HMS Birmingham

Three days after finishing my RP2 course, I was given orders to join HMS Birmingham, a ship about 20-years-old even then (in fact she turned 21 and was 'given the key to the door' while I was aboard). It was a City-class cruiser with 6-inch main armament.

     For the first time it wasn’t a case of just making my way to the ship; this time about 200 of us were marched from Chatham barracks to the ship. Upon arrival we were lined up facing the ship which was alongside the pier. Facing us was a dais, and following salutes and coming to attention, the Captain stood up on the dais and gave the order "Stand at ease, chaps!"

     We all (CPOs, POs and the rest of the troops) did so; and yes, we got the same old talk. The one we had all heard before! My last ship was a happy ship, a happy ship is an efficient ship, and so on. Of course it could be true, but depended on whose happiness he was referring to. His happiness would be doing all the exercises and drills under the sun. Ours would be to go to places that we could have a damn good run ashore!
     Almost on our first day on the ship there was a terrible accident. We were taking on the ship's ammunition, which basically involved most all of us. One task was lowering 6-inch shells by a small davit from the forecastle down several decks to the ammunition store. The shells were in stout canvas bags, with a wire strap which was attached to a clip hook. One of the bags struck the top of the hatch, the clip safety-guard slipped and a shell toppled from the bag. A warning was shouted as the shell fell down through the ship, finally striking the deck of the magazine far below, bounced and unfortunately stuck a Boy Seaman loading in the mag. He was killed almost instantly. A guard of honour, of which I was a part, was sent to his funeral when he was buried with full military honours, the sight of the East End lad's distraught family is something I will never forget. After this somehow the ship's company never seemed to gel. Perhaps that could be put down to its size or age, I just don’t know, but like on most ships there were always tales to tell.

     Other than this awful start to our commission this ship, in some ways, could never be a happy one. One reason was the terrible living conditions for a start. I was billeted in the forward seamen’s mess deck. The mess was immediately below the forecastle (the pointed end). From memory, the mess was about 40 feet wide at the rear end, tapering to practically nothing at the bow, and was about 60 feet front to back.

     There were a number of machines and hatches in the area, including the A-gun sponson, where all the ammo went up to the gun. It also supported the same. At the bow was the steam machinery for the operation of the capstan on the upper deck. Mess deck tables, benches, and the men's lockers were also in this area. This would have been fine except there were about 50 of us living in the remaining space all of us in hammocks. Some of the mess had to sleep elsewhere in passageway, or if they were lucky, in the office they worked in.

     The conditions hadn’t changed much since Nelson was a boy. The room allowance was about the same; about 18 inches from side to side and about 7 feet from end to end. The worst of it was when someone had to get up to go on watch. There used to be a ripple effect - about 5 other bodies either way got woken at the same time. In fact you could say there was hardly enough room to swing a rat, let alone a cat!

     At one time we were steaming around the Arctic for some reason or other. The mess deck became almost impossible to live in. To stop the ice from freezing up the capstan, it was decided by the powers that be that the steam should be fed to it at all times. This resulted in even more condensation which normally occurred merely by having so many men in one space. But with the icy weather outside and the steam inside, suffice it to say that, in the mornings, there was always about 3 inches of water swilling around the deck.

     One thing I was determined to do was to take the test for the next rank up - that of Leading Seaman. I and my fellow trainees worked very hard. We spliced wire ropes up to 4 inches in diameter; we tested each other on various knots, the Morse code, the semaphore, and parts of a boat from its sails down to the hull. Along with getting the Gunnery Instructor to drill us and teach us how to drill, we also learnt how to rig all the various replenishment-at-sea systems; even the correct hand signals for directing the ship's crane.

     Come the day of the race (test) I thought I had done well, with the possible exception of taking charge of the ship's Whaler; a boat capable of being rigged for sailing, or by being rowed (something we could not practice). After a very long exhausting day we were finally brought to the 1st Lt’s cabin to be told the results. I was called in and the Officer told me "You have done exceptionally well, your over all mark is 82 %. But I think you may be a little too young to be a Leading hand just yet, so I am going to fail you this time." I was absolutely gutted.

     “Don’t worry,” he said “I am sure you will pass the next session in three month's time, and after all, the roster in Chatham is only about three months long, so you will soon be made an Acting Leading hand. Mean while your worst subject was 'boats', so next job change I will see to it that you have a boat coxswain's job.” Crestfallen, I left the office, but with the knowledge that I was almost certain to reach my goal soon.

     Very soon after that I was put in charge as coxswain of the ship's 32-foot motor cutter. This was quite a fast boat, and was fitted with a "Kitchen" rudder. It turns the rudder into a directional thruster and allows the engine to maintain constant revolutions and direction of drive shaft rotation while altering thrust by use of a control which directs thrust forward or aft. Only the rudder pivots; the propeller itself is on a fixed shaft and does not. The rudder consists of a pair of slightly conical semi-cones mounted on a pivot either side of the propeller with the long axis of the cone running fore and aft when the helm is midships. They are pivoted about a vertical axis such that the cone may close off the propeller thrust aft of the propeller, directing the thrust forwards and thus creating motion astern. In addition to the "jaws" of the cone being controlled the direction of thrust is also controlled by rudder direction. The modern equivalent include certain types of jet boats.

    
     But the art which I soon learnt was not just to get the boat going forwards or back (that was easy) - you could almost make it go sideways. It was the most enjoyable boat I ever came across to drive. We also had a bigger boat, the Pinnace (similarly driven). And after the stoker of the boat had fixed the governor on the engine restricting its speed, it was even more fun!

     Having fully mastered the boat, as luck would have it our next port of call was Venice - where the fun we could have was limitless. But before that tale is told, there’s another: our Master at Arms (chief of police on the ship) gave us all a warning just before we were due to anchor off St Mark's Square in Venice. He warned the ship's company of the dire consequences of anyone coming back to the ship under their own steam - in other words, swimming back from the jetty to the ship. Later, despite his dire warning, we (I was in the boat alongside) could see that somebody was indeed swimming towards the ship. The ship's regulating Petty Officer was sent to deal with this idiot, but then who should clamber up the gangway half cut? Yes, you guessed it! It was the Master at Arms! When he had recovered, he gave himself 10 days stoppage of leave.

    Each morning it was my boat's duty to take the ship's postman to the mail station and wait for him to return. On the first day I was taking the Cutter up a canal which was about 6 feet wider than the boat (which, if I recall, was about 8 1/2 feet amidships). We were going at a fair clip, when into the same canal came a gondola; the owner of said boat calmly pushing on his oar, until he looked up and saw my cutter approaching at a fairly smart pace! Now, with care, I estimated there was enough room for us to pass as long as we were both close to the adjacent wall. As I carried on he started to panic, and in the manner of all good Italians, started to shout and gesticulate with his ‘free’ arm. I motored on until I was about a boat and a half length from him, and with a flick of the 'buckets' control from open to shut, and a couple of movements of the wheel, I stopped within a boat's length, and pulled into the side of the canal. Removing my cap I waved to him to pass. From that day on, whenever we stopped at a jetty wall or slip, I had to try to explain the workings of the Kitchen rudder. Not an easy task as you may have gathered from my attempt here, let alone trying to explain it to half a dozen excitable Italian gondola boatmen.

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As promised by the 1st Lt, there was another Leading Hand test, and as he predicted I did pass (again). In the meantime, or shortly thereafter, the politicians, short of their next pay and with expenses rising (and having given themselves too much the last time) decided to raise the money required in the traditional way...cut back on the forces! One of the things they did this time was to shut down HMS Pembroke (Chatham Barracks). This meant that all those who were administered from there had to be spread among the remaining major barracks and dockyards. Not a real problem, but at a stroke it meant that my three-to-six months waiting period - having joined the Portsmouth roster for Leading Seaman - now turned out to be almost 2 years!

     I forget where we were at the time, when some bright spark in Admiralty suddenly realised the French (and supposedly us) were to celebrate 50 years of 'entente cordiale' between our two nations, and this had  been planned well in advance to take part in the French speaking region of Canada, in Quebec! At the very last minute our ship was nominated to attend. By the time the order came I think we had about five or six days to get there to put on a 'showing of the flag' to the French and any others that were to attend. I think we may have still been in or around the top of Scotland at the time, so we (that is, the ship) set off. We did about 31 knots all the way, despite some fairly rough seas. We finally arrived the afternoon before the ‘show’; somewhat battered, covered in salt and rust, and with very little paint from the bow to A-gun remaining on the sides. We moored up at some remote spot in the St. Lawrence river. All boats were put out; platforms held by ropes were lowered over the side, and we started making good. The ship was hosed down, and everybody joined in painting the ship from the tip of the masts to the waterline. Most officers were also included, no finesse required - just slap on ‘Pussers crabfat’ grey paint over the ship's superstructure and sides. First thing the next morning the fancy bits were done; the black pennant numbers on each side of the ship and so on. The boats were hoisted and their outsides also painted (only the bit that would be seen), and ready or not, we sedately sailed into the harbour at Quebec - arriving last of the ships, but dead on time! There were French, German and American ships there. Their powers-that-be seemed to also have forgotten the affair, because they were all salt encrusted and as battered as we were 24 hours before! Needless to say, the amount of people wishing to come aboard on the ‘fleet open days' were mostly wishing to come to the Birmingham. A longer queue formed for our gangway than for any of the other ships.
     This was also helped by the ‘boot necks’ (our Royal Marines). Every night the Royals did the full 'sunset routine' and along with the Royal Marine band and guard, you might say, they knocked ‘em dead! During the few days that we were in Quebec, our Royal Marines would go out in all their full-dress: navy blue uniforms with gold and red accouterments; white pith helmets with a golden globe on the top; and white webbing belts. With all the aplomb they could muster, they marched to and fro with the Royal Marine band playing stirring marching tunes. They would salute the large White Ensign at sunset every evening. Crowds of onlookers would be there, including many sailors from the other nation's ships. Camera flashes looked like fireflies buzzing through the crowd at random, emphasising the gold and steel on the Marine's equipment. The slap of their hands hitting their rifles echoed as they saluted the slowly lowering Ensign. There's nothing quite like it, and no wonder the Birmingham was the centre of attraction in the little fleet. It was a tradition which the other newer naval forces just did not have!

     We did, of course, take part in a number of exercises mainly while in the Med. A couple that I remember was to work with the American fleet stationed in that area simulating a seaborne landing; before which both the British and the Americans were to bombard the landing zone - for this exercise the target was to be an old wartime pillbox on the crest of a hill. This was, I believe, in a remote part of Sicily. I cannot remember what other ships were with us, but we were to go first. We duly started our bombardment with a ranging shot or two, which were corrected by one of our Royal Marine officers on the shore. After a couple of these ‘feeling out' shots, the 6-inch guns were ordered to ‘fire for effect'. Shortly after this order was given, and a couple of salvos from our ship, the report came back, “Target destroyed. Cease fire!" Our column of ships then turned away and it was the American's turn. They too started firing their guns and ranging on the target. I was able to listen to what was going on from the Operations room. On the American ships this was called the Combat Information Center (or CIC). Our name for their CIC being somewhat different - we called it ‘Christ I’m Confused', which in those days they often seemed to be. After a couple of shots from their ships, there was an urgent message from the spotter ashore, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” He was asked by the person in charge, “Has the target been eliminated?” He replied, “No! But I fucking nearly was! I'm getting further away!” This was probably the forerunner of what is termed these days as ‘friendly fire’?

     Another exercise in which we took part was for this same group of ships to steam in columns about two and a half miles apart so we sailors could witness the power of the Air Forces. The bombers came over the ships in the same direction as we were steaming and dropped bombs all along the gap between us...not really the sort of thing a sailor needs to see to boost moral!
     Then came the main part of the exercise. The American marines stormed ashore. Their landing ships drew close in shore. Then, once up on the beach, they began unloading all sorts of stuff: tanks, generators, tents, huts, jeeps, lorries, water tanks, and stores all to make the camp a real home away from home. Before we left in the mid-afternoon they had built a large barracks just off the beach! We left early because our contingent of Royals were to take the part of the enemy; to be landed, it was thought, a 24 hour march away. The Birmingham, having landed them, then returned to the beachhead area. However, our marines didn’t stick to the plans as the Americans thought they might. For as soon as they had landed, they started marching at the trot. They were not expected to be able to reach the beach before the following evening, but they arrived at the camp about 3 am the following morning! It was described to us on board (many times) what happened next.

    After watching the American (invaders) sentries for a while, smoking and chatting between their patrols, the Royal Marines began taking them out one by one to be replaced by our marines with the appropriate headgear borrowed from the captured sentries. Then the remainder of our Royals proceeded to ‘tour' the camp placing bombs (stickers) on vital equipment. Then, seeing one tent all lit up they realised this was the camp HQ! Putting the lights out, they captured the Americans inside and took themselves and their prisoners further up the beach where a ship's boat took the captives back to the Birmingham. As it turned out, among the prisoners was the camp Commander (no future promotions for him, I would guess). Having taken the sentries prisoners, the following morning our marines allowed themselves to be taken prisoner. After a good breakfast with the Americans bragging as to how easy it was, they were somewhat put out when our major asked to speak to their Commanding Officer, who of course was nowhere to be found.

    Then he told the other officers, "Before you start to get all excited may I suggest, chaps, that you go and look at all your generators, trucks, diggers and so on." The deathly hush when the American officers returned a few minutes later was a story our Royals were always eager to relate.

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While I'm reminising, I might as well go even further back as I haven't explained how water polo became "my sport". Being the youngest in, what might be called, our gang of kids (not as gangs are thought of today), just neighbourhood children who played and did things together, we all went to the local outdoor swimming pool when I was about 5 or 6 years old. During the three-mile walk to the pool (which was called Piper's Vale and over-looked the River Orwell near Ipswich) I was expected to keep up with the rest of the bigger boys. I was also expected to follow them in what they did in and around the pool once we got there. If the others decided to jump off the five-metre diving board, then so did I. If they dived from the springboard; likewise. The only trouble was that at that point I couldn’t swim! So all my jumping and diving was designed to bring me up close to the edge so I could get back to the steps ready for the next jump or dive. Sometime I miscalculated and had to dog paddle my way to the side, and in fact I'm sure I learnt to swim underwater before I could do so on the surface. By the end of my first summer holiday it was obvious that I was a natural.

     It wasn’t until I was 11-years-old that things really changed for me. One of my friends, who actually lived next door to me, was picked to represent the school in the upcoming Ipswich school's swimming gala. Being young and feeling rather sure of myself, I said to the school master in charge of providing a team for our school, that I could swim faster than Michael; and after being quite persistent about it, it was decided that we should race each other to see who would be on the school team.

    I won the race and, although I was a year too young, I would swim the leg of the breast stroke. On the day, having got through the heats, eventually the final came up, and I won the only race won for our school.

     In fact over the following few years (I left school at 14) I managed to win that race every year, alongside winning the same for the Boy Scouts, and the Sea Cadets, and in the end I won the boy's race that involved the whole of the County of Suffolk.

     When I joined the Navy this talent was soon spotted and in various galas, in which I represented H.M.S.Ganges, I always managed to win. During my time in Ganges I also began to learn the rudiments of playing water polo and from then on, whenever it was possible to play the game, I did. I was included on the ship's team in every case. Some teams were very good, others mediocre to say the least. My next ship, HMS Crane, although one of the smallest in terms of crew and the size of the ship, turned out to be a giant in all sports. I suppose we had to be, because we didn’t seem to excel in anything other than drinking and singing, and one other "sport" which I shall not talk about here.

     We had a pretty good water polo team on the Birmingham, and we did quite well, even with very little opportunity to practice or even play. Whenever we could we played against local Maltese teams. On this particular occasion some of us were going to play with a team that had their club opposite the Depot ship just a short distance across the inlet. Needless to say after observing the following incident we couldn’t play for laughing:

The Admiral's Dip

Little boats so fast, that on the water they plane.

Bow right up, Skimmers soon became their name.

One afternoon waiting for a water polo game to play

In a pool opposite the submarine depot ship, just across the bay.

Came a Skimmer at full speed, making a hugh bow wave!

Stood in the back, an Admiral - casual salutes he gave.

On the ship, side manned, Royal Marines at the ready,

We knew to slow the Skimmer to a stop had to be done steady.

Too hasty to stop, the fast boat's bow will dip right down,

Then the wash catches up, swamps the craft, it may drown!

This happened, Cox'n, a sailor showing off to be sure,

This was the one move he hadn't quite catered for.

The bow dived down and swiftly up, then down by the stern.

Cox'n showing off, now perhaps he will soon learn.

The boat was quickly swamped; went down like a stone;

All that was left, the Admiral's hat, afloat on its own.

Both the Admiral, his Cox'n were soon to surface.

The Admiral we knew had lost quite a lot of face.

No water polo was played on that day for a cert,

Much laughter had given our ribs too much hurt!

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The Sub-Lieutenant's Big Date

    One dark evening I was called to the Quarterdeck and told that shortly I would be taking Sub-Lieutenant so-and-so from the ship to Manoel Island to the naval hospital there. I asked “Is he alright?” The Quartermaster told me, “Oh there’s nothing wrong with him. He is after the hospital Commander's daughter!”

     Now at the time, the Brum (aka Birmingham) was berthed alongside the oiling jetty (where we fueled up) in the Grand Harbour at Valletta. This was not a popular place to be for me and my boat's crew, as the Cutter gets covered in oil; thick black glutinous crude oil! My boat was tied up at the end of the four or five raft-like pontoons which kept the ship from the wall.

     We made our way to the boat down a flight of very slippery steps; stepping gingerly across the oil-covered pontoons to the boat to await the Subbie. As we waited we changed into clean white Plimsoll's (slippers). The boat was slowly bobbing in the thick oil-covered water, which had the consistency of a half-set black jelly. It wasn’t long before the QM gave us a wave to tell us to make ready; but not wanting to start the engine too soon in the oily soup we looked up for the S/Lt to arrive.

     What we saw was something I have never seen before or since. The S/Lt (who came from the upper class) crossed the gangway in FULL dress uniform: trousers with piping down the sides: patent leather boots, which I believe might have had tiny spurs (not sure on that); cummerbund; white waistcoat; a tail-less (bum freeze) jacket; dress starched shirt and a black bow tie. But flowing from his shoulders, just like Batman in the Yankee comic books, was a black-silk boat's cloak lined with white silk.

     If this S/Lt was out to make an impression on the Surgeon Commander's daughter, he should have succeeded, for he certainly did so on me and my crew!

     Casually giving a wave to the QM as he left the gangway, he looked like an upmarket Batman minus the mask. All he needed was Robin to go with the outfit! As he walked along the jetty to the top of the steps, I warned him the steps were slippery. He gingerly descended to the 1st Pontoon, picking his way across it. He finally got to the end where there was a gap of a metre or so and when he got to this point he looked up at me and asked, “Are you the boat taking me to Manoel Island?”

     Before I could answer, and because he had looked up, he missed his footing and plunged down in the gap between the pontoons! He came up and quickly hauled himself onto the pontoon, for all the world looking like a fur seal, covered from head to toe in that thick, smelly, sticky tar-like oil. All I could see of him was the whites of his eyes, and then his teeth showed as he said “Oops! Sorry about that chaps, I’ll go back and get changed.”

    Sploshing and squelching back along the pontoon, slipping and sliding up the steps, he finally made it to the ship. When he got there my crew and I were about to burst out laughing when he popped his head back and called to us, “I shan’t be long, chaps!” and disappeared aboard.

    It must have been about 45 minutes later when he returned, and my crew and I (our ribs aching from laughter) were amazed. He came down to the Cutter once more; again with full dress uniform on. This time he got into the boat without mishap.      

     We heard from one of the ship's stewards the following morning that our Subbie had failed to make an impression on the lady in question. Something to do with the way he smelled...

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We were steaming off Malta, when we picked up a mayday signal. It was from an American Catalina flying-boat that had an emergency and was going down into the sea.

     We were about 60 miles away, and making full speed, we reached the downed seaplane in about 2 hours. There it was, just floating there like a resting sea gull, bobbing up and down in the Med, which luckily for them was as smooth as a mill pond. The Birmingham was listing slightly to port, as all the crew, it seemed, had come for a looksee and were all therefore on the port side.

     It was quickly established that the seaplane had a serious mechanical problem, and there was no way it could it be fixed good enough to fly, either by the crew on board, nor by anything the Birmingham could do. The engines wouldn’t fire up at all so it couldn’t even taxi.

    It was decided that the plane's passenger for the flight, who was an American Colonel and a senior officer on the base it had started off from, should be invited onto our ship to discuss just what might be done.

     Someone had the bright idea that perhaps we could tow it. And that is exactly what we did, a line was passed, and very slowly at about 4 knots, we towed the plane close to Malta where the tow was taken over by a tug.

    The Colonel bought every cigar and pack of cigarettes that could be found on the ship, which he handed out to every sailor he came across. Patting them on the shoulder and saying “ Thanks you guys. Yours is the best Navy in the goddamn world.” Which in those days was perfectly true!

Radar Plot 2nd Class

Having only been an RP3 about 18 months, being sent to HMS Dryad in June 1956 for an RP2 course came as a bit of a shock. Dryad was at a place called Southwick Park, in the village of Southwick in Hampshire; up and over Ports Down Hill from Portsmouth itself.
     In the middle of the park was Norton House. The park was a mile or so square with the house at the top end, a wooded area to the right and behind it, and from the house the ground sloped down to a lake area bordering the road to the village. Norton House was the place where the invasion of Europe was planned from. The plans and maps were still to be seen on the wall in one of the large rooms. The whole park was surrounded by a high red-bricked wall. Whether this wall was to keep residents in, or others out, was never established. There was a pig farm and a chicken farm (produce from the same for the consumption of the Wardroom (the Officer’s mess). Beyond the house towards the main road (the A3, a couple of miles away)

were some playing fields.

     The quarters to house us sailors were typical of the time and found in almost any military establishment. Such places were known to us Navy men as Stone Frigates...the usual asbestos roofs, thin brick walls, black-tarred floors...but in this case there were radiators, not the usual pot bellied stoves found in the huts. These were a vast improvement on the stoves, however if you happened to be sleeping alongside one you needed to roll over at least every half hour to make sure that you were cooked evenly on both sides. These radiators were either on and very hot, or off and cold.

      Two huts were laid out opposite to one another, then the ablutions, and further on, two more huts. All were joined by a passageway running down the centre. There were double doors at the entrance and at the other end a wood-framed window where the phone was. These huts were a little more cramped than I had been used to previously, as here the bunks were double-tiered. One thing that was a bit better, was that almost opposite across the road was the mess hall where we ate. The food as usual was basic; lots of carbohydrates, very little in the way of good meat; mainly liver, and fish of which one could only say was that they had at sometime lived in the sea. Also on site there was a conglomeration of training buildings varying from the old horse stables, through to double-story places, which were accessed in the main via external fire escape stairs, although there was a proper entrance which was rarely used. There was one new building which I think was there at that time, the new air training control centre called Harrier (no imagination), the same name as the place in Kete, where I had taken my RP3 course!

     Having done my joining routine, I found myself duty part of the watch, which often was the case when

joining a new place or ship. Having settled into my mess I was told to draw bedding, a torch and an axe halve (a handle), not a lot of good being only about 15 inches long. For the night's duty we were the unfortunates who had to sleep in the duty hut fully booted and spurred (i.e. fully dressed).

     I never made it to bed having the first watch (8 pm until midnight), during which time I was to guard the North road; sort of a back road running to the married quarters attached to the camp. I was to station myself at the junction where the road met the inner camp road by the cinema. Overlooking the junction was a very large dead oak tree with its one and only remaining branch sticking out over the road, which we used as a suitable place to hang a green enamelled lampshade on, with the lamp swinging from it in the wind, back and forth, squeaking as it did so.

     Beyond the range of the lamplight it was really pitch dark, and I was grateful for Bob being there to join me. Now Bob was sort of the camp mascot; he was an old, scrawny sort of English sheep dog who, once he arrived, snuggled down to sleep under the tree. Later that night, after about three hours, Bob stood and growled in the back of his throat, looking down the road. I followed his gaze and sure enough, there were the lights of a car approaching. As the vehicle neared I stood in the middle of the road summoning the car to stop, waving the torch from side to side, and the car did duly stop.

     I approached the car on the driver’s side. As the driver lowered the window it occurred to me that had this been a lorry full of the IRA (Irish Republican Army) I would have been long gone, axe helve or not. However, I could see that this fellow was wearing the uniform of a Lieutenant Commander.

     “Pass please, Sir.” I requested.
     After fumbling about in his jacket and searching the glove compartment of his car, he said “I haven’t got it on me.”

     “Sorry, Sir,” says I, “no pass, no entry.”
     “Do you know who I am?”
     ”No Sir, I only arrived today, and even if I did know who you were; no pass, no entry.”

     “Damn it, man! I am the First Lieutenant!” (second in command of the camp)
     “I have my orders, Sir. You could be anyone. No pass, no entry. You’ll have to go back through the married quarters, out on to the main road, and come back in the main entry to the guardhouse...Sir.”

     “What is your name, sailor?"
     I told him my name, and having finished my watch, went back to the duty hut and turned in.

     The next morning, having got up, returned the axe halve, and the lamp and bedding, I had a shower and shave, and was having my breakfast. I had just about finished when there was a order over the Tannoy (broadcast system). “Able Seaman Cooper, report to the 1st Lt’s office." Once I found out where it was, I duly presented myself to his aide in the outer office of the 1st Lt.

     The aide lifted the phone, “Sir. Able Seaman Cooper is here.”
     “Send him in!" came the answer in a voice I recognised. 'A fine mess on my first day' I thought, as I removed my bonnet (what sailors called their hats). “Ah, Cooper, sorry about last night, you were perfectly right of course in denying me entry. Had you have not done so, I would have put you on a charge. Well done. Good morning.”
     And I left. 'Charming,' I thought, 'he tries to bully me into letting him in, and had I done so I would have dropped right in it! Just charming!'

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     I didn’t get to go on course right away and, while waiting for my course numbers to be filled by others, either coming in from abroad or from leave, I met and made pals with another prospective RP2. I remember his nickname was 'Hank', but for the life of me I cannot remember his surname. He was a few years older than me; quite a bit shorter (by now I was over 6 ft. 3 in.); dark-haired; with a good laugh and was a very good singer. He had been a professional gambler and a bookie, his father owning a sort of betting shop (not legal then, I believe) in civilian life. As we were not taking the course yet, and not really part of the ‘ship's’ company, we were often used as the camp labour force. One duty I recall we both had was as 'disposal operatives'. There were about four of us and our job was to collect any rubbish from around the camp that could not be fed to the pigs, and take it to a dump about five or six miles away.

     The rubbish was put in the bins on the back of a 3-ton lorry, driven by a civilian driver. Having collected the stuff, by late morning we would leave the camp for the tip. Stopping about halfway there at a transport cafe, we all enjoyed a full English breakfast. This was a perk of the job. We only had to pay a nominal sum, because before we left (after an hour or so) we took all the cafe's rubbish with us as well! On the way back, not wanting to be seen re-entering the camp too early, and possibly being given another job, we again stopped at the transport cafe for a large mug of tea. We tried to time our arrival back at the camp at packing up time.

     One duty that could be tiresome was a duty weekend. This depended on the pig farm. Luckily it never happened to me, seeing as I was in a 'blue' card job on the bins. A blue card job referred to the card you had to carry denoting which section of the camp you belonged to. Normally you were either in the 'red' (port) half of the company, or the 'green' (starboard) half. Having a blue card meant you were in a special job, and exempt from normal duties (a very prized and sought-after card to hold). The port and starboard watches were further split in two, meaning there would be a 1st and 2nd part to each watch.

     Occasionally I would stay in the camp (at least to sleep) over the the weekend, and the Tannoy would announce "Duty part of the watch turn to.” (meaning there was work to be done) “Muster under the clock tower. Pigs out!” I repeat, “Pigs out!”. Now this was always good for a laugh because the duty men would be told to spread out and drive the escapee pigs back to the pig farm, and into their sty, or run. Most of the duty men would never have seen a pig on its trotters, let alone tried to herd them back into a given place. Off the lads would dash with great gusto, all trying to get the pigs back where they belonged. Usually the only ones in the group to have taken part in this exercise before were the pigs! The men ran in an uncoordinated rabble, yelling at the pigs, while the pigs were quite happily trotting hither and yon. And meanwhile watchers, like me, knowingly egged them on.

     After about half an hour, the pigs had normally had their fun. Besides which, they had probably worked up an appetite, and then decided to return to the pig farm under their own steam. They would turn around, squealing and running toward their destination. However between them and where they now wished to go were a number of sailors. The chasers now became the chased; or at least that’s what they thought!

     Now it was the the sailors running hither and thither, with more yelling! With a little luck this performance would take an hour or so. I used to think you couldn’t pay to see such a comical spectacle anywhere, and this show was for free on most weekends!

     Hank and I also used to have a run ashore together. We would go to a nearby village to listen to the jam-session held most Thursdays, I think it was, to enjoy the music played by the (sometimes) famous jazz players who dropped in; or we would take a trip to Southampton to see a movie, or to catch a show at the theatre.

     Finally came the day when the RP2 course members were summoned, and unfortunately Hank and I were to be in different classes. The course was an upgraded version of the RP3, but with more emphasis on being in charge of a small part of the operations room team; we had to be able, if and when required, to present to the command an up-to-date picture of what was going on around us on the ship. This not only included the sea situation, but also underwater and air scenarios.

     Part of the course was spent in Fort Pembroke, an old red-brick fort, built to protect the south coast from invaders during or just after the Napoleonic war. In the fort were all the defence and navigational radars and their associated equipment. We had a permanent Instructor who taught us most things other than the radars.

      Bookwork, and learning how to find the various sort of things to do in certain situations, was sometimes taken by our course Officer. The other thing we had to do was that damn silly logging again, and learning how to use codes and authentication (letting the person to whom you are giving information know that it is from you, and not from the enemy).

     To be honest the course was not too difficult, but being a person without a photographic memory, I did find the bookwork took a bit of grasping. Eventually in January 1957, or there about, after many examinations, plotting, switching on and off the several radars, reporting and so on, the class (or at least most of us) passed the course.

     Now, almost five years to the day after joining the navy, I was an Able Seaman, Radar Plot Second class. (A/B RP2)

HMS Obdurate

I was only in Chatham barracks (HMS Pembroke) for just under a month when I was drafted to HMS Obdurate. This was the middle of April, 1955. She was another destroyer, and as the name implies an O-class. At that point I was still an Ordinary Seaman, but now that I was a Radar Plot 3 my qualifications would be useful at sea and there was no point my sitting around in barracks. Obdurate was based in the Chatham area, and her main task was that of a navigational training ship. She mainly worked from Chatham Reach on the river, to just outside the entrance to the dockyard.

     It was the only time I ever came across National Servicemen (in the Royal Navy, that is). We had about six of them on board, and all of them seemed to have come from the ‘upper crust’. Maybe their mater and pater had pulled a few strings; although it seemed most of the offspring of that set didn’t get called up or were temporary Officers (not in the Navy at all). Perhaps the young men thought it might be a jolly jape (joke) to be in the 'Andrew' (the navy).

     Three of them were in my mess, which was mainly made up of RPs. One was them was the son of a major brewery owner (Mann’s); the second one was from Nottingham and the son of 'White's' (a top-of-the-line shoe manufacturer); the third one was from a top-notch family, but as his family just seemed to have money and no business, he told us he was just a “makey-learny” (a beginner), and studying to become a Vicar.

     At first when they joined the mess (everyone being aware of the so-to-be Vicar amongst our company) we all watched our language when he was around. That is until a few days after joining he tripped over the mess deck ‘gash’ bucket (the garbage can), I think all of us learnt a few swear words on that occasion that we had never heard of!

    All the mess members were older than I, but age and background just don’t make any difference in 'the mob' (the navy). The same goes for religion and politics. These are subjects which were just not discussed by any sailors at any time, because the discussion always lead to an argument.

     One amusing thing that was connected with having National Servicemen on board, was the fact that, if on weekends, the ship was alongside the jetty in the harbour and weekend leave was granted, the N/S had their cars parked on the jetty ready for them near the ship. The N/S men never did a duty weekend. Not that they were not supposed to, but the fact was they had enough money to pay someone else to stand in for them!

     The only ‘regular crew' owner of a motorcar was the Captain, who owned an old Morris 8. Other than that no one aboard had a car except those N/S. On the jetty there were at least 2 MGs; an Austin Healy, a Triumph Spitfire and 'the Vicars' Aston Martin. Watching the Skipper with his head down getting into his car was a bit of a giggle. The N/S disembarked the ship; donned their hacking jackets, the driving gloves and the tweed peaked caps and climbed into their cars.

      As they roared through the gates they would throw a casual salute to the gate staff who were standing rigidly to attention giving them a smart salute! It worked every time. The old saying in this case being: it is the Queen’s uniform that is saluted, not the man inside it.

     The ship spent most of its time going to and from the the North Sea, though most of the navigational training took place up and down the Thames. But often we would exercise the trainees in blind piloting (that is, trusting the team in the Operations Room to give them their directions and turning points). This not only trained them, but it made the R/Ps probably the most efficient team there could be.

     I soon settled into this way of life. The Radar branch was living up to my expectations. I was warm and in the know, and had hot coffee on tap. Of course I had to carry out seaman-like duties when not on watch. Buoy jumping was one of the hairiest. Two of us were taken by boat and deposited on a buoy the ship would be tying up to. If the tide was very swift, the buoy would spin and turn, and sometimes even half disappear underwater. Our job was to catch a small heaving-line, and then pull it through the large eye on the buoy.

     Sounds easy enough, but the heaving-lines were often loaded with lead, and could do you a very nasty injury if it happened to bounce of your head! The size of the line was gradually increased until the buoy was directly under the bow of the ship and then the cable would be lowered for us to get back on the ship and affix it to the buoy. We were taken off the buoy at the hauling-in part of the operation, because no one could hold their feet while the buoy was reluctantly pulled towards the ship (actually the ship was pulled to the buoy).

     On one trip we went to Holland, and while there we played a football game against a prison team. A number of us went to watch, and by the fouling and swearing, one would have been hard pressed to tell the ship's team from the prisoners! On the way back to the ship a sing-song started, and with the stuff he came out with, our trainee Vicar made the Rugby-type of songs we were used to hearing sound like hymns!     
     In those days we were allowed 3 train tickets per year. This of course, was enough to get you to and from home on main leaves. Pity we couldn’t accumulate them when being on a ship abroad! However, as the pay was so poor, most of us hitched rides home on weekends. Somewhere we would change from our uniforms into the civvies we had in our holdall, not forgetting to leave our sailor hat tied to the outside of the suitcase. We would then start to thumb lifts. Most people in those days thought enough of Servicemen, and knew that we had little money and would willingly give us a lift. A couple of times I was very lucky and got a lift all the way home to Ipswich. But mostly I just tried to get onto the Woolwich ferry, and I was almost always guaranteed to find a lift as the ferry made its way across the river. I remember one lift I got very well. It was with a chap about 30 years old in a bug-eyed Morris. We drove quite sedately until we found a good stretch of road, then the chap put his foot down and I was slung back in the seat. Glancing across to the dash I noticed we were doing about 95 mph. Over the roar of the engine, I asked 'what on earth had he done to the car'? Dropping back to a normal speed due to the road being very twisty, he then stopped at a small transport cafe. Before we went in he lifted the bonnet. Underneath the hood it was all engine; a Jaguar replacement, as I recall. Once inside the cafe he told me this was what he did for a living - making small, old British cars with Jaguar engines in them, turning them into what the Yanks called hot rods!

   He told me a tale of driving in California to deliver one of his cars to a customer. He was motoring along at a normal speed (very slow in the US) when he was overtaken by a flashy Yank in a flashier car - the sort with a trunk as long as a bowling alley. The driver with a 10-gallon hat on his one-gallon head, removed a cigar as big as a baseball bat from his mouth, and having been alongside my newly-found chum for a while, put his foot down and with a wave he shot off! Now this was just too much for this Brit to take, so down went his foot, and quickly he caught and passed the chap. The American then shifted up, put his foot down to the floorboards and went ahead again. A quarter of a mile later my chap again drew up along side the flashy car, and with a flair changed into the next gear and lost the Yank. Stopping a few miles up the road for a coffee he saw the car pull in, and the Stetson-hatted man came to him and offered to buy the car then and there. He didn’t sell it but later took an order for 3 of them from the guy.     

     Anyway, when leaving home the return trip was normally by the Royal Mail train (which passed through Ipswich about 4 in the morning on the way into London), or the London train. Both were going through Ipswich picking up hundreds of bags of mail to be sorted as the train made its way to London, or snatching small bags in a net as the train passed through the smaller stations on the way.  

     My life on the Obdurate was pretty routine. Most of the week was spent at a mooring in the Short Reach (the name given to the stretch of river opposite Chatham dockyard), and maybe in the dockyard over the weekends. The winter could be very harsh due to the flatness of the area, high winds and a very swiftly running tide. The winter of 55/56 was particularly bad - so much so that for a few days there were small dirt-encrusted ice flows clawing their way down the river in the fast tide.

     I went up on deck above the quarterdeck for a quick breath of fresh air, with no intension of being there long. There were 3 matelots on the deck below me lounging on the guardrails watching the water rushing past the stern and skylarking about a bit. Suddenly one of them slipped on the icy deck and shot under the bottom guard rail into the water. One of the other lads ran to the man-overboard alarm and pressed it, then ran back to look aft with his mate. Eventually they sighted their mate who was now 50 or 60 yards astern, rapidly being swept away down stream!

    The sailor who had pressed the alarm whipped off his oilskin, but just at that moment the ship's boat passed the stern going after the man overboard and the two on the quarterdeck realised that they should leave the rescue to those in the boat. At this point the man in the water started to yell “Help! I can’t swim!” The two on the quarterdeck glanced at one another, then cupped their hands around their mouths and yelled in unison, “Now’s a bloody good time to learn!”

     I was expecting to be on that ship for at least another 12 months, but out of the blue I got summoned to the 1st Lieutenant's cabin, and was informed that I was to report to HMS Dryad a few days later. What for no one knew, particularly me. This was June 1956.

Harrier

 

Harrier in late October of 1954:

     The camp was perched on a piece of flat ground, overlooking the cliffs. Just enough room for the camp and a couple of playing fields. The entrance was above and a little way beyond the main camp; the road from the guardhouse running past the playing fields to the small camp.

     This camp, like most others in those days, were built of single brick with wooden windows and an asbestos corrugated roof. I think the navy must have bought a job lot from the Yanks when they left the UK. There was a cinema near the guardhouse and a NAAFI just a stones throw from the main camp itself.

     I was just over 18, and was determined to do well on this course. After all, it took me quite a while and many confrontations with the Drafting Officer at Chatham to get here.

     I had several days before my course was due to start, and most of my time was spent strolling along the cliff top, watching some of the hardy tars swimming, joined quite often by one or two of the Wrens from the camp - mainly writers, sickberth attendants, and from Stores. One could often see seals just poking their heads above the water as if to say “What are you looking at?” The weather was almost always cold, with high winds; far too cold for me to join in the frolics with the Wrens or the seals (whichever you fancied) - those in the swimsuit, or those wearing fur coats?

     The course I was in was a real mixture of ranks: from an Acting Petty Officer down to me, an Ordinary Seaman, but that didn’t matter. After a day or so we were just a class under instruction, not one of us considered any better than another.

     Although the course programme was a full one, most of us coped with it very well. Those not happy with all the days proceedings were helped in the evening to an understanding by others in the class.

     The content of the course I didn’t find too difficult. There were odd things, like having to print upside down, or back to front. The reason for this was so that the man-in-charge who was on the far side of the plotting table, or on the other side of a clear Perspex screen could read the information the right way around!

     We also spent a great deal of time learning how to log information coming to us over the radio. This included having to log about 60 key words in a special way so that later on others could read the relevant points quickly and easily. For this we were encouraged to arrive in the classroom at least a half an hour early to practice this ’art’. Then having done so, I never heard, during my next 22 years in the Radar Branch, of anyone ever having to use this ‘skill’!

     The other thing we had to learn was not only knowing what was on the various radar screens; whether it was a ship, a cloud, an aircraft or a submarine.  We also had to be able to switch on the sets in the correct manner, and with safety in mind, the sets we were taught on were the very same ones that Noah had on the Ark. They were that old! This meant other instructors taking our class were teaching us the fundamentals of the art? The sets were housed in fairly small huts with just enough room for the set.  And in the case of the 281 BQ, set in a caged area about 12’ x 8’ with room for the class of about 12 in rows on either side of the doorway behind us.

     The Instructor of this particular set was a very enthusiastic, smart young Petty Officer, determined that not one of those he taught could ever accuse him of not showing exactly how things should be done!

     We were taking one of our first lessons from him, and having switched on the set in slow time he repeated what he had done, and added ‘‘Under no circumstances should you ever open this door,’’ as he opened the door, “and never touch that big glass valve down there,” pointing to a bowl, like a large upturned Pyrex mixing bowl. Someone at the back said “Sorry PO, which one was that?” Still looking at the questioner, he again pointed out the valve, but this time getting a bit too close. With a terrific flash, and a bang like a cannon going off, the power went to earth via our Instructor to the valve, shooting the Instructor down the isle and out the half shut door!!

     After a second or two, the now very dishevelled PO staggered back into the classroom. "Sorry PO!” said one of the class, “Could you show us that again, the flash blinded me for a second!” We didn’t know whether to laugh, cheer or just clap? But quick as a flash the PO said "Now do you understand what I am talking about?” Another lesson learnt, and also 'don’t try to be a smart ass'.

    The Killick I met on the train and I saw each other from time to time, and it wasn’t too long before we decided to go into Haverford West to visit the train-lady's pub. When we walked into the place (we had to wear uniform in those days) we were greeted like her long lost children! The promised pint appearing on the bar, we decided to play darts, and in those days I was a reasonable player, so as it turned out was my mate. Not long after we had arrived a group of about 10 chaps walked in muttering about the other team not turning up. It turned out this was the pub's 2nd darts team.

     Seeing us playing, we were invited to play them (I think they just wanted us off the board), but every time a couple of the team challenged us we won, and the routine was that the losers bought the winners half a pint. We had a hell of a good night and never spent a penny, nor were we knocked off the board. The same thing happened more or less when we returned at the landlady's request a few nights later. Only this time it was the first team! We didn’t beat them all, but had sufficient wins not to have to buy but one half-pint all evening.

    Mostly on camp, if the men wanted to have a pint other than in the NAAFI, where the favourite tipple was ‘Snakebite’. Really rough Scrumpy (cider) and bitter mixed in equal parts. Not good if you had classes in the morning. The other place was in the nearest village of Dale. The pub was an old fashioned place called the Griffin. So old fashioned, that the beer was straight from the barrel. Not unusual in itself in those days, but it wasn’t poured into individual glasses. The landlady poured the beer into a large-spouted enamel jug, tapering up from the bottom. She spent all night grabbing a newly-filled jug from the bar, going around filling any glass not already full to the brim.

     There was a camp cinema up by the gate. The film had to be reasonably good to warrant the 5 minute walk there in the pouring rain and howling wind that occured quite often.

    One night while the film was showing, a force 10 gale blew up, and the walk (struggle) back against the wind was made further hazardous with bits of the camp flying about all over the place. The Padre (Sin Bosun) had a very near escape. His cabin was very close to the cliff edge, and during this storm the wall of his cabin was blown in onto his bed. As people rushed in thinking the worst, they found him on his knees on the other side of the bed. Another lesson: if you are going to say your prayers, keep on the right side of the bed. His prayers were surely answered that night!

    Having completed and passed the course, after a spot of leave it was back to Chatham once more to see what the Drafting Officer would cook up for me. Now I had my Non-Substantive rate, fully qualified Radar Plotter 3rd Class.

Battle

After a couple of weeks leave, I returned to H.M.S.Pembroke (Chatham Barracks) about mid-August 1954. Almost as soon as I arrived, once again I was sent for by the Drafting Officer, a different one from the last one I had met.

     “Ah, Ordinary Seaman Cooper, it’s about time that you had a non-substantive rate on your arm,” (this to seamen is their specialist branch). “Yes, Sir“ I replied. He continued “You will be joining H.M.S. Fraser, the gunnery school.” “No, Sir. “ I again replied. He carried on “You will be joining on...... What do you mean, no, Sir?” “I don’t want to be a Gunnery Rate, I want to be an R.P. (Radar Specialist), Sir.”

     Not in any mood to argue with a mere O/S, he said “Come back to see me tomorrow, when I expect you to have changed your mind.”

     I reported to this Officer almost daily for the next several weeks, and there was always the same question, “Have you changed your mind?” Always the same answer “No sir. I still wish to be an R.P.”

     Eventually after him telling me I would, and me telling him I wouldn’t, he could see that I wasn’t going to change my mind. Admiring my determination, but at the same time not wishing to be thought as giving in, he said “Right, Cooper, I have decided that you will be an R.P. The branch is very short of good men, you will be drafted to H.M.S. Harrier on the 24th October (1954). Mind you he couldn’t leave it at that. He told me “As you have turned down the Gunnery branch, I have cancelled your draft to the depot ship at Harwich, which I believe at the time was the Mull of Galloway.

     We both knew that this would have been only 15 miles or so from where my parents lived!

     Bullshit! was my first thought. You just want to make out you have won this argument, however I must admit that he could not have sent me further from my home if he tried. Harrier being as far west as you can get from my hometown.

     I was to travel to Haverford West, there to be picked up by a Pusser’s (Naval) lorry to be taken to the camp, a long train journey from Chatham via London to H. West.

     At the station in London I saw another Naval Rating. We quickly established that we were heading for the same destination. He was a Leading Seaman. He had the same name as a then popular brand of Cork tipped cigarettes of those days, and we soon made friends.

     On the train at a much later point on our way, we were joined in the carriage by a middle-aged lady, obviously Welsh by her accent. She was returning home to Haverford West, so very soon we were all chatting away.

     It was soon established that this lady was the landlady of a pub in H. West. I cannot now remember the name of the place, but before we arrived at our destination, she made us promise to have a drink with her at her pub. With an offer like that she had little chance that we wouldn’t do just that!

     We arrived at Harrier, which was right on the coast near Ford, in Wales I believe, to be put in separate messes, but promising to meet up in the N.A.F.F.I. later on.

     It was about 4 pm when I finally made it to my mess, the usual sort of thing - brick-walled with a corrugated roof, floors covered in some sort of Bitumen, single bunks and lockers down each wall, and a pot bellied stove in the middle. Having got there I made up my bed and began unpacking my kit into the locker alongside it.

     I had just started when the mess deck door was slung open, crashed against the wall, and in charged a very large bearded sailor. He ripped open and slung off his greatcoat and threw it on his bed. Blimey! I thought now there is one fed up sailor; I wonder who has upset him. I could see now that he had removed his coat he had three good conduct badges meaning he had at least 12 years in the Navy of undetected crime.

     Then he went even further, he picked up one of the metal framed chairs and smashed it on the floor, Christ, I thought he really is pissed off, but decided not to say anything, as he might turn his wrath on me!

    He picked up the wooden lathes that formed the seat and back of the chair and stuffed them into the Stove which by this time was at a low ebb, this caught my interest as there was some coal in a bucket by the stove? Poking the stove he soon had a good blaze going, and disappeared into the store cupboard by the entrance, bringing back with him a large gallon tin of liquid floor polish, and an aluminum half-sized bucket.

      I thought to myself 'that’s why he’s upset, he has been detailed to polish the mess deck'!  But now he went to his locker, returning with a tin of Brasso, one of boot polish, and another large tin of tomato soup. By now I was intrigued, and began to watch with interest.

     He poured a liberal amount of the white liquid floor polish into the aluminium bucket; this was followed by the tin of boot polish and Brasso. By this time the stove was quite hot and as I edged closer I could see the mixture was separating into gloop at the bottom with a clear film about half an inch deep on the top. By this time the tin of tomato soup which he had pierced was also getting hot.

     He went to his locker and fetched back a large enamel mug, into which he carefully poured off the clear liquid from the bucket into the large mug. Then he put most of the soup into the mug also, and began to drink it. I had realised why he was doing all this by now, but my curiosity overcame me, and I had to ask “I can see why you are drinking the alcoholic liquid from this concoction, but why the soup?”  

     “Two reasons." he replied, “One, the bloody stuff tastes awful without it, and the other is that I will be missing supper.”

     He was right, he was in a coma of alcoholic stupor until morning.

HMS Chequers

HMS Chequers at the Grand Harbour - Malta

Finally the day came when I was sent for by the Chatham Drafting Officer. He informed me that I was to join H.M.S. Chequers; a Destroyer in the Mediterranean Sea - this was August 1954.

     “There will be no special draft, you will be in the charge of Able Seaman Smudge you are to pack your kit and be outside your block ready to go at 0700. Any questions? Right then, carry on.”

      I packed my kit, and after a couple of trips up and down the stairs I finally got it outside the block with a few minutes to spare. Promptly at 7 o'clock a van turned up. As soon as my kit was inside I climbed aboard and we set off to the Northwood Airport. A/B Smudge was already in the van.

     He introduced himself to me. He seemed a friendly sort of chap; about 26 years old or so, judging by the couple of stripes on his arm. Stripes were given to sailors after every four years service of, as they used to say, ’undetected crime!’, in his case eight years.

     Northwood then was a small ex-wartime aerodrome serviced by a few white wooden huts and a brick built control tower from which we were to fly by DAN AIR in a D.C.3 to Malta via Nice in the south of France.

    The trip was very noisy, cold, long and uncomfortable.

     We eventually arrived at Nice airport, only to be told on arrival that there was a problem with one of the engines, and a replacement would have to flown out from the UK. I thought this was devastating news, but not so to my companion who was as pleased as punch at these tidings.

     I soon found out why he was so pleased. With no British military in the locality, the airline was obliged to put us, and the rest of the passengers, up in a hotel while the plane was grounded. This pleased Smudge to no end.

     He and I were given a large, twin-bedded room in a 4-star hotel one street back from the beach. The room was really very upmarket, with two large, high windows on the far side of each of the beds. The first thing my roommate did was to pick up the phone. I asked him “Who are you calling?” He said “Are you hungry, do you fancy something to drink?” “Yes, why do you ask?” “You’ll see!” he replied, and then spoke into the phone. He ordered two plates of sandwiches, two double Scotches, and even requested that the boy who brought them to our room should take our shoes away to be polished!

    I looked at him in amazement, “Who’s going to pay for this?”
    “Don’t worry, son” he replied. "The airline will comp the bill."

    I think we were there for about 24 hours during which time we, or should I say my companion, availed us several more times of the hotel services.

    But we were soon on the plane again winging our way to Malta, which my friend described as the land of bells, smells and pregnant women. It didn’t take me long to realize just how apt that saying was.

     On arrival at the jetty at Salima Creek, we got picked up by the Chequer’s motorboat, which took kit and all to board our new ship. There were several other destroyers of the flotilla also moored there. Some C and A, some C.H.s, and I believe the Comet was also there - about eight destroyers in all. Having seen this and thinking how good is this, my hopes were then dashed when some young sailor was detailed to show me to the BOYS mess!

     The mess deck was quite small for ship's side mess. It was about 17 feet long and about 10 feet wide. In the middle was a long table bolted to the deck. On the ship's side were red false-leather covered seats; on the inboard side of the table was a long, narrow bench also covered with red-cushioned leatherette. On the shipside bulkhead was a cupboard, with drawers underneath, as I recall. This was the home of about 6 boys, two able seamen and our leading electrician in charge.

     Underneath the ship-side seats were the lockers for our kit, about the same size as the space below a dining room chair. Once again the vast majority of our kit had to be stored elsewhere. The small brown attaché cases were stowed on a small shelf above the seats, with the tin hatboxes on top. Not very convenient when one was expected to lay out all our kit, sometimes at very short notice!

     The ship was called a canteen messing ship, as were many of the smaller ships in those days. This meant that not only were we expected to supply quite a lot of the food we were to eat ourselves, with a small grant per sailor, but we were also expected to prepare it for the galley to cook. In those days most sailors were adept at preparing, and if need be, cooking for themselves and their mess mates. God help you if you did a bad job of it, having to answer to a dozen hungry angry men.

     Deserts were mainly crumbles, tinned fruit and custard, or ’Chinese wedding cake’ aka rice pudding! Most staple foods were supplied: like salt, sugar, flour, tea, tinned beans, potatoes, and Bully Beef. Not forgetting the hunks of mousetrap cheese we were issued with. Most of the food we bought was from the Naval stores, but so called luxuries were either bought from the N.A.F.F.I., which all sailors knew stood for No Ambition And F*** All Interest, but when in harbour we sometimes were able to get local supplies.

     In those days the sailors over 21 were given a tot of rum per day. This was in fact watered down to 2 of water to one of rum. This was called 'grog'. So called after a Vice Admiral Edward Vernon, but his idea was that the sailors could not bottle it if it were watered down, and as he always wore a cloak made of 'grogram', the name 'grog' stuck.

     There was very little fresh water on ship, and in Malta it was tainted anyway, so most of us drank Lime juice, which was always available. It was made from lime crystals; hence the Yanks name for us Brits of 'Limeys'.

    Tea was drunk at mealtimes, and once or twice a day. It was not a navy to allow luxuries; after a couple of days at sea there was no milk, and the tea was laced with what I can only relate to as 'ceiling whitening'.

    The money allowance for our food never lasted the month, no matter how clever or frugal the person responsible for it was (it was ‘on paper’ money) so towards the end of the month our food for a few days was called ‘pot mess’. Basically this was all the stuff that we would not normally eat, and was therefore left over, then put into one pot, and it had to last until the next month. It mainly consisted of tinned potatoes, tinned tomatoes and haricot beans, which took a couple of hours to soften, and anything else left over.

     We also got issued tins of herrings in tomato sauce every other night, or a lump of mousetrap cheese and ships biscuits, which most of us thought were rejects from the Napoleonic Wars.

     The routine for us boys was much the same as before, (those in charge not having much imagination in my opinion), or more likely not giving a damn anyway!

     Up first thing if at sea or at a buoy, scrubbing the Spurn water and Devlin. These were to direct any water that came inboard back over the ship's side. You could stand by if you let any dirty or soapy water run down the ship's side, as we were not at sea it was a wasted exercise as it was done every day without any other water ever coming near it?

    If alongside then a quiet stroll at the double around the port or dockyard to give us boys an appetite for breakfast. Not that that was ever a problem, with us running about all day. If things didn’t move very often they would be eaten. We were always hungry and growing at a terrific rate. The day I joined I was 5 feet 10 inches and by now I was well over 6 feet.

     When we visited foreign ports, us boys were treated to visits of all the sights, not the ones we would like to have visited, but archeological sites, old castles and the like. Even if we were allowed ashore we only got from 4 pm until 7 pm. I was lucky I had an uncle in the Navy stationed ashore, so on rare occasions I was allowed a bit longer ashore. (not that I always visited him, you understand?)

     Finally the day came when I was made up to the next rate of Ordinary Seaman. Finally this got me out at last from the boys mess, and the slavish routine therein. This was March 1954; I was then 17 and a half years old.

     On my elevation to the dizzy heights of O/S, I was transferred to another mess deck, no bigger or better than the last I might add, and now really felt myself to be a real sailor. As such I was also given another job to do, that of boat's crew. In fact, as Bowman of the ship's motorboat, it was my job to do the fancy tossing of the boat hook when coming alongside a ship, or to jump on the jetty when taking people ashore, making sure that you still had the bloody bow rope in your hand when you got there!

    Of course there were late nights and early mornings, besides which it was also my job to clean the boat. Oh, one other job, the most important of all, was to take orders for the crew's late night snacks. 14 steak sarnies, 12 bags of chips, 4 chicken curries and so on - this was the job that I could never fail on.

     But this didn’t last all that long. Some ships alternated jobs about every 3 months, as was the case on the Chequers. My next job being the Bosun’s Mate, the Quartermaster's little helper? It was my job to make routine pipes (using a Bosun’s call ). I had to run messages around the ship; request Officers to attend this or that meeting; salute them when they came on board or left the ship, and to be honest do various other menial tasks.

     But it also had its perks. We were watch keepers - meaning time on duty, and time off. When our time came to be off duty, the QM and I often went sailing in the ship's dingy, then swimming. We were also allowed to stay ashore for the time we were off  if in a suitable place like Malta. We could have a drink, see a movie, have a meal, whatever, then sleep in one of the Dormitory-type lodgings for a shilling, which also gave us a cup of tea in the morning made with Carnation milk before returning back to the ship.

     We tried to alleviate the boredom of the long night watches. This we sometimes did by slipping over the blind side of our ship, swimming across to the next ship, creeping up the gangway, and tapping the sleeping Quartermaster leaning on his desk. The panic was a sight to see! Then the QM knowing something had touched him with nothing in sight, used to run around in a panic, until he saw the wet footsteps on the deck. Then there was much shaking of fists and threats of revenge! Good fun!

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     One fine day Chequers was approaching Malta aiming to moor up, as usual, on our arrival in Sliema Creek. We were about 18 miles or so from Malta, just out of visual sight when, for some inexplicable reason, all engine power was lost. No engines; nothing.
    There was some constipation on the bridge. This was apparent, as most of the officers up there were running around like headless chickens. It was soon established that, whatever was wrong (they didn’t confide in me, one of the lesser minions...I don’t know why!?), it would take at least two hours for the engine room to put it right.
     Naturally our Captain did not want to have the ignominy of reporting this dilemma to the Naval authorities in Malta. The shame of having to be towed into harbour with the rest of the Squadron (seven other destroyers) making derogatory gestures and remarks as we were pulled and pushed to our mooring spot was beyond the pale! Nor would it look too good on his papers.
     Finally some bright spark came up with the idea of sailing towards Malta and keeping quiet as to why! It was decided that instead of reporting that the ship was lying dead in the water, a signal was sent to Admiralty in Valetta Harbour, requesting for a couple of hours before entering harbour permission to carry out Seamanship drills.
     So the Dabtoes (seamen) used the awnings, which were already on deck in preparation for our now-aborted entering of harbour, and jury-rigged them as sails. Being more or less the right shape the forecastle awning was used as a foresail. The wide end was secured to the deck, and the pointed end (normally attached to the bow) was hoisted up the mast.
    The side awnings were used vertically instead of horizontally, as was their normal position. The quarter deck awning used in the same sort of manner. Thus rigged, and luckily with a following wind, we were able to make headway at about three or four knots toward our destination. After having sailed for a couple of hours, much to the curiousity of other ships leaving Malta, the fault in the engine room was fixed; the 'sails’ were lowered and were made ready as awnings once again. Thus we were able to cruise once more into the harbour using our own engines; our reputation having been boosted, rather than having lost face and "brownie points".
   And so it was HMS Chequers became the last sailing warship in commission!

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   We also had a request to light the wardroom galley fire very early in the morning so it was ready for cooking on first thing. We used to take full advantage of this by opening the ship's meat locker and cooking ourselves a thick steak for our breakfast, with a couple of the officer's eggs as well. One day we had a slight accident with the regulating of the oil fired stove, and part of the galley caught fire. In those days the oil was in fact crude oil, that could only be started by dipping a large lump of cotton waste into the oil, setting it alight at the same time and throwing it into the fire box. The QM missed! By the time he found something with which to pick up the blazing rag, half the galley was in flames. There were no steaks that morning, and we had to spend the next couple of hours cleaning up.   

     Early one morning about 4 am, the QM told me to see if I could find a newspaper in the wardroom that he could read. In those days, flimsies of the UK papers were flown in, but only the Officers got them. He also asked me to bring him back a drink. A proper drink! He told me how to bend the corner of the Officers keyboard to one side, thus reaching the bar keys.

     This I managed to do; poured a very large gin for him and sat down, still in the Officer’s mess, to look for the latest newspaper, when in walked an officer, luckily somewhat the worse for drink. I was quaking inside, but casually stood up with the newspaper in one hand and the Gin in the other and said, “Just borrowing the paper Sir for the QM, I will bring it back.” And making sure that the glass full of gin was on the other side of me as I passed him, I slightly raised the glass to him said “Good night sir.” and left.

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It was only a matter of a couple of months before Chequers was due to sail for the UK, after spending her whole life since 1945 in the Med, arriving at the end of hostilities.

     Naturally, fighting was still the main function of the ship apart from ‘Showing the Flag’, and with the former in mind we were continually training for it, but it was during this training that my resolve to become a Radar person took a greater hold - the other two branches being in a low ebb with me.

     Then the Torpedo and Anti-Submarine (TAS) section of the seaman branch, announced they were ready to fire a torpedo - an orange-nosed practice one - and as very few had ever seen a live firing (including those about to fire it) the proceedings took many long hours of preparation. Having checked the thing for the nth time, and after a number of last minute delays, the moment finally came!

     With a loud 'Whoosh!' the ‘tin fish’ leapt from the tube and hit the water with a tremendous splash. Because of its orange ‘practice’ nose, we could just see it for a moment or two speeding through the water, and then it was to be tracked via the Sonar section of the same branch. “Torpedo running hot and true, bearing 270, still looking good, bearing 290". The next report “Still running well, bearing now 310 degrees." We watchers, of course, accepting this to be according to plan.

     But as the bearing went further and further to the east we began to think otherwise! Then the ship started to shudder as the engines were put into full-speed ahead. We onlookers were right, the damn thing was heading straight back towards us!

     Luckily there must have been some kind of malfunction. Instead of carrying along, it finally came to a stop and floated. Later it went to the bottom and there it remained - so much for me volunteering for the TAS branch.

     My determination to join the Radar branch was then quite a small one, but was further enhanced a couple of days later. Having been put on boats crew I was now to have a different job when at sea on exercises other than being in the wheelhouse, as when I had been a Bosun’s mate. This was as a Fuse setter/loader on "A" gun which was forward on the main deck of the forecastle.

    Like the rest of the crew, there I stood (fusing not required for this night firing exercise) with a 4.5 inch shell clasped to my chest, trying to keep my feet as at about 25 knots the ship was pitching and rolling, the high waves and spray soaking us, the bow almost disappearing under the sea and rain hitting us almost horizontally. We were cold, wet, and had absolutely no bloody idea what the hell was happening.

     After about 3 or 4 hours we were told to secure, make good the turret and carry on, either to our watch on deck, or to our hammocks. I was sent to the bridge to report that the turret was secured and lashed with the large chains and arm-thick bolts that held the turret fore and aft when not in use. This I duly reported.

     On leaving the bridge I had to pass by the tiny Operations Room just aft of the bridge.The door was open, and being naturally curious I poked my head in. “Come in mate!” the operator said. I went in still dripping wet and very cold. “Coffee” he enquired? “Help yourself, sugar's in the jar." So now at last I was to get to learn a bit more about the branch my uncle had advised me to opt for.

     “What’s happened?” I asked.
     “The exercise was cancelled a couple of hours ago, at least for us, but the Skipper decided to carry on."
     "Do you mean to say we have been standing out there holding onto those shells for all this time getting soaking wet for nothing?”
     “Yep!” he replied, then proceeded to tell me exactly what had happened, and show me on the radar which ship was where, and why. That was it, I had made up my mind. Not only did this chap know what was going on, but he was in the dry, and drinking coffee as well.  That was the job for me in the future!

     We had one more duty to perform before departing from the Med to the UK, and that was to act as guard ship in Port Said. That was for about three weeks. The first night we were stern to the jetty, outside Admiralty House, which we were there to guard.

     One of our leading hands was a bit of a "rum rat" (he liked his drink). As a Gunnery rating he was detailed to man the Orlikon, a 20 mm gun at the rear of the house. As usual he was slightly ‘under the weather’. The Guard Officer ordered him to check the gun: meaning to make sure it had ammunition, and was in a safe state: that is at half-cock. His mind slightly befuddled, the L/S misunderstood the order, fully cocked the gun and fired off a few rounds. In the deathly hush that followed the only sound was of the Egyptian Policemen legging it at full pelt in the opposite direction!

     The following day I was to man the forecastle as a sentry, armed with a 303 rifle. My orders were to warn approaching ‘bum boats’ (those boats trying to sell rubbish to anyone on the ship stupid enough to buy it) to not come alongside. If the boatman insisted, I was to warn him again, and then if he persisted, I was to get permission from the Officer on deck to load the gun. But the officer was on the quarterdeck, and I was on the forecastle, in my mind rather a stupid arrangement. Luckily the more experienced of our crew had hoses rigged, and if the boats got too close they were liable to sink after a good hosing down, so the bullet situation never arose, thank goodness!

     On leaving Port Said we were immediately hit by a tremendous storm. Trying to make 12 knots towards Malta, we found ourselves being driven into the Adriatic. At a point off Spilt, then in the old Yugoslavia, the storm finally abated and we were able to assess the damage. The funnel was all bashed in. The whaler, a 27-foot boat was missing, as was the breakwater and one of the capstans. But the most amazing thing showing the force of the storm was that the 4.5 inch gun, held fore and aft, as mentioned before, by chains and at least 3 or 4 steel bolts about as thick as my forearm, had been snapped off and the barrel of the gun was almost pointing aft, having smashed through the ship's bulkhead.

     The night before the ship was due to ‘pay off’ and return to England, a couple of young Officers decided it would be a good ‘gape’ to take the ship's motorboat for a little trip around the harbour. They were, of course, a bit merry? Off they went, only to return a couple of hours later minus the boat. They had apparently run the thing up on the rocks and got back to the ship via a local hire boat.

     They realised that if they couldn’t resolve the situation they would find themselves up to their necks in the brown, pungent and sticky stuff. Ordering the hire boat to return when it got dark, they took it under the boat's boom of the destroyer moored ahead of us, and stole their motorboat. By this time they had managed to organise enough bodies to hoist this stolen boat up on our davits, and get it painted in our ship's blue boat colour.

     The following day we slipped the buoy amidst cheers and a few thrown spuds and made our way past the others still at their buoys. Our paying off pendant was so long after 9 years in constant commission, that it had to be held up with meteorlogical balloons! One last blast of potatoes via our anti-submarine gun at the other ships and we sailed serenely out of the harbour...noting the confused panic of the now boatless destroyer next up in line of the position we had just left.

    After a quick stop over in Gibraltar, where we sailors were able to buy our 'rabbits' (gifts) for loved ones at home, we were soon back in UK and on end of commission leave. Those of us, like me, were to report back to Chatham to see what the Drafting Officer had in store for us.

    

HMS Chequers R-61 / D-61

Type:	Destroyer	Class:	CH
Builder:	Scotts Shipbuilding & Engineering Co Greenock, Scotland	Pennant Number:	R-61 D-61
Ordered:	July 24, 1942	Launched:	October 30, 1944
Keel Laid:	May 4, 1943	Commissioned:	September 28, 1945
Fate:	Sold in 1966 to J. Cashmore and scrapped in Newport, England.

Dimensions, machinery and performance

Length:	362' 3"	Engines:	2 Parsons single reduction geared turbines by Scotts
Beam:	35' 9"	Boilers:	2 Admiralty 3 drum type
Draft:	15' 3"	Shafts:	2
Displacement:	1,885 std / 2,545 full	SHP:	40,000
		Speed:	36 knots (32 knots full)
Crew:	186	Range:	1,400 NM @ 32 knots / 4,675 NM @ 20 knots

Armament as built:
Number Carried	Type	Arrangement	Maximum Range / Ceiling
4	4.5"/45 (114mm) DP QF	4 single turrets	20,750 yards @ 45° AA ceiling 29,210' @ 50°
2	40mm AA	2 single mounts	AA ceiling 22,299'
6	20mm AA	2 twin mounts 2 single mounts	N/A
4	21" torpedo tubes	4 single launchers	10,500 - 15,000 yards depending on type of torpedo