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."
“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!
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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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!
“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 |
very good life as it was a historical account great reading
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