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!