“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.
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