turning, and of diving starts. At this time I was also introduced to the game of water polo - a very tiring, and at times quite a rough game (in those days a great deal more ‘body contact’ was permissible). Called fouling today. I quickly got to love the game and as a result soon became a passable player. Shortly after this introduction I was picked for the Ganges swim team. It was a great honour to become a representative of the ship, to be called out to the front of the whole school on the parade ground to be presented with a swimming costume in the ‘ship's colours, half green and white, with the crest on the front, a proud moment indeed! This was after being a representative in galas against some local schools and clubs.

     The big one came when we and many other sports were to be pitted against the other boys training school in Gosport, Hampshire. This school was called HMS St. Vincent, a smaller camp, but as keen as Ganges teams were to come out on top.

     Came the day of the race; having been transported and billeted, we began training for the big day. This was only a matter of about 48 hours or so away. My race would be the 100-yard Breaststroke, and I believe I was also involved in the medley relay (but that I am not sure of). I was called to the end of the pool, along with the other Ganges swimmer. Then the Vincent boys came to the starting end. Now at that time I would have been close to 6 feet tall and weighing near enough 11 stone (as my father used to say...built like a racing whippet). But the boy who I was to swim against - although about the same height - was built like a bloody tank (see the teams photo); the race was started and my instructions were to keep level with whoever was in the lead until the last 3/4 of a length, then put on a burst of speed.Naturally, or so it seemed to me, the big lad was the one I had to stay with, and the tactics proved to be just right - he could not catch me after I had put on my burst and as a result I won the race.

     Unbeknownst to us at the time, we were to become great ‘oppo’s (friends) on HMS Crane, all the time not knowing we had met before, and we are still friends today, almost 60 years later, having seen an old team photograph while going to visit him and his wife, only then realising that we had met all those years ago!

                                  (the big guy in the front is Tony, I'm sitting (to his) left)

Between School and the Deep Blue Sea

With my 14th birthday well behind me, it was now time to think really hard about what I was to do with my life. I really didn’t want to follow in my fathers footsteps and become a stevedore, nor did I particularly wish to go into an apprenticeship of any sort. With my education, or should I say the lack of it, other than those options the scope was limited.

     I was good at art, and would like to have followed that course - to become an architect, or to have gone to art school, but again I was handicapped by my poor schooling. Not that it was my fault! The education system then seemed to have been good or bad - unfortunately the school I was in was of the latter sort.

     There had always been a nagging thought in the back of my mind that maybe I should follow the family tradition on my mothers side and join the Navy. I decided to speak with my mothers youngest brother, uncle Norman, to put the idea to him and perhaps it would help me finally make up my mind.

     I thought about it almost all of the time, whether at school or doing my paper rounds. I had almost made up my mind when, at last, my uncle visited us on one of his leaves (he always made a point of visiting my mum).

     I got to talk to him and told him of my dilemma. He gave me some very good advice. He told me how hard the first few years would be, particularly at HMS Ganges, which was then a boys training establishment only about 20 miles from where I lived in Ipswich, Suffolk. The training school was on the peninsula of the two rivers on that part of the east coast of England: the river Orwell, and the river Stour.

     He told me that whatever I did as I would be entering the Navy as a seaman (Norman was a Petty Officer (Yeoman of Signals). The visual signals part of the Communications branch he assured me would soon be defunct. Another uncle was a steward; another a chef; and all their uncles had been in the Mob too.

     Being a seaman, at some point you will have to specialise (this was called being a Non-Substantive Rate). He urged me, no matter what, to try my utmost when the time came, to opt for the Radar Branch; almost still in its infancy then. But as he saw it, it would play a major part in the future of the Navy.

     I also sought advice from one of the better teachers we had at the school, a Mr Phillips. He taught science (if you could call it that) at my school, Priory Heath Secondary Modern. The science class mainly involved pouncing about with Bunsen burners.

    Mr Phillips was very pleased to hear that I had chosen a career rather than just becoming a labourer of some sort, a fate most of the schools graduates ended up doing in some factory or other.

     He spent some time with me, informing me that it was almost certain I would have to undergo an educational test on signing up. He also said there may be an IQ test. He could help and guide me on the former, but on the IQ test, as he put it, "You’ve either got it or you don’t!” And he said in my case, from his experience in teaching me over the last three years or so, I had it.

    When our sessions were over, he had told me about things I had never heard of. For instance, Ohms law and various other things. I said to him “How come after the years I have spent here it is only now you are telling me these things which you say I will need to know?” I could see the sadness in his eyes. He just hung his head having no answer to give me.

     I then told my parents of my plans. My father just said “Well, it’s up to you boy.” (he never ever called me by my name, unless in company). My mother I could see was close to tears. Whether this was pride, sadness or fear, I don’t know. But in the end, both gave me their blessing.

     I took myself off to the recruitment office in town, but was told I must come back in a few months time, as I was then just about 14 years, 3 months old, and must be at least 14 years, 9 months old before they would consider my signing on.

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Having decided that joining the Royal Navy was the right thing for me to do, my life had to carry on much as before. I still carried on with my paper rounds, reading all the comics I had to deliver every Thursday (the papers were always late on that day!). On Fridays, I think I also had to deliver the weekly editions of the Radio Times and The Listener. These magazines were made of newspaper, but they were about half an inch thick, and most people on my route (about 120 of them) seemed to have them delivered every week. I had two options: make about two or three trips (because of the weight), or borrow my father's trade bike.

     A trade bike was a normal looking bicycle with a very large metal frame over the front wheel to take a basket, tin box or something to enable the rider to carry large loads (like my Times and Listeners).

     Dogs could be a problem, as they are to all paper boys. If their owners continued to let them out, and I had to run a bit fast to avoid them, I would remind the owners. Most were good and kept their dogs inside when they knew the papers were due, but one or two didn’t. These needed to be taught a lesson in a way that I couldn’t be blamed for. The next time the dog was inside, and snapped at the newspaper as I pushed it through the letterbox, I just held on to it. Thus the dog's owner would receive a shredded pile of paper - completely unreadable!

     I was also still attending school, of course, but it would only be until summer holidays, when I would unofficially leave. My 15th birthday was coming up days after the holiday, so it was deemed it was a waste of time my returning.

     As far as I was concerned, it was actually a complete waste of my time being there for the spring and summer term at all. Where in other (better) schools the children were sitting finals, I had a completely different agenda. I was given the task of painting murals on all the walls behind the desks of the teachers in most of the classrooms. Of course it was an easy job, and because no one knew what the hell I was up to, the teachers didn’t bother me. Mind you there were some classes I was expected to attend, especially those teachers who did not want murals on their classroom walls. 

     One of these was Mr Diss. He was a chap in his 50s, I suppose. I can’t remember what he taught; it might have been math, or should I say sums, because that was about as far as our schooling went in that particular school. He had two peculiar habits as I recall. Priory Heath was a secondary school (in both senses of the word) for both boys and girls. Firstly, Mr Diss would be smoking the whole time we were in his class. He smoked Capstan full-strength; lighting one from the other; his fingers deep brown with the nicotine stain from them as were his lips. His other habit effected quite a few of us in a more direct manner. Upon filing into his class several of us boys were not allowed to sit, but had to stand in a line by his desk. He would stand up, fetch a long plastic strip from the cupboard behind his desk, and proceed to cane each and every one of us in the line; just one stroke on each hand (don’t be silly, of course it bloody well hurt!). If one of us dared ask, "Why were we caned? We hadn’t done anything wrong.” He would just reply, “I am caning you for what I don’t catch you doing wrong!”

     The arts teacher was a very good artist and I quite liked him, but he never should have been in a school like ours. He should have been, and eventually was, the arts master in Northgate Grammar school; a somewhat more refined place. 

     Having some talent in art I was left pretty much to myself in his class. However some of the other students used to play him up from time to time. The art classroom was on the end of the building with large windows on three sides. Where it joined the rest of the school there were two entrances, one from the ground floor, the other from the first floor. These doors were on either side of, and at the back of the room. Now Mr Finch, for that was his name, was always a minute or so late; his mind always on the next painting he would do and sell. His forte was the painting of Thames barges. Before he arrived, sometimes one or two of the lads would place a wooden ruler across the top of the door frame with a pot of paint balanced on it; but they would do so making sure it was pretty obvious it was there! Mr Finch, half in a daydream as usual, would approach the door and suddenly remember to look up (he had been caught before) and he would ignore the booby trap and go around to the other door thinking he might catch the perpetrators red handed. He'd rush in the other door, only to be caught by the second (Mark-2 Trap) placed over that door! To say he entered the classroom red-faced at being caught yet again, was literally true.

    Outside of school, I was now big enough, although not officially old enough, to accompany my father to a pub now and then. This was mum's way of ensuring he got home early. My father was a very good darts player, and in his time had visited most of the pubs in a 10-mile radius around Ipswich. He was known in all of them. I remember going into one pub in Tuddenham, I think it was, and my father was greeted in the usual way “Hello, Sonny! (that was his nick name) Long time no see! Is that your younger brother with you?"

     “No, it's my son.” “Blimey, I didn’t even know you were married!” So as you can see, these were just drinking mates.

     The other thing we sometimes did together was to go fishing. He had an old barge tender about 16 to 18 feet long; on the front of which he had made a small cabin for shelter. It had a Stuart single-stroke engine, with some sort of flywheel, and he kept it at Old Felixstowe near the old and famous Ferry Boat Inn. We would go out fishing with a couple of mates; perhaps off the Fludgers Arms on the Felixstowe front.

     The engine would struggle to get us there, but finally we would arrive and we would start fishing. His mates were all stevedores, and not one of us had a decent rod. I used to fish just using the big old centre pin reel. Dad's rod was homemade, with a broom handle at one end and with a large wooden centre pin reel at the other end, tapering to an old golf club handle.

     Most times we used to catch good sized codling (about 4 lbs. or so), whiting and various other smaller fish. When we got home mum would deep fry cod cutlets in batter with some home made chips. Lovely!

    That was another one of my jobs. I used to work in the Fish and Chip shop. It was my job to put the spuds into a peeler; a large rough wheel in a sort of spin dryer. This used to skin them. From there I checked them, took most of the eyes out, and then put them though the chipping machine into a large galvanised dustbin which had water continuously running through it to make sure the chips were clean and rid of excess starch.

     Other than that I often used to ride my new bike. A Christmas present promised if I won a big swimming race. It was a big Hercules Upright with a 3-speed Sturmey Archer gearbox in the rear wheel hub, and a Dynamo, which at night was flipped onto the tyre of the front wheel. I would cycle into the country, lay beside my bike in a field, or on the heathlands which then surrounded Ipswich, and just ponder what my future might be.