1972-75

Chapter 5 (Part 4) Royal Navy HMS Scylla

5(4)1  - Arrival onboard

HMS Scylla 1972-75

On the 27^th December 1972 I climbed up the gangway of HMS. Scylla feeling a cross between excited and anxious; not knowing whether to would scream with delight or literally shit myself. By the time I got onboard all orifices were on red alert and were kept tightly shut as I saluted the ship before stepping on to the flight deck.

The kit-bag that had been crushing my left shoulder slid slowly down my wirey frame onto the deck leaving me looking a bit like Quasi Modo without his Esmerelda, which wasn’t quite the image I had hoped to give. But then when my eyes caught sight of the Quartermaster I decided that maybe I didn’t look as bad as I thought I did.

Somewhere between gorging an enormous cheese and pickle sandwich and washing the same down with an equally enormous mug of tea (NATO standard – white with two sugars) the said QM checked through my papers in a style he later informed me was multi-tasking.

“So you’re the new Jack Dusty, are you Morpeth? Or do we call you Morps? Been waiting for you. We’re getting ready to store up for trials now the refit is just about done so you’re gonna be a busy bunny”. ( ‘Morps?’ Hated it. Had to do something about that).

“Anyway they’ve got you down to go into the Chef’s Grot at 3E (3 decks down) so I’ll give you a hand with your stuff and we’ll get you moved in”.

Moving in was exactly that. Although Scylla was my first ship, in reality she would become far more than that. She would be my home for the next three years and her crew would be my family. I needed that.

What I didn’t know at the time was on the very day I joined Scylla my first daughter was born, and yet I wouldn’t even  get to see her until I had travelled around the world and the ship was part of my past.

5(4)2 Scylla – Mess Mates

The Chef’s Grot had nine billets and as per pecking order rules mine was the least cherished. My pit (bunk) was the bottom one of a three-tier, right next to a hatch that went down into the engine room which some hairy arsed stoker would lift on the hour every hour to go down and take his readings. My pit also formed the seat part of the daytime couch, a bit like those you get in a caravanette, and so broken sleep with no lie-ins soon became par for the course.

As could be expected my eight mess-mates were all Chefs and so I was the only Jack Dusty in the Grot; a great combination really especially coming off-shore plastered because I had the keys to the fridges and store cupboards and they had the keys to the kitchens. Supper a’la Grot 3E – phab J

The lads came from all walks of life and all areas of the UK; among them were the Ryan brothers from Ireland who, when we arrived in Hong Kong would drag me to the cinema to see the Exorcist and sit either side of me so I couldn’t escape; they bloody well knew I’d shit myself.

Then there was Bungy Williams from Brum who’s accent was so broad that I couldn’t understand a word he said – other than him saying something about him not being able to understand a word I said either.

Big Steve, who resembled a seven foot bean-pole had absolutely nothing good to say about women having recently been cleaned out by his ex missus; the fact that he had humped everything that moved between Singapore and Bangkok didn’t seem to have been a contributory fact to the situation he had found himself in.

But probably the one who had the biggest impact on me was Joe Fenton, aka Jo-Mah, who when he opened his mouth spoke nothing short of pure Geordie; I was so absolutely mesmerised that I could listen to him reading the telephone directory. Music.

And so, almost like a rehearsal for ‘Auf Weidersen Pet’ I had now become part of a motley crew on the brink of a magical journey and had been welcomed into the fold from day one, something which really did go miles to taking away past demons.

5(4)3 – To work

Scylla was a Leander Class frigate with a crew of around 240 officers and men and had just come to the end of a long refit. Customarily after refit a warship is put through its paces in what’s known as ‘workout’ which takes place off Portland, near Weymouth.

Prior to sailing the ship had to be stored with all manner of things and so my training was now to be put into practice; as could be expected, I was wetting myself. Since the stores had all been ordered before my arrival I didn’t have that task to cherish but I do admit that when I heard all leave was cancelled my antenna went up.

My Chief (Petty Officer) was a kindly man who had been in the RN for donkeys and had served on dozens of ships, and as well as having a penchant for breaking out into operatic arias he also had a very mischievous sense of humour. It would be him who, when we were on Icelandic patrol during the Cod War, would tell me he had a very special job just for me and then present me with the most humongous halibut and tell me to skin it.

“Now then Morps, since you’re in the Chefs Grot I’ve assigned you to the catering stores and the provisions have just arrived on the jetty. Come up top and we’ll have a butchers”.

To the dulcet sound of him yodelling a number from the ‘Pirates of Penzance’ I duly followed like a faithful puppy up several ladders onto the flight deck where, when I looked out onto the jetty, I almost followed through (sh*t myself). I think it was the first time that my tongue had ever licked my boots while I was still standing up.

There, bumper-to-bumper, was a convoy of trucks stuffed to the rafters with everything from B.I.TS. (baked beans in tomato sauce) to bean sprouts, bamboo shouts and water chestnuts.

Seeing the look on my face the Chief smiled. Striding down the gangway to verse two of his ‘Pirates of Penzance’ number he quipped “Come along Morps, shake a leg. The frozen stores arrive tomorrow”.

5(5)4 Cabbage-ism

Storing the ship involved all crew not on duty and so at the order ‘clear lower decks’ sailors were required to muster on the upper deck and await direction.

Not unlike ants they would form a line from the truck, up the gangway, down ladders, along the Burma Way (main internal passageway), down more ladders finally finishing up at the relevant store or fridge – which until I got a little wiser was where I was. If my memory serves me right I think the person designated to this role was known as a cabbage.

In order to keep some sort of track of goods coming in one Jack Dusty would be on the truck checking stuff off and another (the cabbage) would be in the store. Between the two Jack Dusty’s were seamen, radio operators, electricians, stokers, and all manner of scallywags waiting for an opportunity to ‘misappropriate government stores’ – usually anything with chocolate in it. Since most of the crew were built like brick sh*thouses throwing a few hundred cases of tinned goods to each other was nothing more than a walk in the park although sitting in the store waiting for stuff to arrive I was convinced that in reality that it was me who had the cushy number.

Then, then, I got my first lesson in cabbage-ism. A box of 24 tins of tomatoes came careering through the door missing me by inches, followed by another, then another, then another. And in what seemed like seconds I suddenly found myself boxed into a corner looking at a tomato mountain.

Blinking in the dark I spotted a ray of light coming through the pile of cases where I could just about make out the friendly smiling face of the Chief. Thank heaven for that I thought; then he spoke. “Pull your finger out Morps the frozen stuff is on the way”

5(5)5 Finally to sea

The Catering Stores office was the size of the average outdoor toilet and had two desks, one for the Chief the other for me; needless to say we were soon on farting terms and so the analogy of the place being the size of an outdoor toilet is probably a good one. Fortunately it had a stable door which, apart from being designed to attend to the Chefs, was also a particularly useful source of fresh air.

On the Chief’s desk was a telephone, an ashtray, and a large mug that needed replenishing at every opportunity. In the evenings at sea the mug would be replaced by a large whisky glass which also needed replenishing at every opportunity.

On my desk was an in-tray, an out-tray, and a collection of ledgers marked Provisions, Fresh, Frozen and so on. Computer accounting was, at this point, still decades away.

After storing ship my out-tray had absolutely sod all in it and sat in stark contrast to my in tray which was bulging at the seams and screaming to get out. Come to think of it I don’t ever recall seeing the bottom of my in-tray because (storing ship aside) paperwork was constantly coming in from the Chefs daily demands.

But there were many perks to being the Catering Accountant not least of which was that I had some control over the menu, given that I knew what we had in stock, what needed to be used first etc; needless to say that my personal favourite dishes made a regular appearance, regardless of the moans and groans of the hairy-arsed stokers bewailing ‘Not Cheesy-Hammy-Eggies again’.

Another aspect of course was that because I lived in the Chefs Grot I usually went ashore (on the town) with them and so between us all we could often figure out a quick and easy meal to serve and get off as early as possible.

Anyways (having gone off the point a little) it eventually came to pass that the refit was complete, the ship was fully manned and fully stored, and we were finally under ‘sailing orders’ (imminent departure). I was really, really excited. I’d waited a long time for this; we were sailing at dawn to Portland for work-out and trials

“You haven’t been to Portland on work-out and trials before have you Morps?” the Chief said.

“No Chief, why?” says me.

“Oh, no reason” he replied.

5(5)6 To Portland, Weymouth

The trip down to Portland from Portsmouth was brief but brilliant to me. I’d been in the Navy16 months and it was the first time I’d ever been to sea.

Leaving the quayside and going so far out from land was so liberating and free it was almost as if a massive load had gone off my back. I had no baggage, no abusive kid’s homes, no dysfunctional biological parents, no drunken foster fathers, or threats to be ‘taken back’. I’d never forget that feeling of safety.

Customarily in the evenings, at sea, men who were off duty would go up on the upper deck with a mug of tea and a packet of fags and just soak up the view. It wasn’t long before I became a big fan of evenings on the ‘upper scupper’ with my own special place near the funnel where a warm air vent kept me warm, even in the chill of Icelandic waters. So although my days were busy and manic my evenings at sea became my favourite time of the day. I could reflect, draw, play my mouthorgan, write to Katie, or just sit and look out at the fabulous sea.

As the years rolled by the sea would remain a fascination to me. I would sail the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Persian Gulf, the Arabian Sea, the Indian Ocean, the South China Sea and so, so many others. I would see waters like glass and angry gale force hurricanes. I would swim in shark infested waters, and delight in seeing dolphins and flying fish following the ship, even feeding them garbage from the stern.

But for now I would I would settle for the Solent and the Channel. For now, for me, that was paradise. Although from what I’d heard about Portland I wasn’t sure how long I would have that opinion. I was about to find out.

5(5)7 Portland Weymouth

It was a cold January day in 1973 when we berthed alongside in Portland Harbour and, almost immediately, the Captain (Oliver Peter Sutton, soon to become notorious for ramming the Torpoint Ferry) ‘cleared lower decks’.

 

Addressing the crew on the flight deck ‘Ollie’ welcomed us to Portland with an air of manic enthusiasm as we all shivered in the sub-zero temperatures and wondered if any of us would still be alive at the end of the next six weeks.

 

“Crew, as you can see looking around you, we are in the company of giants. The Flotilla you see berthed around us represents the best of the Commonwealth. Warships from Australia, New Zealand, Canada and the USA have gathered to support Scylla through her workout and trials” Ollie beamed, as unbeknown to him the crews of said Commonwealth ships were gesturing their own opinions.

 

Not best pleased with the thought of spending six chilly weeks ‘supporting us through a workout’ when they could be cruising the Caribbean, the Aussies, Yanks and Kiwis were orchestrating their views on the matter with all manner of hand signals from vee-signs to mimicking masturbation.

“And so before the trials begin” Ollie continued “tonight you can all enjoy a last run ashore; workout starts tomorrow at 6am sharp and Heaven help anyone adrift. Dismiss”.

 

A run shore? Bloody hell. I could see it now. Pubs full of rat-arsed Aussies, Yanks and Kiwis all pissed off with Brits.

There was only one thing for it……