Royal Navy 1971 – 1981
PART 1.
H.M.S. RALEIGH. BASIC TRAINING
1:1 H.M.S. Raleigh.
Somewhere around teatime on the 27th September 1971, I arrived at H.M.S. Raleigh, tired, hungry and disorientated, but before being allowed to attend to these basic needs, all new recruits had to first of all attend to the needs of the Navy; something which we would very quickly learn to accept as a matter of course. Whether we liked it or not.
Several tables had been set up in the gym and each boy was ushered from one to the other in turn, answering questions, being photographed, and signing to say that he had arrived of his own free will. At the final table, a five pound note was pressed into each boys’ hand, a gesture reminiscent and likened to ‘taking the Queen’s shilling’.
The King’s shilling, sometimes called the Queen’s shilling when the Sovereign is female,[1] is a historical slang term referring to the earnest payment of one shilling given to recruits to the Armed forces of the United Kingdom in the 18th and 19th centuries, although the practice dates back to the end of the English Civil War.[2][3] To “take the King’s shilling” was to agree to serve as a sailor or soldier in the Royal Navy or the British Army.[3] It is closely related to the act of impressment.[4] The practice officially stopped in 1879, although the term is still used informally and there are some cases of it being used still in the early 20th century, albeit largely symbolically. (Ref: Wikipedia).
Following the preliminaries we were then ushered on to the Bedding Store where each of us signed for a set of bedding comprising: 2 itchy blankets, 3 sheets, 1 pillow, 3 pillow slips and a blue and white counterpane embroidered with Royal Naval insignia. With our full sets of bedding piled high above our heads we were then marched off like a human caterpillar to our mess deck where we would spend the next six weeks. I use the term ‘mess deck’ very loosely since what it actually was was a wooden barrack hut not unlike those seen in prison camps during the war, but then terminology in the Navy was deemed of such crucially traditional importance that it was almost like learning a new language.
In total I think there were about 30 or 40 mess decks, all in rows, all made of wood, with each one containing about 30 metal sprung beds, 15 down each side.. At one end were communal toilet and bathroom facilities, and a utility area for washing and ironing, at the other was a notice board for Daily Orders. In the centre was a social area with a couple of writing tables and each billet came with a bed, a locker and a bedside cabinet all made out of grey metal.
As we arrived in the mess we each just dumped our heavy load of bedding onto the first vacant bed we passed which then became our billet. Mine was somewhere up the middle on the left, or as I would soon be re-educated into thinking ‘port side, mid-ships’.
1:2 H.M.S. Raleigh.
Making my bed and unpacking my stuff was a lonely affair. All around me were about 30 other boys I didn’t know who all seemed to know each other, chatting and laughing, although being quite shy it was a strangely familiar situation for me which I’d long since learned how to manage. Screening out their voices I took more time than I needed to make my bed during which time many of the boys left the mess to go for dinner. As the quiet gradually replaced the noise I sat on my bed to gather my thoughts. I thought about home. Mam would normally be watching Coronation Street about now although the last image I had of her as I left home was of her eyes looking through the letterbox because she couldn’t face saying goodbye. Dad, meanwhile, would already be on his second pint at the Welfare bragging that his son had just joined the Royal Navy. The old phrase ‘as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike’ sprung to mind.
Eventually I walked from the mess deck to the dining room taking the opportunity to look around and see the barracks as a whole which seemed to have been built on a slope. At the top of the slope was the main gate which was the domain of the Master at Arms (Naval Police) and his staff making sure no unauthorised people got in and no authorised people like me got out. Not gonna lie, the thought crossed my mind, more than once.
To one side of the gate a very imposing building facing down the slope towards the parade ground turned out to be the Officer’s Mess (wardroom), and the house next door was the Captain’s. Outside the wardroom a very well clipped lawn was the home of the ‘ship’s’ Flag Pole, which twice a day became the focal point of all personnel in the barracks; in the mornings when the flag was raised (known as colours), and in the evenings when the flag was lowered (known as ‘sunset’). On both occasions a whistle was blown over the tannoy commanding everyone to stop, face the flag, and stand still until a second whistle allowed us all to carry on. Onboard warships the ships bell is also used for colours and sunset. To not observe colours or sunset was treated almost as treason and incur quite a horrible outcome; a dozen quick-march laps around the parade ground with a rifle held above the head rings-a-bell (pun) although that may be an exaggeration. It may have only been half a dozen. Another ‘Royal Navy don’t do’ is whistling as it is used a way of conveying orders via a naval whistle called a ‘Bosun’s Call’ usually kept on a sailor’s white lanyard. Clearly I had a lot to learn although these things were just the tip of the iceberg.
On the other side of the gate were training facilities including a gym, swimming pool, various classrooms, store rooms, the dining room and galley (kitchen). There was also a shop (NAAFI) and a Post Office complete with a public telephone box which back in those days – decades before mobile phones – had queues that were legendary. Looking down the slope, the trainee’s barracks were to the left of the parade ground and there was a drill hall to the right. The parade ground overlooked a view of the sea which was the only consolation to the daily square-bashing regime.
After acclimatising myself to my new surroundings, I finally arrived at the dining room and was served with something which escapes my memory, but which I do recall was disgusting. Afterwards, I returned to the mess deck where our class was greeted by our very own N.C.O. who advised us that lights out would be at 9pm. He further delighted us by saying he would be the first face we would see every morning bellowing his catchphrase ‘Hands off cocks, on with socks’. The joy just keeps continuing.
In the dark after lights out some of the boys chatted about both their excitements and their concerns, although I didn’t really feel confident enough to join in and so I just lay back and listened. Much of what was said was what we were all thinking; a sort of cross between ‘I’m glad I’m here because everyone will be proud of me’ and ‘Oh my God what have I done? Where are my family? I want to go home. I feel sick’. Eventually we all began falling off to sleep. Some of the boys cried. Including me.
1:3. H.M.S. Raleigh
(It was evening time as I arrived home, and so it was quite dark as I stood on our threshold and knocked on the door. Dressed in the romantic square rig of a sailor, with blue collar, white front, lanyard and silk, I stood waiting for me Mam to turn on the light and open the door. In my hand was the special present I had brought her back from the Far East. I took a long breath in to inflate my chest, and then waited. Just then, the light came on……)
“Wakey, wakey!! Rise and shine!! Hands off cocks and on with socks; you’re in the Naaaavy now!”.
The light had indeed come on, but not the one I had expected. It was the light of the mess deck being turned on with delight by our new N.C.O., at the same time he delivered his rendition of ‘Good morning’. Looking at him, with his hands clasped behind his back and his little stick thingy under his arm, as he slow marched the length of the mess, he reminded me of that character Windsor Davies played in ‘It ain’t half hot Mum’ (Battery Sergeant Williams). What I had thought of as a reality turned out to be nothing more than a dream. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I had at least gotten to see me Mam, but his billowing voice woke me up before I got to that bit. It reminded me of another dream I’d had as a kid when the teacher at school was announcing exam results and just as he got to my name somebody woke me up.
In a split second the mess deck exploded into chaos as 29 boys jumped out of their pits, frantically looking for something to put on while at the same time wondering where on earth they were. Watching the disorder and confusion reminded me of scenes from the likes of ‘F’ Troop (an American comedy on TV at that time) and as the bedlam continued I slowly got up and began getting dressed.
It would be 50 years before I began really understanding why my reaction had been so different to everyone else’s, when I took time out to study Child Psychology and related subjects such as the ‘fight or flight ‘ response.
The fight or flight response is an automatic physiological reaction to an event that is perceived as stressful or frightening. The perception of threat activates the sympathetic nervous system and triggers an acute stress response that prepares the body to fight or flee. (Wikipedia).
My calm response had been as a result of conditioning throughout my early childhood years, something I have touched on in an earlier memoir (ManboyGeordie – not on here yet).
For now though, our first day in the Royal Navy had begun.
1:4 H.M.S. Raleigh.
So, there we were “Shit, shaved and showered”, mustered outside the barrack hut within 15 minutes of coming round from semi-comas ready to start our very first day in the service of #MineHonch, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2, looking like the cast of ‘Auf Wiedersehen Pet’. Somewhere among our Motley Crew of Brummies, Tafs, Paddies, Jocks and Scousers was me, quietly representing Geordieland in the guise of Leonard (Oz) Osbourne (aka Jimmy Nail). #WhyAyeMan.
The face on our N.C.O. was a picture, although not one I have any desire to paint anytime soon. No doubt he’d been here many times before because his skill at organising chaos through the use of his persuasive charm was fluent. In the politest of terms, he explained that he wanted us to become a ‘squad, dressing by the right, shortest in the centre, tallest on the flanks’. For those of us struggling to understand his request he was kind enough to clarify that he wanted us to “F**king well Fall-in, and for those thick b*st*rds among you that means one-behind-the-other-twice”. Pure poetry. Pacing around our ‘squad’ he continued his ‘request’ bellowing: “On my order you will quick march, and I do not want to see you looking like a herd of windmills”.
“Squad, quick march!”. We then marched off looking like a herd of windmills.
To summarise my recollections of our first day would be to say that any of us who previously felt like a ‘nobody’ was now a ‘somebody’. He had become the property of Her Majesty (having been issued with an Identity Card), and would remain so at Her pleasure until his time had expired; or until he was given (spare me) a dishonourable discharge.
Those boys who had enlisted with long hair, no longer had long hair; and those who thought they had enlisted with short hair, now really did have short hair.
For those who had concerns about picking up diseases in the tropics such as Smallpox, Yellow Fever, Cholera, Typhoid or Diphtheria, their fears had now been relieved having been adequately inoculated at the rate of two jabs at a time, one in each arm. An explicit film had also been shown to educate us all on the symptoms of syphilis. It was following this film I realised I was someone who once he had seen something could never un-see it.
Although the day had begun with all of us dressed in a variety of civilian clothes and marching like a herd of windmills, it had ended with us all wearing smart Number 8 working clothes, having been issued with a complete kit, all looking exactly the same, and all…still …marching like a herd of windmills.
Our final task of the day was to somehow stow away our entire kit into a locker which seemed only to allow storage for about a third of what we had been issued with, and then leave the door open so that the N.C.O. could inspect it in the morning. Leaving the door open was the easy bit since no one could get their door closed anyway. The tough bit was that it was well into the early hours of the morning before most of us gave up trying.
I didn’t hear any crying that night. In fact, I didn’t hear any snoring either. The first thing I heard after closing my eyes was “Wakey, wakey….Hands off cocks, on with socks!”
1:5 H.M.S. Raleigh.
And so, following that gentle, nurturing induction from our beloved NCO my new life had finally begun, hundreds of miles away from home with a load of complete strangers, most of whom with accents I couldn’t understand, and most of whom either couldn’t understand me or just took the piss. Nothing new there. Most of the people I had encountered in my 16 years of life were complete strangers anyway and not particularly pleasant. Same shit, different place.
Collectively, however, our beloved N.C.O didn’t discriminate in his welcome speech: “You’re all a f**king shambles. Nothing but a load of selfish little b*st*rds who couldn’t give a sh*t for anyone else. But by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll fight for each other, you’ll die for each other, you’ll even kill for each other. Because if you wouldn’t I’d top you myself in case I ever ended up on the same warship as you further on up the road”. In those wonderful days before the scurge of Political Correctness it was reassuring for me to know he viewed us all the same way and verbalised it in a way we all understood.
Surreal is a word I’m careful to use but feeling terrified and excited at the same time comes close to defining it. Boys from all walks of life made up our shoddy little group. We were rich and poor, overweight and underweight, forgetful, sloppy, precious, smelly; we were both gobshites and mammy’s boys. But to the Navy we all had something they wanted. They knew that because of the interviews we had all gone through. The physical, the medical and the psychological grilling had told them we all had a raw, crude ingredient they wanted and all they needed to do was to bring it out. To that end over the coming weeks we would all have our Achilles heels exposed, our feathers ruffled, our egos deflated and our pride trampled on.
The reality of what we were doing finally began hitting home. We had joined the armed forces and ultimately the day may come when we had to go to war. In preparation for that, the Navy would systematically strip us down and put us back together in such a way that we bonded with our comrades and would do our duty. It wasn’t rocket science.
1:6. HMS Raleigh.
Loosely speaking, after having had our horoscopes read, our first week of training centred around getting us all to ‘look something like’ and ‘behave something like’, neither of which came naturally to any of us as in the words of our beloved NCO we were “a f**kin shambles of selfish little b*st*rds who couldn’t give a sh*t about anybody else”. He had a way with words, and an acute perception which truth-be-known I quite liked. Many years later when I began writing my memoirs, songs, poetry and stories I’d look back and see him as very inspirational.
The art of ‘looking something like’ required us to turn out immaculately at all times in whichever of our numerous uniforms happened to be rig-of-the-day. In the course of one day we could change rig up to four times depending on what we were doing. This could be either Number 1’s (Ceremonials), Number 2’s (Duty) or Number 8’s (Working); it could also be one of a myriad of hybrid rigs depending on the weather, or the task in hand (e.g. overalls, sea jerseys, white fronts etc). Later when we had completed training and joined the fleet we were issued with even more kit including tropical rig (all white number 6s) and arctic rig for the more chilly climes.
For now though the requirement was on us to ensure that every stitch we had been issued with was kept immaculately stowed away in our lockers, and that our bed linen was in the same condition. It’s fair to say we learned laundry skills quickly given we were only allowed to have 3 items in our dhobi (laundry) bag at any one time. Quite a challenge for the majority of us who had never washed or ironed anything in our lives. My learning curve came when I turned a white front blue and was charged £8 to replace it. Considering my first pay was £15 fortnightly it was quite a learning curve.
On a day-to-day basis normal working rig was our Number 8’s which consisted of a light blue denim shirt with a white name tag above the left-hand breast pocket, a branch badge on the right arm and dark blue combat trousers. Completing the attire was hat, belt, boots and gators all of which gave off a sort of chain-gang vogue, fashionable in Raleigh during that era. Everything on one’s body was either pressed like a razor blade or polished to the point of the obscene; obscene being the reflection of our N.C.O.’s face in our buckles and boots. At the end of the working day, we’d all change into a more relaxed ‘Half-blues Number 2 rig’ for dinner and recreation; unless of course we were on duty when we would be required to wear full Number 2’s.
Very rarely did a day go by when we weren’t reminded that as members of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces we were being paid 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, which basically meant we could be called upon anytime, to do anything, anywhere in the world. No pressure then. With that in mind exemplary behaviour was a mandatory expectation.
Within the training environment of Raleigh the Queen’s uniform and the Royal Navy could be brought into disrepute in a million and one ways by young sailors committing extremely serious offences, such as having hands in pockets, or whistling. Those caught would find themselves swiftly on Captain’s Defaulters, removing their cap before ‘He-who-must-be-obeyed’ and being granted an appropriate punishment. A typical example of such proceedings might see a sailor being given 7 days Number 9 punishment for slovenly behaviour which basically meant that he was given extra unpleasant duties during his own free time particularly during the unsociable hours of dawn and dusk. Notwithstanding he would still be expected to rise and shine for his normal day on hearing his usual morning greeting from his NCO.
1:7 H.M.S. Raleigh.
Steeped in tradition nothing about the Royal Navy is accidental, including a sailors rig. Prior to joining, I had always thought the Naval uniform was far smarter than that of the Army or the Air Force and I loved the cap tallies showing the name of the sailor’s ship; where he belonged. Through the course of my own career I would eventually earn 9 cap tallies, the first of which would be ‘HMS Raleigh’ (Motto: “Your future in the Royal Navy starts here”). Indeed it did, to the delight of our NCO who appeared to almost salivate in anticipation at being tasked to guide us through six weeks of notorious basic training, courtesy of the Senior Service (so called because it is the oldest of our armed forces founded during the reign of Henry VIII).
From the head to the toe, every item of uniform was pristine. The white sailor’s cap was cleaned regularly and gently, often with a toothbrush to the delight of the local toothbrush seller who by now must be rolling in it. The cap tally was tied by a bow above the left ear with the ship’s name central above the forehead; the white front (sailor’s shirt) was starched with a sharp central crease running vertically down from the neck. The famous blue collar was also starched and pressed with three creases, concertina-style with two-creases-up-and one-crease-down – or as our beloved NCO would take great delight in reminding us: “Two tits and a fanny, NOT two fannies and a tit!”. In the present day, however, now that females can join the Royal Navy rather than the WRNS, that’s probably not a phrase any longer used.
Sailor’s bell-bottomed trousers, originally designed to be rolled up when scrubbing decks, were pressed inside out with 7 horizontal creases (pay book width) all the way up the legs representing the seven seas. For short-arse recruits 5 creases were permitted. Completing the uniform the black jacket carried the branch badge on the right arm and badges of rank and long service on the left. Around the neck a white lanyard and black silk were worn tied with a bow at the base of the ribs, the tails of which would not exceed 4 inches. Black shoes were burn polished.
In cold wet weather the white front would be substituted with an itchy sea jersey which was to be worn without a vest next to the skin and which became even itchier when it rained. Since it was now October 1971, and rainy most days, our NCO could take great delight in insisting we wore sea jerseys on a daily basis to ensure “none of you catch a cold” during prolonged square bashing sessions on the parade ground. Heart of Gold.
1:8. HMS. Raleigh.
Looking after our uniform was almost a career in itself with washing, ironing, polishing and whitening becoming our normal recreation come the end of a day at the grind with our beloved NCO. And given the (deliberate) limited resources in terms of sinks and irons advance planning became paramount particularly since in addition to laundering clothes we also had to launder our bed sheets. Having been issued with only three sheets we soon learned the art of washing the bottom sheet, dropping the top one onto the mattress then putting a clean one on the top.
Systematically the Navy was gradually changing us physically and mentally with ever-increasing expectations. The regular drillings on the parade ground began being added to with gym work, assault courses and cross-country runs all of which contributed to our physical fitness. Meanwhile our thought processes were reluctantly moving from missing home and family into prioritising the likes of our laundry, and revising and practising things we had been taught in preparation for tests and exams. Between learning to tie knots, ship’s husbandry, naval history and naval protocols many of us began feeling mentally overloaded which didn’t bode well when (at the same time) the body was tired after the days we were having. Adding insult to injury, for those who couldn’t swim there was a mandatory swimming lesson every evening and for those without the required maths and english grades there was a (yes, mandatory) evening class.
1:9 H.M.S. Raleigh.
As one day went into two, and two days went into three, it wasn’t long before rules, routines and requirements became absorbed into our psyche with the ever-helpful support of our beloved NCO and much of what we learned forever remaining a part of our lives long after our release from the armed forces. It’s rare to come across someone who has undergone Naval training who isn’t punctual, smartly turned out and whole-heartedly committed to whatever he does, although there are exceptions which are more often not the fault of the veteran.
Our ‘Wakey, wakey’ call of ‘Hands-off-cocks-on-with-socks’ now saw 30 naked young men kick back their bedding and sit upright on their beds with their feet on the deck within seconds. From there, the first port of call would be to the toilet (the ‘heads’), followed closely by the shower, both of which enjoyed generous queues.
It was at this point that I realised that I had never been totally naked in front of so many people before in my life; apart from at school in the sports changing rooms where, partly because of my shyness, I had developed ways of making myself almost invisible when changing. To combat the phobia in the Navy, I reasoned that if I appeared nonchalantly confident, then no one would take the slightest interest in me. The tactic worked for my entire Naval career, even though the shyness never left me and still remains to this day. Something I learned from this scenario though was that ‘you are what people see’ and these days I’m big enough to take that.
With beds made and everyone dressed immaculately, the class would ‘fall in’ outside the mess, dress by the right, and march off to breakfast looking less like windmills than the day before. Thinking back to the day I arrived when the food was dreadful, I had thought that it was because new arrivals were arriving at all times of the day and they just were trying to keep the food warm. Not so. The food very often was dreadful but as the old saying goes ‘if you’re hungry you’ll eat anything’. Once in a while, however, the chefs did knock up a couple of my favourites, notably their world renown ‘Cheesy-Hammy-Eggy’ and ‘Pot Mess’ for nine-o-clockers (supper).
With training now having finally begun proper, I found my days to be absolutely packed full. Marching drill on the parade ground in all weathers was staple diet to reinforce teamwork and build pride, while rifle drill sharpened hand/eye coordination. Physical exercise was very high on the agenda, the most excruciating of which was the workouts in the gym which included push-ups, pull-ups, weights and all other manner of similar things which these days I go out of my way to avoid.
The most pleasant indoor activity from my point of view was swimming and life-saving but then I already had a proven track record having already achieved a bronze medallion with the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award. Outdoor keep-fit pursuits included the dreaded assault courses which guaranteed you completed the course covered in mud because if you weren’t our beloved NCO would keep sending you round until you were. Yomping (running with back packs and rifles) was another particular favourite of (not ours) our NCOs. For me, cross country running was my greatest escape because it was solitary and a time I could gather my thoughts; I excelled so much so that I am able to brag that I ran for the Royal Navy. And so to conclude, while being systematically force fed four meals a day whether we liked the food or not, our physical exercise ensured our extra weight became muscle and not fat.
Meanwhile, back in the classroom, in addition to the previously mentioned lighter subjects (e.g. Naval History) our beloved NCO delighted in freaking us all out discussing the threats to our country and way of life from Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare bearing in mind these were the days of Cold War, a term used to describe tensions between the Soviet Union and her allies with the USA and her allies.
And so within about a week of signing on the reality of our new lives was slowly beginning to dawn. If we failed the swimming test we would be discharged. If we didn’t get the required Maths or English grades we would be discharged. If we failed kit inspection (kit musters) we would be back-classed. If we failed kit muster again, we would be discharged. If we failed to achieve the physical requirement we would be discharged. For those of us ‘fortunate enough’ to ‘Pass Out’ (the term given to completing basic training successfully, not the other definition, to faint) we would become proud young sailors moving on to our professional branch training, albeit living in terror of a nuclear war or even worse catching syphilis.
At the end of a typical working day, after showering and changing we might get time to add to the letters we had been trying to write for several days but as important as they were, even they came second to that far more treasured commodity, sleep.
1:10. H.M.S. Raleigh.
‘March past’ was a weekly event which involved all trainees attending ceremonial parade, the point of which was to celebrate the ‘passing out’ of the class who had completed their training and who would be personally inspected and congratulated by the Captain. In pecking order behind the Passing Out Class were all of the other classes in their respective order and at this point our class was the last of about 20 classes. Following inspection the Passing Out Class would lead the parade past the Captain’s Dias, who would take the salute to the very emotive sound of the Royal Marines band; their music was so poignant of what the armed forces stands for it still goes through my head to this day and there are times when I’ve hear it at Remembrances services that I’ve cried.
This weekly event was a massive occasion treated with such reverence that woe betide anyone who was picked up on the slightest thing during inspection. The smallest piece of fluff dusted from the shoulder was to guarantee a kit muster involving a full inspection of everything one owned displayed precisely on the bed in accordance with the relevant RN Book of Reference.
The minimum expectation at these events, apart from being absolutely pristine, was that the chest remained fully inflated and that the eyes looked straight ahead; horizontally down the nose. Keeping this stance, often for hours, proved a trial for new recruits and it wasn’t unusual to see someone ‘flake-out’ spread eagle on the deck where they would remain until an order was given to assist them. I was certainly one who hit the deck on at least one occasion and caringly ‘brought round’ by our beloved NCO whispering expletives in my ear for not having eaten enough f**king breakfast. Later, once we were off the parade ground the expletives continued without the whispering for the remainder of that day. Having been given such an ear-bashing from him and 29 cold shoulders from my class (who by default had the Captains’ eye briefly cast over them too) I decided it was a developmental curve and made a point of stuffing myself at breakfast before future parades. I don’t recall it happening again.
At a rough guess, judging by the number of squads on parade, I would say there were about 20 classes of 30 trainees at H.M.S. Raleigh at any one time, all at different stages in training, and each week one or two classes would ‘pass out’ with their families present. New recruits would arrive to take their places. Those passing out would march past first; new recruits would ‘windmill’ past last, and everyone else would march past in their pecking order of seniority. As each week went by classes would move nearer to the front.
Moving nearer to the front on parade was a double-edged sword in a way. On the one hand, the squad enjoyed a certain cred in the eyes of newer recruits and were able to lord it over them a little bit. On the other hand, it was expected that longer servers show a good, positive and responsible example to the new boys; the failure of which fell into the ‘you should know better’ category, and carried the appropriate punishment.
As time went on I began to realise a change was happening inside me over which I had no control. I already knew I was painfully shy and very guarded about my family life; having a different surname to my parents had brought unwanted questions from people at school which I had learned how to divert with humour. But with each new day now I found myself having to develop even more strategies to hide the new pains of feeling lonely in a room full of ‘peers’ far away from home. I use the term ‘peers’ loosely here because although I made many friends throughout my Naval career, I don’t recall a single person during my training at H.M.S. Raleigh I could put that label on to.
These days, mental health issues are very vogue with people being encouraged to open up and talk about them but back in 1971 in the armed forces that wasn’t my impression. You were on your own with it. It wasn’t until many years after my discharge that a friend, who had also served, shared that he had regular support meetings with the Chaplain. Learning that led me to wonder whether some of the more outwardly assertive and confident-looking recruits had also needed the Chaplain’s support and that the people I saw were not the people they actually were?
The more I learned about myself, the more I trusted my own intuition and my ability to resolve challenges in my own way, often in my own head. Although my experience of basic training at Raleigh was a very lonely and frightening one something inside me told me I was on the right path; I felt a sense of belonging on a bigger scale that I’d never known before. I was slowly becoming myself, proud of who I was, able to say it as it is and able to spot a fake a mile away.
1:11. H.M.S. Raleigh.
Much like inmates in a prison, trainees at Raleigh were addressed by their superiors by their surname and by their peers by their nickname. It would be two years before I was able to change my name by deed poll to my foster parent’s name of Dixon and be given the nickname Dixy. The delay was due to my birth mother refusing to allow me to be adopted even though her only contribution to my life had been to dump me into the care of social services, something I often mulled over on cross-country runs. After seven years in a kids’ home the Dixon’s had taken me out and I felt profoundly loyal to them. I don’t think even I could have imagined that 50 years later I would be a member of staff working in the same team of the same local authority that took me into care but I smile at probably being their oldest paid care leaver. For now though, in 1971, I was ‘Morpeth’ (aka Morps. Or worse).
So many things define life in the Royal Navy, not least the very unique language, some of which I have already illustrated. Others for example include such as ‘Make-and-mend’ meaning an afternoon off, or ‘adrift’ meaning to be late. In slang terms the Navy itself is referred to as ‘Pusser’ and someone ‘Pusser-faced’ would be seen as ambitious or career driven in derogatory terms by someone not. The word originated from the word ‘purser’ who was a ship’s supply officer. For me, assuming I ever survived basic training, the Supply Officer, or Purser, would be my future boss as my eventual future designation would be a Stores Accountant.
Non-verbal communication was conveyed by both daily orders and weekly orders which were posted well in advance on mess deck notice boards, and as might be expected it was an offence not to read them. Pedantic though this seems it wasn’t until I returned to civvy street that I began to appreciate the benefit of this protocol, particularly when finding myself working with power driven idiots who withhold knowledge for reasons best known to themselves.
Among the many items included in the daily orders were the duty rotas which saw each individual detailed-off every fourth day and every fourth weekend. Duty men in general were responsible for the security and cleanliness of the establishment plus absolutely anything else which ensured the base functioned at its premium. A typical uneventful duty would include cleaning the mess deck for Duty Officer’s rounds at 7.30pm, and then cleaning it again when it failed. Weekend duty men were deployed by the (very miserable because he was on) Duty NCO wherever required and if there was nothing for us to do, he would soon find us something to do.
Trainees who had achieved several successful weeks of input were eventually granted limited shore leave which meant that they could leave the barracks and go into the town of Plymouth, maybe the cinema, the bowling alley or somewhere similar, but with a strict curfew at midnight. Drinking establishments were out of bounds to those under eighteen, most of which were located on Union Street (the Straza) which was exactly where the Naval Patrols would find all the under eighteen-year-olds – usually hiding under the tables. Those caught under-age drinking quickly found out after a night in the cells that whatever the Navy gave could just as easily be taken away. Not gonna lie them cells were freezing.
Those out looking for the pleasure of female company usually began by checking out ‘Chesty Morgan’s stage show (she with the 73” deadly weapons) before seeking out some action. Most returned disappointed with their performance unaware at this point that the barracks tea had been laced with bromide. Leaving the philistines to do their thing one of my endearing memories was seeing the Rock Band Ten-Years-After at the Guildhall.
1:12. H.M.S. Raleigh.
One of the perks in the Navy during my service, not available in the other armed forces, was an entitlement to duty free cigarettes. While serving ashore in barracks a sailor would be entitled to 300 cigarettes a month, known as ‘blue liners’ since they had an indelible blue line running down the length of each cigarette and were embossed with the words ‘HM Ships only’. When serving aboard a warship the entitlement rose to 600 cigarettes, but these were king sized commercial brands and not blue liners.
Each sailor was given his cigarette coupons on payday (fortnightly on Thursdays) and these could be exchanged at the rate of 50p + 1 coupon for 100 cigarettes. Rumour had it that blue liners were made from the tobacco waste on the factory floors and I had a tendency to agree with that. Having been a smoker since the age of eleven I knew a lousy fag when I had one. As a kid I occasionally nicked one of my dads’ Senior Service or one of me Mam’s Woodbines and they were both bl**dy awful. But while one drag of a blue liner would often lift my feet off the floor they were a welcome friend at the end of a heavy day of outdoor training in the rain, and a great comfort at times I had the blues. When going on shore leave for an evening a sailor was allowed to take 25 cigarettes with him; when going on leave for more than a week he was allowed to take no more than 200. I did eventually stop smoking cigarettes in 2014 but do now enjoy a drag on my mint vape.
To be a non-smoker back in the day was very advantageous because cigarette coupons then became quite a valuable commodity, a sort of currency. It wasn’t unusual, for example, for non-smokers to have their duty covered by a smoker in return for coupons. If I were to finish this story on an anecdote it would probably be to say that for some sailors having a blue line tattooed along the full length of their male member was not uncommon although it usually included wording of their personal choice rather than ‘HM Ships only’.
1:13. H.M.S. Raleigh.
Within our class boys came from a diverse range of religious backgrounds. For a time, as a child, I was forced to adhere to a strict Methodist upbringing in which attending chapel was to take the ‘shouting-at’ by the Minister on behalf of those who hadn’t turned up. The hypocrisy was palpable and at the first opportunity to escape, I did, eventually changing my allegiance to John Lennon who rebelliously sang everything I was thinking and everything I was feeling. Later, as my awareness developed, other influencers such as Bob Dylan and Vincent Van Gogh became inspirational role models; real people not afraid to be unpopular in saying it as it was or expressing how they felt. Regardless of whichever God a trainee worshiped on high, or who we admired in the real world, our most revered and feared ‘god’ for now was our Captain.
Generally, apart from ceremonial parades, there were very few reasons that any of us would actually see the Captain. Either you had done something outstanding and were being rewarded for it; or you had done something wrong and were to be punished for it. Another reason may be that you wanted to request permission for something, for example special leave to attend a funeral. Whatever the scenario you were either a requestman or a defaulter.
‘Captain’s Requestmen and Defaulters’ was a formal meeting. Those attending for positive reasons would be called in first, in rank order. An Able Rate, for example, who had passed all his relevant exams and entitled to promotion to Leading Rate would march-up smartly, salute, give his name, rank and number, and then stand to attention as his divisional officer presented his case for promotion. Any previous disciplinary issues would also be considered and assuming the promotion was granted the new Leading Rate would then salute the Captain, say ‘Thank you Sir’, and march smartly back out. Once all requestmen had been seen the Captain would then see the defaulters, again in rank order.
Defaultmen would march-up, remove their cap, give their Name, rank and number then stand to attention as the Master-at-Arms (The Joss) read out the charge(s). The accused would then be asked to plead guilty or not guilty and be given the opportunity to speak up in his defence. After hearing the accused, the Captain would hear any evidence supporting guilt from the Joss and others, followed by any statements from others supporting the man’s defence. Mitigating circumstances where appropriate were also submitted.
Typical scenarios may be having been picked up drunk and stroppy ashore by the Naval Patrol or being accommodated in cells overnight for his own safety and the safety of others. In clear cut cases like these a man would plead guilty, probably lose leave, lose pay and given Number 9. Very serious charges, regardless of the plea were referred for Courts Martial.
During my own career I would experience being a defaulter and when standing in front of the Captain would feel an enormous sense of shame. Not just at letting the Navy down but more importantly at letting myself down. It was an excruciating feeling that will never leave me, and which will make me promise myself I would never feel again. It would also be inspirational in my becoming a requestman and receiving my promotion. For now though, I’m still just a trainee, hoping only to see the Captain was at ceremonial parades.
1:14. H.M.S. Raleigh.
As time went on life became an increasingly constant round of physical activity, education and conditioning. We were either up to the neck in the assault course mud, circuit training in the gym, square bashing the parade ground till we dropped, or being brain drained in the classroom with rules, regs, history and traditions. But at least our beloved NCO ensured we knew variety was on the horizon taking great pleasure in telling us we would soon be dumped somewhere on Dartmoor with only enough rations for one day as we endeavoured to find our way back. Later still, he continued, we would be treated to ‘many a good sniff of CS gas’ in the gas chamber to ensure we would be able to recognise it should we ever be subject to a gas attack by the enemy later on in our forthcoming glittering careers. It was about now that I decided that if there was anything worse than terror and dread, it was being given a couple of weeks’ notice that it was coming.
There’s little doubt that the constant physical activity and exercise had begun making a difference in us all; our clothes became far tighter on our developing bodies and the more muscle we piled on, the bigger our appetites became. The four hot meals a day we were once force-fed became a necessity to stop our bellies rumbling and for those who could afford it meals were often subsidized by regular trips to the NAAFI for chocolate. Having already made a monthly allotment (allowance) to Mam for £10 month my trips to the NAAFI were few and far between.
For me, my most favourite meal was ‘nine-o’clockers’ (supper) especially when Pot Mess was served. Pot Mess was a delicacy consisting of all the days leftovers thrown into an urn and served with a ladle. The contents could contain anything from ‘babies heads’ (individual steak and kidney puddings) to corned beef or spaghetti and the finished dish was guaranteed not only to raise a cheer from the lads but also ensured everyone slept like logs.
Sleep continued to be the most cherished part of life partly through exhaustion but also because by now everyone was becoming homesick and missed their families. In dreams, we could be anywhere we wanted to be, with whomever we chose, doing whatever we wanted. I more than valued that. On nights when insomnia just would not go away there was always letters from home that could be read over and over again. In terms of comfort, mail had no equal; particularly later on when I was very far away from home for months on end.
Since being at Raleigh I’d very much been on the periphery of things cutting quite a solitary figure and feeling very lonely. It was probably because of this that writing and receiving letters had become very important to me. It was while answering a letter that a fellow trainee caught me drawing a little sailor on the back of the envelope. Thinking he would take this piss I covered it with my elbow but he asked if I would draw one on his envelope too! It wasn’t long before I was illustrating everyone’s letters and something about doing that seemed to warm them all to me. Thinking back to childhood days I could never remember not drawing; I thought everyone did and so didn’t think it was a big deal. But throughout my career I would find myself illustrating the ships’ magazines which went home to families, and personalising many more of my shipmate’s letters as a gesture of good friendships.
Gradually I began to quite enjoy the hard, physical side of training because as well as developing physically, I was also growing more confident in my abilities to carry out tasks individually and know my place within a team. Although never close to any particular individuals I was beginning to gain their respect, and that of our NCO, and so being a loner didn’t scare me anymore. I could hold my own.
1:15. H.M.S. Raleigh.
When joining the armed forces one of the first things a young recruit will be bound by is the Official Secrets Act whether he has actually signed it or not, and he is still bound by it after his release. The fact he has joined the armed forces is sufficient for him to be charged with treason should he share anything damaging to the defence of our wonderful nation. Throughout a sailor’s service he is exposed to many things deemed sensitive, for example a ship’s location in real time, but given that my memoirs are reflective of a time 50 years ago I doubt very much if anything I say now will contravene the Act. If it does, no doubt I’ll arrested, jailed and upon my release will write a memoir about it.
Meanwhile, back in 1971, our class continued to be given ‘both barrels’ by our NCO, these being our daily physical workout and our daily mental workout in a routine not dissimilar to a comprehensive school, but with an endearing Boot Camp element courtesy of the ‘Pusser’.
This mix of physical and mental activity had begun making sense to me with one appearing to compliment the other in creating a sort of holistically perfect young recruit. It seemed that the Navy’s jigsaw-tactic of taking a scrawny, skinny, angry little misfit like me to bits, then putting him back together their way, was working. But then considering my limited alternatives in Civvy Street that wouldn’t have been difficult; however not everyone responded in the same way. Years later when in Thailand I equated training to the Far Eastern Yin-Yang philosophy:
“Two complementary forces that make up all aspects and phenomena of life. Yin is a symbol of earth, femaleness, darkness, passivity, and absorption. … Yang is conceived of as heaven, maleness, light, activity, and penetration”. (Wikipedia)
Back in the classroom, as well as being terrified with graphic descriptions of the symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases such as Vietnam Rose, or the effects on the respiratory system of mustard gas, I found the lessons on world geography/Geopolitics fascinating. Once in a while our NCO would drift off on a tangent and give us a sea story from his own career, usually in the form of an anecdote: ‘When I was on the ‘Ark Royal’ out in the Med back in 65……’. I loved them! They reminded me of the romance and excitement I felt when my cousin Paul would tell me about his travels, which was essentially why I joined up in the first place. He’d talk at length about the Far East and of Gibraltar, but then occasionally drop in that he had also been involved in sensitive situations such as Beira Patrol which was:
“a blockade of oil shipments to Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) through Beira, Mozambique, resulting from United Nations trade sanctions on Rhodesia”.
Although as a serviceman you must present as apolitical, the more I learned about the various conflicts worldwide the more I realised every paradise has an underbelly. These were not just the days of the Cold War they were also the days of apartheid in South Africa and of Pol Pot with his Khmer Rouge. The reality was that the world was a very worrying place far removed from my own idea of it, and for a 16-year-old that was very sobering.
1:16. H.M.S. Raleigh.
It probably goes without saying that if you want to be a sailor you need to be able to swim, and the simplest definition of the act is to ‘propel the body through water by using the limbs’. However, for trainees undergoing Naval training the definition differs a little in that it is ‘to propel the body over long distances in turbulent sea, fully clothed including boots, while dragging an unconscious shipmate to safety’ albeit in simulated conditions. To fail the task is to be back-classed until you succeed; to not succeed is to be discharged.
The simulated conditions in our case had us dressed in a boiler suit and boots, strapped into a mocked-up helicopter with a strapped-in dummy in the pilot’s seat. The helicopter was then lowered upside down underwater and the task was to save the ‘pilot’. Being strapped-in upside down meant our head hit the water first and so the first challenge was holding our breath for a long period of time. Even though (as mentioned earlier) I had already achieved my bronze medallion in life saving with the Duke of Edinburgh Award, this was on another level. Vision was poor and being upside down very disorientating, and it didn’t get any better after I had unstrapped myself. Unstrapping the pilot while feeling as though I was floating around in the International Space Station felt like being on a rollercoaster with a hangover. But somehow we got out of there in the given time, albeit throwing up from panic, anxiety and nausea. Wouldn’t care but the pilot never even said thank you.
With each passing day came a new challenge. Far be it from the Navy to let us sit on our laurels basking in past achievements. Having failed to drown us they then decided to see if they could fry us alive.
To test our fire-fighting skills they had constructed a metal building with several floors to simulate a warship. A fire was lit on the ground floor and our task was to extinguish it. Dressed in fearnought suits with twin-cylinder oxygen tanks on our backs we had to enter the building on the third floor after which they slammed the door shut leaving us in the pitch dark. From the third floor we had to descend two vertical ladders to the ground floor with the rungs becoming hotter as we neared the fire. Once at the bottom we were to operate the hoses. Complicating the issue one of our two oxygen tanks was designed to run out of air during the exercise which meant we had to ‘equalize’ them (turn a knob to allow air to move from the full tank to the empty one – assuming we could find the knob on your back in the dark). Once the fire was extinguished, the doors would be opened on the ground floor and we would be able to just walk out.
Not gonna lie, between the heat, the dark, the restrictions of the suit and panicking about running out of air, I was terrified. Even the sweat running down my neck was burning me. The sound of everyone shouting to communicate with each other, coupled with the sound of my own breathing through a plastic tube almost left me frozen with fright but with other people coming down ladders after me I just had to keep going. Goes without saying that we did get out of there because I’m here writing about it, but it wouldn’t be the last time I ended up in similar situations during my career. Later, in Civvy Street, I adopted the habit when in meetings of always sitting nearest to the door.
Having survived the drowning and the frying I was starting to feel like I was in one of those Japanese endurance shows wondering what was coming next although I didn’t have wait long. It was the gas mask test. Of course!….they wanted to choke us to death!!
Part of our issued kit was our own gas mask which every now and again had to be tested. To that end we were all herded into an enclosed space which was similar to a cave with one fairly long tunnel serving as both its entrance and exit. Within the cave we all sat around in a circle as the NCO smilingly placed an empty soft drink can on the floor, onto which he put a small pill. The pill was set on fire and began billowing smoke around the cave. “This exercise is simple lads” he said, “All you have to do is take off your gas mask in your own time, and walk out of the cave”.
It was a while before someone took the plunge but eventually someone did. Off came his mask and within seconds he ran out of the cave. Others followed. Eventually I decided to go for it although I still wasn’t sure why there was a need to run. Until I took my own mask off. My eyes immediately filled with water and my nose and throat felt as though they were on fire. Run, I did, and now knew why that tunnel was as long as it was. We’d know CS gas a mile off. Outside on the grass, as breakfast was being thrown up, no one wanted a fag.
1:17. H.M.S. Raleigh.
Probably around half way through training our class of 30 had reduced down to about 25. Some had been back-classed for failing things such as swimming or kit musters, others were discharged because they had failed to meet the Navy’s exacting standards. Of those who left the service of their own accord during training I had the most empathy; it was just too much for them. To leave home, and leave everyone who loves and cares about you at 16, is tough enough. But then to be psychologically stripped bare and put through the wringer the way we were was not something everyone could take. I felt for their sense of failure even though I didn’t see it as failure and said so. They’d had the balls to give it a go and so had my absolute respect. And there were certainly times I nearly did the same thing; the only reason I didn’t was because my birth mother was starting to make waves at taking me back and that was far more unthinkable than staying in the Pusser.
The impact of the training was profound. Whoever we had been before was no more. Even half way through we were not the same person who had walked through those hallowed gates and those who survived and finally walked out were totally unrecognisable. But the impact didn’t just end after training, it never went away. Even for those who left early.
A very good friend of mine who completed both his basic training and his professional training was given his first draft as ‘ships company’ (crew) but then decided to leave within the year. He recalled the awful bullying and abuse we endured but which I had blocked out using a skill I had developed in childhood days. He asked if I remembered the ‘Judge’ visiting the huts during the night with a group wearing gas masks who would single out some poor guy to hang from the beams and give a good hiding. Or the guy whos’ personal hygiene was not up to scratch being scrubbed with brillo pads in the bath. His stories immediately resonated with me because his reality had also been mine and were part of a catalogue of things we couldn’t share with anyone, other than ourselves. Two very shy, homesick boys. What I love, apart from still being in regular touch with him, is that he went on to have a very successful career in Civvy Street and throughout my own working life of 50 years I was never unemployed. While I don’t condone any form of bullying, abuse or discrimination these things were the norm in our teenage years and in a dreadfully abstract kind of way made us the gutsy people we are. Gutsy yes, but also empathetic, caring, sensitive and kind because we know how it feels not to be treated with those things.
Back at Raleigh, having spent days being ‘drowned, fried and gassed’, our beloved NCO seemed to sense many of us were almost at breaking point and appeared to feel he needed to do something to rectify it. “Today lads” he smiled “we’re going on a visit to Devonport dockyard to see your future! The REAL Navy! Lots of warships docked. So, it’s smart No 2s and I’ll give you half an hour to get ready”.
Even as a16-year-old I could see he’d done his psychology course, the sycophant in him was cringe-worthy and for him to be that ingratiating was had my antenna up. Thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that if any more of his squad left he might have questions to answer. That very thought made me smile – even more so when I realised ‘he’ thought I was smiling because of the trip out. “I thought you’d like that Morpeth” said he. Almost made me wet meself.
Walking through the dockyard my mind lit up with what my eyes were seeing. Walking past ship after ship all gleaming grey in the morning sun of October, white ensigns fluttering, left me spellbound in wonder. Although my body was walking along the quayside my mind was in the Far East, the Mediterranean and the tropics. I was just so near achieving my dream that I could almost taste it. Watching the sailors as they formed a line from the quayside up the gangway ‘storing ship’ brought reality into my world. Boxes of beans, bags of spuds, medicines and clothing were thrown from man to man with nothing short of the nautical precision. Their ship was ‘under sailing orders’.
Further round the dockyard the Pride of the Fleet, HMS. Ark Royal, was in dry dock undergoing a refit and we paused in awe. Gazing up from the quayside I could barely believe something so massive and top heavy didn’t topple over, let alone sail all around the world, but equally impressive was the attention being lavished upon her by both the crew and the dockyard workers. As the sound of drills tended to her structural needs, those using paint brushes to give the old girl a face lift left me feeling there was a genuine sense of care and pride towards her. HMS. Ark Royal was a beautiful, living part of every one of her crew, she was their home. The crew looked after her and she looked after them and I loved that. And it wouldn’t be long before I came to realise that mutual love and loyalty was the same between every warship in the fleet and her crew.
My thoughts and dreams of far-away places ended abruptly as the sound of a Bosun’s call (naval whistle) rang through the air. A ship was sailing, leaving harbour. Looking up, I saw a Leander Class Frigate decked out in flags with the crew lining the upper deck in Number 1s. As she slowly made her way out towards the open sea, her horns sounded a salute. Further along the quay the families of the crew had come to wave off their men. Wives, parents, children and pets lined the quay until the ship was literally out of site to the sound of cheers, tears and the occasional ‘woof’. That would be me soon.
1:18. H.M.S. Raleigh.
Seeing a warship sail off on deployment is very moving, made even more so by the sound of the Band of the Royal Marines on the quayside. As a young trainee watching-on I felt immense pride in my choice of career but also took time to observe the families waving off their men. As the ship sailed past the families (of mainly women and children waving their Union Jacks) the cheering was almost deafening, easing off as the ship sailed further away. When the ship had finally vanished from sight and the music stopped the families began quietly leaving to set off home. The next time they would hear that music would be when their men returned and although I couldn’t imagine how they felt, their silence told me all I needed to know. One day I knew it would be me on that upper deck and if I was fortunate enough to have anyone waving me off, I needed to know what I had learned today.
The busy environment of Devonport dockyard reminded me of that city in the Wizard of Oz. It was like an ant colony. People were everywhere and I loved it. Although a bit of a loner I had a passion for people watching, probably to try and suss out what they had that I didn’t. From a distance it looked like one of those matchstick paintings by L.S. Lowry with workers carrying lumps of wood or tins of paint, and very important people carrying very important stuff in their very important briefcases. And the smells were distinctive. Diesel oil, fortnight tea, and of course the sea; there was also a smell of freshly made cobs wafting around coming from a seller’s stall which was well subscribed to.
The piece de resistance on our tour was to be taken onboard the Leander Class Frigate HMS Diomede (F16) and given a tour of the warship. Seeing close up the mortar bay, the 4.5” guns and the hanger which housed their Wasp helicopter was thrilling. Below decks we toured the engine room, the boiler room, the wheelhouse and the galley and as if by magic all of my training seemed to make sense. The Navy had dissected me into jigsaw pieces which they had made me reassemble in order to understand everything that would be needed from me when I went to sea. Now I understood. I understood the need for litter-free cleanliness, the need to be able to fire-fight, the need to swim, the need to care for your ship and your shipmates. Because regardless of what branch of the Navy you had joined you were first of all a sailor.
Of everything I saw on Diomede the thing that stayed with me was the family photos above the sailor’s bunks. It brought home the stark reality of separation for the sailor which I’d also observed earlier with the families. For all of the romance and intrigue of a sailors’ life there was heavy price to pay. At home Mam had a photo of me in uniform on the mantlepiece and I had one of her and dad on my locker. Thinking about that and seeing those photos on Diomede left me anxious. I couldn’t remember when I had last written home or telephoned.
In an effort to mitigate myself I conceded the training had been intense and exhausting and I only had another week or so to go after which I would be able to go home for the weekend. Assuming I even passed out. The thought of not passing out and being back-classed put shivers up my spine, even though I knew it was unlikely any family would come to see my parade. It was such a long way and an expensive journey on top of which me Mam wasn’t in the best of health. With my emotions all over the place I entered my final days at Raleigh facing exams, tests, kit musters, drill inspections and a final assessment.
1:19. H.M.S. Raleigh.
Our final days of training were all about inspections, examinations, tests and assessments with no stone being left unturned and no-one taking it for granted that he would pass out at the end of the week. In the messdeck the atmosphere was tense with less banter and more focus. Polishing boots and ironing uniforms became the new go-to leisure activity after gruelling workouts on the parade ground. Gruelling because our squad was finally going to be the star attraction forming the passing-out guard with white belts, white gators and bayonets fixed. Not unlike one of those current Reality shows we had all arrived at the final, not knowing if we would stay or if we would go, praying it wouldn’t be Groundhog Day.
Sitting on my bunk I practiced my bowline. It was the key knot of the Royal Navy and very much a weak point of mine. That knot and me had had many a war over the past six weeks some of which he won and some I won. It got to the point I’d almost animated it and was convinced it was playing games with me because whenever I said “You better go right” it did. Editing this memoir in real time (today) that knot reminds me of a doll I was given to look after during a course (years later) on childcare and how even as adults we sometimes animate the inanimate. By the time I handed that doll back in I almost suffered separation anxiety (but that tale is for another memoir).
Throughout my training I had lived in terror of failing, being back-classed or even discharged. Sometimes to the point of being paranoid. I hadn’t particularly shined at anything in my whole life. School had been a nightmare with them seeing me as some sort of eccentric rebel who was a bad influence on others; and the fact they had no choice but to consistently place me in an ‘A’ class p*ssed them off even more. ‘A bright boy, we know him well, but just doesn’t apply himself’. Bollocks. They didn’t know me from Adam. What really rattled them was that I could read them like a book. In a fortunate twist of fate those at my recruitment interview saw something very different.
It was during this final week as we all prepared for the biggest day of our lives, I took a close look at my fellow trainees, particularly the ones who had oozed confidence and been ‘out there’. For some time I had sensed a lot of bravado, but being the reserved type hadn’t said anything because while ever they were in the spotlight it kept the focus off me. To some extent my physical build had been very useful to them when wanting to impress, for example when having to carry someone over the assault course. Being what the Navy described as ‘wirey’ (skinny) I was always their first choice. I suppose I’d also been useful as their go-to artist too and so always saw myself as some sort of appendage to use when needed. But now as I observed these boys I wasn’t looking at Rocky or Bear Grills. I was looking at bags of nerves openly sharing their weak spots telling the world and his dog how terrified they were at not passing out. Seeing people present outwardly as more confident than me, then realise they felt the same way as me inside, was something I would never forget.
But come the day no one failed or was back classed, and it was with immense pride that (what was left of) our class finally took our well-earned place as the leading squad on the parade ground and passed out as sailors.
It’s a point in every sailor’s career that never leaves his memory. As I edit this post at 66 years-old I look back and still consider it one of the greatest achievements of my life. To the music of the Band of the Royal Marines, in immaculate uniforms and ‘dressed-by-the-right’ we marched with acute precision past class-upon-class of wide-eyed new recruits before finally arriving at the Dias, giving an ‘eyes right’ salute to the Captain. To see the Captain return our salute meant the world to me. He knew what we’d been through and it was his acknowledge of us making the grade. For the first time in my life I felt an enormous sense of pride in myself and a real sense of belonging. But of all the inflated chests on display one stood out far more than any other. That of our beloved NCO. For much of our training we’d seen him as nothing short of a sadist taking great pleasure in putting us through the mill. But that pleasure was nothing compared to the pride he displayed in his squad today. When I think about him now Rag-and-Bone-Man’s song: “I’m only human after all” comes to mind; and at the end of the day ask myself would I have done what he did any differently?
Behind the Dias were the families of our squad who had come to share the biggest moment in their relative’s life. They had only limited knowledge of the reality of the training but knew it hadn’t been a walk in the park. Their pride was clear, particularly after the parade when the whole place erupted into a group hug that looked like a massive game of Twister.
I didn’t have anyone at my passing out. But I was going home. And that’s all that mattered. Walking back to the mess to pack I caught sight of the new recruits marching back to their mess. Like a herd of windmills.
A few more posts follow to conclude Chapter 1 of my first weekend home leave.
1:20 H.M.S Raleigh. 1971. (My first home leave 1/9).
Arriving home on my first leave was very emotional; seeing Mam again was lovely, I’d missed her so much. The last time I’d seen her she was saying goodbye looking through the letterbox but today she was on the doorstep almost dancing, barely able to contain her feelings. But then neither could I. After our customary pecks-on-the-cheek we hugged and hugged for what seemed like an eternity. Then we hugged again. And again. Throughout my life of 9 years with Katie I had never left home without kissing her on the cheek and had never come back without doing the same thing; even if I was just running messages to the shop. It was how we rolled. Dad gave me a very awkward hug with no eye contact, but I was okay with that. Even at 16 I’d learned a lot about people and didn’t judge; whatever worked for him worked for me. Sometimes ‘You can’t teach old socks new feet’, I decided.
To finally be home was almost like walking into a dream. The living room of our little end-terrace seemed so small compared to the big halls, mess decks and gyms I had become used to during my training and yet it was bliss. The familiar cottage suite of settee and chairs with wooden elbow rests (and rubber straps under the seats that kept the seat cushions on) adorned the room, all facing the telly that had a 50p slot meter on the back of it. The red Formica fold-down table with its 4 wooden chairs (that Mam bought with the money she earned from working briefly at a local textile factory) was still by the window that looked out onto the back garden. Today, 50 years later, that same table is where my little great-granddaughter Libbee sits to do her art and crafts, and I love that. The main focus of the room was the lovely welcoming old-fashioned range with its two ovens and roaring fire which as well as keeping us warm had also provided us with many a roast dinner or pease pudding sandwich. The only noticeable change was the photo of me in uniform on the mantlepiece; a stark reminder to me that although home was still the same, I wasn’t. But I didn’t mention it.
Sitting on the settee with me shoes off on that first night at home was surreal. On the telly Hughie Green was lifting one eyebrow on his ‘Opportunity Knocks’ show telling his disbelieving audience “I mean that sincerely folks, I really do”, while Mam was calling through from her little kitchenette “Do want a cup of tea hinny?”. It had been so long since I’d seen ‘normal’ or been offered something nice I had to stop meself welling up. “I’ll make it Mam” said I. “No ye winnet, sit doon av done it noo”. Just hearing her native Geordie tongue only added to my delight at being home and it wasn’t long before I responded in kind having had to temper my own accent for the past six weeks just to be understood.
As the evening wore on, I relished how lovely it was to be home with my family again who were as pleased to see me as I was them. Lots of hot cups of tea and lots of compliments going both ways saw the evening close with us all eventually tripping off to bed. And Oh my days, me bed! As I climbed into me flannelette sheets and pulled the blankets and heavy candlewick eiderdown over me that familiar feeling of being nailed to the mattress took me back to the happiest of my childhood days. Tucked up and listening to the October rain hitting the window only added to my paradise in that moment.
1: 21. H.M.S. Raleigh. 1971. (My first home leave 2/9).
Waking up in my own bed felt unreal. Still on my back nailed-to-the-mattress by my heavy blankets and candlewick bedspread, the first thing to hit me was the silence. There was no shouting, no-one banging on the end of my bed pulling my bedding off, no half naked bodies rushing about in panic making a racket. It had been so long since I had heard the sound of silence, I just wallowed in it, enjoying the comfort and warmth of my familiar old three-quarter sized bed. The only thing that moved was my eyes.
Through a gap in the curtains a beam of light came through the window onto the bedspread highlighting its risen corrugated design, bringing back childhood memories of how I would run my finger around the grooves in the pattern pretending I was driving a car. Looking around the room was like looking through a window into the past life of someone else I used to know. Propped in the corner was a six-foot fibre glass fishing rod and atop an old-fashioned chest of drawers a red plastic airplane looked at me like something out of Toy Story. Glistening in that ray of sunshine a bronze medallion engraved with my name sitting in its box brought me back to reality. It sat alongside my world stamp album, both of which were happy reminders of my Duke of Edinburgh Award. Philately (stamp collecting) had been my second module after life-saving because I had loved seeing the images on the stamps from all around the world. This wasn’t the bedroom of someone else I used to know. It was mine.
Getting out of bed in my own time, was not something I took for granted, I relished every minute of it. Especially when I finally swung my legs out and my feet landed on a carpet! Oh my days, the joy of a carpet between my toes. Pulling back the curtains the view of the garden with its two lawns, veggie patch and frog pond had me sitting back down on my bed to admire it all. Between the view, the carpet and the silence I felt like I’d been picked up from Hades and transported to Heaven. As the sound of birds singing began breaking the silence so too another sound broke into their song: “Do you want a cup of tea Hinny?”.
1:22. HMS Raleigh. 1971. (My first home leave 3/9).
Three gentle taps on my bedroom door with a croaky: “Are y’awake hinny I’ve got yer a cup o tea” was music to my ears. “Aye howay in Mam” I said, although I was worried about her croaky voice and said so. “Just too many tabs this mornin” she countered.
After putting the tea on me bedside cabinet she sat on the side of the bed. “Eee av mist yay bonnie lad, and yull never naah hoo much. But it’s grand tu’ ha’yah back y’ame agyen, even if it is just forra few days”. For that one moment I’d forgotten all about the Navy. I gave her a hug. “I love ya Mam, an’ it’s great to be home even if it is just for three days. Away an’ get yer bag ready an’ we’ll hav a walk up the shops when I get up”. She was almost beside herself. After giving me a kiss on the cheek she headed quickly for the door chomping “We’ll caal in at the Stennets and Eagletons on the way roond. They can hav a good look at my lad”.
Throughout my teenage years a couple of kids I hung around with were the children of the Stennets and Eagletons and Mam always felt a sense of lacking somehow as a foster mother in the presence of those who had given birth and brought up their ‘own’ children. In the judgemental days of 1971, she was right to feel that way as I had often been witness to their patronising speak. I understood how she felt having had not dissimilar experiences in school, due to my surname being different to that of my parents. Being very protective of both Mam and meself I sometimes could never work out who I hated most between teachers, pupils, the kids I knocked around with or their parents; I think at the end of the day it was whichever one was in my vision.
As she got to the door I shouted “Mam…we’ll dee the Bingo tonight as well”. Don’t think I’d ever seen anyone tap-dance on the spot with the mouth open and the eyes crossed but it was a joy to see. At length when she got her breath back she had the last word. “I’ll ha me hair ‘set’ this after-neeyun”.
Downstairs after a brief pregnant pause of polite embarrassment Dad said “When’s thoo gannin back?” to the horror of Mam who shot back at him with “Divent yay ask the bairn that he’s ownly jus cum yame!” which reduced me to tears rolling in pain, laughing out loud. Seeing me laughing set them off as well; it was just the therapy I needed. Over time the phrase ‘when are you going back?’ became the stat family welcome every time I came home, before I’d even walked through the door (mainly in the hope that my leave was a long one but also because it was our own ‘in joke’) and I always found it hilarious and a pleasure to my ears.
1:23. H.M.S. Raleigh 1971. (First home leave 4/9)
Seeing the pride in me Mam as we walked through the village was a joy, I’d always known she loved me but this was something else. Taking a seven-year-old out of a kid’s home at the age of 44 had been no mean feat for a woman never having had experience of children, let alone an emotionally damaged one. Since day one I’d always been aware of that and somehow had always tried to dilute any of her challenges through being as compliant as I could. No doubt that conditioning had helped me through the past six weeks of training. But seeing the pride she exuded was wonderful, and so well deserved. In a way I felt as though I had finally been able to give something back. I remember becoming 44 and reflecting back on the sacrifices she must have made. Although I adore children and love spending time with them, I could never have done what she did. Her greatest achievement became my greatest blessing.
As the day progressed our journey around the village took us all the way along the Main Street to ensure we had been seen by as many people as possible. And just in case anyone had missed us first time round it was followed by another walk, back along Main Street.
Calling in at the Stennets had me desperately trying to stifle my laughs. It was like one of those scenes from the Les Dawson Show when the characters of Cissie and Ada constantly try to get one over the other. Mam (as Cissie) held forth for what seemed like hours on the finer details of my achievements to date, followed by an embellished version of what my future held from promotions to world travel. Finally pausing for breath, but before ‘Ada’ had the chance to respond she said: “Your lad’s at the pit isn’t he Irene?”. Ten yards up the street the laugh I had been stifling finally burst out when she said “That’s telt hor!”.
On the way home we called in at the co-op where I had been working as a delivery boy right up until I went in the Navy and got a lovely welcome from everyone (cue song: ‘All the nice girls love a sailor’). Bright red and awkward but a little bit chuffed I took it in my stride and happily complied when they asked me to ‘do my tin trick’. It was something that one of the managers in the past hated which only made me mischievously do it even more in the quietest corners of the store.
Walking home I could sense the grin on Mams face without even looking at her. When we got to our house I opened the gate and held it for her as she walked through. Cupping my face in her hands she said “Eee yur a good lad wor Alan. Aah’ll mek us a cup o tea afore ah gan and get me hair done. Yu mite be an ansome sailor….but yer still my bairn, bonny lad”.
1:24. H.M.S. Raleigh. 1971. (First Home Leave 5/9)
On the Sunday morning I got up and went downstairs to be greeted by Dad. “Divent meeyek nee plans yer gannin oot wi me”. It’s a sad thing to say but my first reaction wasn’t delight. I had grown to care about Dad because I had begun to understand where he was coming from but not in the same way, or to the same degree as me Mam. Although I had rather hoped to catch up with kids I knew and also spend time with the lads down at the sea cadets, I decided that I could do that later in the day. After all I had spent almost all of Saturday with me Mam so to not to go out with Dad may have caused bad feeling. “Great, Dad. Where are we gannin?” I enthused. “Am tekkin ye to the Welfare to show ye off” he said. Hearing his reply Katie was quick to jump in “Divent yay be givin that lad nee drink Billy Dixon or yell ha’ me to deal with when ye get yame”. “He’ll hav a Shandy man, there’s noot wrang with that” he replied, then turning me he said “Get ye uniform on lad while aa gan an’ hav a shave. He then went upstairs to the bathroom.
Katie’s concerns about Billy taking me to the Welfare for a drink were based on years of negative experiences she had endured. After having a pint, he had to have another, then another, then another; he wasn’t a man who knew when to stop; and when he did eventually stop, he was a very unpleasant drunk. To reassure her I said “Divent worry Mam. He just wants to tek us oot to buy uz a Shandy and show uz off. Aah’ll keep an eye on him and we’ll be back for dinner at two”. Giving me a hug she said “That’s reet Hinny. I divent want ye getting a taste for it like him”.
Walking to the Welfare I got quite excited that Dad was taking me into a bit of his world that I had never been in before, and that he wanted to buy me my first drink. It was an excitement however that was to be short lived when about half way there he asked me to ‘lend’ him a fiver. That did something to me.
Throughout the session, we stood at the bar where he drank bitter ale faster than I believed any man could drink, as I sipped on a couple of half Shandies, ignoring his constant invitations to leave the lemonade out of my drink; invitations which became increasingly offensive. There was no other conversation whatsoever between us during the entire time. The only times he spoke were when someone came to the bar to replenish his glass and he would then tell them loudly that I was his son who was in the Navy. I noted that after acknowledging me, no one stayed longer than a minute at the most.
It took me quite a lot of persuasion, including a refusal to lend him more money, to get him to leave the bar and come home for dinner, arguing that Mam would have the meal ready on the table. The walk home was a collection of insults along the lines of “Yer a f***in Mammy’s boy”, combined with deathly silences. Arriving home to his whispered tones of “Caals heesell a Sailor; bloody mamby-pamby” I could see the relief in Mam’s eyes that even though Dad was smashed, I was still stone cold sober.
At this point in life, I knew little about my birth parents Elsie and Charlie other than there had been a lot of domestic violence with booze involved. It would be many years before I learned the facts and come to love and respect Charlie. But at this point in life both Charlie and Billy were role models – of everything I didn’t like. On the bright side dinner was lovely.
1:25. H.M.S. Raleigh 1971. (First Home Leave 6/9)
Sunday dinner at home was one of my most favourite times. I loved the smell wafting around the house so much, it used to literally make my mouth water. Mam made full use of the auld coal fired range, rather than use her electric cooker, which seemed to have a magical effect on her Yorkshire puddings. On rare special occasions she would also make a Spotty Dick for pudding which would be wrapped in an old cloth and be bubbling away in a pot on the coals.
Traditionally after dinner Dad would fall asleep in his chair to sleep off the booze then wake up in time to get ready for round two in the evening. Meanwhile I helped Mam wash up and clear away before settling down in front of the telly to watch the weekly black and white filum, now known as a movie by our younger generation. Customarily, we would both fall asleep half way through the filum: I don’t think we ever got to see the end of one. Come to that, I still love falling asleep half way through a black and white filum on a Sunday afternoon; especially Laurel and Hardy. Love em! Old habits die hard.
When we finally woke up somewhere around tea time we would eat whatever was left of the meat joint lathered in salt in white bread sandwiches washed down with sugared tea. We knew how to live.
Not far from where I lived was a pub that let young people in for an hour or so between 7pm and 8pm out of the cold to meet up and play a game of darts, provided only soft drinks were served and everyone behaved. After tea I had had a stroll up to catch up with a few people I knew. Many of them had taken a job at the pit and were financially better off than me because I was still on training wages, so it was nice to be treated to a couple of cokes.
For a while their curiosity in my life in the Navy had them asking a few questions but it wasn’t long before the conversations drifted off into things they were more familiar with. Their common denominator in being mineworkers gave them a strong sense of connectiveness which by default I was naturally excluded from, and although I didn’t envy their job, I understood their bond. Their family members had been mineworkers for generations, all with subsidised housing, free coal, an annual trip to the seaside and membership of the local Miners Welfare. It was really from this point that I realised we had all moved on but if life was about being part of a team doing something I didn’t want to do then I was in a team of one.
After a respectable half an hour or so, and with the bone fide reason of having an early morning train to catch back to the Navy, I decided to leave and take a slow stroll home. Following a few “take cares” I left the pub as another round of soft drinks were being bought and someone was asking who was on the dartboard next.
On the mile long walk home on that cold November evening I walked past the pit with its white smoke belching out into the dark night sky. I knew full well at this point in my Navy career that I could very easily choose to leave, just come home and live a very predictable life. But I didn’t belong here, and I knew it. And even though there was nothing predictable about the Navy in that I had no idea what was in store further up the line, it was where I belonged.
It would be many years later, after having travelled extensively all over the world, that I came home on leave to find the same group in the same pub on the same Sunday night, only this time they weren’t ordering soft drinks.
1:26. H.M.S. Raleigh. 1971. (First Home leave 7/9)
On my last evening of leave I walked Mam up to the Bingo Hall which was up a hill about a half mile away. It was a cherished activity of hers because in those days it was the social hub for women of her age group, plus she might win some money. Sadly, over time, many Bingo Halls eventually became cinemas which must have had a depressing effect on the folk who loved the game and who depended on that outlet to relieve some of life’s miseries. But for now, this was her favourite night out and I was really happy to be able to take her.
On the way up the hill, it occurred to me that either I had sprouted into a lamp post or Mam was shorter than I thought she was. Either way I decided not to comment. Something about that concerned me though because I’d suddenly seen her as being quite vulnerable. My worries weren’t helped by her need to periodically stop to catch her breath although I passed off these pauses in a way which didn’t embarrass her. But I knew in my heart that as her voice continued to deteriorate the cancer in her larynx was advancing.
Arriving at the Bingo Hall I took the initiative and said to Mam: “Diven’t worry if ye get a line or a full hoose cos aah’ll shoutout for yah”. I don’t remember if she won or not but I do remember the pleasure she had that night. She hadn’t been to Bingo since the last time I took her and that was before I’d joined the Navy. And though more subtle than Dad the pride she felt because ‘her lad had taken her oot’ was there for all to see, it was written all over her face. That meant the world to me.
The walk home was a lot easier than the walk there because it was all downhill. Mam linked arms with me outside the Bingo and didn’t let go till we got home. It reminded me a bit of our holidays in Blackpool when I was a kid and used to go with her to the prize bingo – apart from back then it was me linking arms with her and not letting go till we got back to the bed and breakfast. Something about the comparison saddened me. Her protectiveness had evolved into vulnerability and my vulnerability had evolved into protectiveness. But tonight, she felt like a million dollars and that was good enough for me. On a brighter note, years later, I chanced a game of bingo and trips with Mam. The only difference was that I won a link game and walked out with £1000 in cash.
1:27. H.M.S. Raleigh. 1971. (First Home leave 8/9)
When we finally got home from the bingo Dad, not surprisingly, was still out at the Welfare so Mam said: “Aah’ll get the kettle on bonnie lad and we can hav a sit doon afore ye gan tuh bed”. We sat on the cottage settee drinking tea and watching the Black and White Minstrel Show which at that time was a very popular light entertainment programme of song and dance and very much a favourite of ours.
But the Britain of 1971 was a very different Britain of today and very naïve about how such a show could be hurtful to the black community with white singers ‘blacking up their faces’ and behaving stereotypically with African-American mannerisms. As society became more racially aware the show was increasingly seen as offensive and insensitive and by 1978 the BBC dropped it. Later in my own life I would visit many countries whose populations were predominantly black including Sierra Leone, The Gambia, South Africa and Kenya and be sickened by the apartheid and racial discrimination. My experiences on those visits were at times very frightening, yet at other times very heart-warming and are recalled in later chapters of this memoir.
Sitting watching the telly on my last evening the atmosphere was sombre with only occasional non-emotive chatter. We were both aware that when I left in the morning the second separation would be far longer than the first and so it wasn’t something we wanted to discuss. But it was a lovely evening, and very tactile, partly because the cottage settee sank in the middle which seemed to throw us together. In my mind I knew Mam’s cancer was beginning to progress and so I wanted to make the most of things physically as well as mentally. And I believe it was the same for her too.
Eventually, we kissed goodnight and as I lay awake in bed, staring out of the window, I heard Dad stumble through the door. Mam was swiftly down the stairs to challenge him “You wake that bairn up and I’ll clock ya one. He’s got a long day the morn. Noo off to bed wi’ ya”.
1:28. H.M.S. Raleigh. 1971. (First Home leave 9/9)
When I woke up I had a pit in my stomach and it wasn’t long before I realised why. My weekend leave was over, the clock was ticking, and the Navy were reclaiming me. Even just thinking that took me back to Naval history lessons at Raleigh when our beloved NCO delighted in telling us why (apart from being called the Pusser or the Mob) the Navy was called The Andrew. Sparkly-eyed and with relish, he lauded the over-zealous Recruitment Officer Andrew Miller who, back in the day, press-ganged so many seaman the joke was made that it was not His Majesty’s Navy, but Andrew’s. Although I hadn’t been press-ganged into enlisting the stark reality that my liberty had become a privilege and not a right was dawning. Later in my career I would be reminded of that.
Lying in bed looking up at the ceiling I felt quite sick but could hear Mam downstairs so decided to get up and spend whatever time I had left with her. I didn’t really want breakfast but forced it down somehow so Mam wouldn’t be upset although I knew she was upset anyway. I could recognise the signs. She talked a lot. “Av washed an ironed aa’ll ye clothes hinny and (with a whisper) av put a five pund note in ya pocket. And divent argue!”.
When the time came to leave it reminded me of having been sat in the dentist’s waiting room for ages and then finally being called into his treatment room to the sound of drills in the room next door. Dad gave me his customary man hug with no eye contact and then stood back for Mam to say her goodbye. Reaching up fiddling with my shirt collar she was still talking incessantly to manage her anxiety: “Mek sure ya let me nahh when ya get there safe, you’ve got ya train ticket haven’t ya, diven’t forget to write every week”. Finally, after a bear hug not unlike something her favourite wrestler Mick MacManus would give Jackie Pallo, she vanished into the house as I got into a taxi. The lump in my throat felt as though I’d swallowed something that wouldn’t go down. For me it was worse than the first time; it was so bad I couldn’t bring myself to look back even though I knew me Mam would be looking through the letterbox.
Standing on the platform at Newark railway station my insides felt like liquid. The porter knew me from the last time I’d stood there seven weeks earlier on my way to join up at Raleigh and although I had something of a conversation with him, inside I was crying.
I don’t know how I ever got to London and then on to Chatham; and I have no recollection whatever of walking through the gates of H.M.S. Pembroke to begin my stage two training. But I did. And it was there that I found out what a Junior (under 17.5 years) Assistant (unqualified) Stores Accountant was.
End of Chapter 1.
Chapter 2 reflects back to 1971/72 with HMS Pembroke, HMS Dryad and HMS Excellent.
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WOW. I joined as a baby stoker about 9th November 1971 it all came flooding back, did our feet ever touch the ground? And the tea did taste terrible.
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Haha thanks John and thanks for reading. You’re right about the tea. Bromide and tinned milk if I remember rightly. Disgusting. Hope you’re well and life is good for you. Alan
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As you seem to have a artistic streak you may appreciate this. I wrote it after a visit to the national arboretum. A friend of mine is trying to get on a sculpture in the arboretum. He is the poet in residence at Durham Uni.
There is a place that’s so serene,
Where memories and some ghosts have been.
Memorials to the living and the dead,
Where no words need to be said.
Walls with names but without faces,
Of the young that died in far off places.
Soldier, sailor, airman and Royal Marines,
Far more than should have been.
Civilians are remembered here as well,
As in time of conflict they too go through hell.
Mercantile, Fire Service, Police.
Many symbolic things that prove war isn’t nice.
Not forgetting those from a foreign land,
Who stood shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.
Who came when called from far and wide,
To come and fight side by side.
The many trees all stand row on row,
To remember those who gave their today for our tomorrow.
At the centre is the Armed Forces Memorial,
The dead since 1945 recall.
This is a place you must visit,
Ever if all you do is go and sit.
And ponder over their sacrifice and pain,
So we can live in peace again.
Hope you enjoy
Mick
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A lovely piece Mike thankyou so much for sharing. A very poignant reminder to the youth of today that they enjoy their freedoms following the sacrifice of so many. Also a reminder to the likes of you and I (ex military) that we were fortunate enough not to be included in your poem.
I will be in touch when I get a reasonable window in my strainingly busy schedule which at the moment is occupying all of my free time so do forgive my sporadic communication. Warm regards Alan
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Glad you like it. Contact me whenever you’ve got my email and mobile it will be good to catch up and reminisce like the 2 old duffers we now are, 63 yesterday where does time go? Take care good luck with all your moving plans. Mick
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Will do Mike, stay happy!! :)
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Just found this, joined HMS Raleigh on September 27th 1971. In Collingwood 155 I think. Read though this and brought back many memories good and some not so good. Went on and served 15 years so not that bad. Left as a CY in 1986.
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Nice one mike and thanks for reading. Well done for 15 years I managed 10 and came out as a killick jack dusty. For the past 30+ years I’ve worked in social care and I’m now the oldest youth worker in the world (well it feels that way sometimes). Hope life is good! Alan
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Thanks for getting back. After leaving I served 22 years with the Fire Service Essex 13 years and South Yorkshire 9. Now retired and living back in Plymouth with my wife, two kids their spouses and three granddaughters so yes life is good thanks. What about you? Mick
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Sounds great mike well done sir! We have three daughters and nine grandkids dispersed in Oz, Wales and geordieland. Our granddaughter Katie in geordieland is pregnant which is very exciting so we are moving back to that area mid November from Wales. At 63 I’m hoping for a three day week in the north and have applied for another youth worker job. We’ll be mortgage free up there so pressure is off. Life’s good. I have mowgli our Indian stray we found when living in goa eleven years ago. We also had two nice years in Gibraltar when I was in the mob and still have connections there. Good to chat mike. Alan
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Hi, I too did 2 years in Gib commcen in the dockyard attached to Rooke, lived in Edinburgh House. My daughter Zoey was born in RNH and registered in Gib too. I was there from 1975 came home early in Oct 76. Mick
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Small world mick we were there 76/77 and our daughter BENITA was born in RNH in July 77 under the guiding eye of Colonel Price. Fab draft I was at Rooke and we lived 21 Ed House
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I’ve emailed direct, hope you don’t mind with mob number if you what to chat about the “good old days”
Mick
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Hi mike. Cheers for that I’m a bit behind with emails with the packing, the job searching and tying up loose ends for my replacement here. Will get to the mails soon and answer. Though it might be late tonight or tomorrow morning. Hope ur well. Alan
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Thank you Alejandro :)
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That was a cracking read, cheers. I joined up in the first week of November 1971 the memories just flooded back.
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Nice one John, I’m glad you enjoyed the trip back. They were heady days for us as young matelots, so exciting. This chapter is an ongoing story (1971-1981) and hopefully I’ll get back to writing again soon. Take care. Alan
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PS. You mentioned three ships in your blog which made my eyes pop.
My first ship as an OD stoker was Diomede, I flew to Hong Kong in April 1972 to join her. Then from 74-76 I was on the Ark Royal coming off as a killick stoker. Then I served on Fearless including the Falklands was as a PO stoker.Wow small world.
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The catering Scandal went right throughout the Pusser, the biggest racketeer was george Norrey the Chandler in Pompey. There were over 120 Courts marshall – cathcart was the name everybody remembered the investigation Stopped at the Commander level!
In raleigh the same time as both of you – left 99 ex WOSA, it got better if you stuck it out!
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I’m amazed I didn’t know a thing about it but then I was a naive 16 year old at the time. It must have been quite something with 120 courts martials going on! Great comment!
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Yes it is a small world John but then I think the Royal Navy always was a very close knit institution, someone always knew someone somewhere because we all moved around ships and bases so often. Two of my ships were Leander Class frigates (Scylla and Danae) and the guys on Leanders were almost blood brothers. I’ve never come across such comrarderie (dodgy spelling there) since going back into Civvy Street. Part of me often grieves for that.
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I,ve lost two shipmates recently, both suffering from throat cancer.Asbestos lagging on some of the RN ships at the time has caused many health problems amongst poor old Jan Docky.There have been many claims for compesation due to asbestos related health issues.In many cases the result has been an early death.Well the dockyard workers worked with this awful material, but poor old Jack had to live in it.Breathing the fibres in as he slept in his messdeck.One of my patients has plural thickening.It is worse than plural plaques,but because he was a matelot and left before a certain date,he cant claim a penny.Good old Pusser!
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That’s so sad Digger and a dreadful way for someone’s life to end. And the fact that Pusser closed it’s ears doesn’t surprise me a bit. When they’ve had what they want they discard what’s left.
If you continue reading you’ll find in later chapters that my sole reason for leaving was a Pusser without compassion. I was based in Gibraltar in 1976 and my daughter was potentially terminally ill (she didn’t die). But when I asked for compassionate leave to go home to Newcastle they told me no – not unless she dies.
My thoughts are with you for your shipmates Digger.
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I was at Raleigh from end of August 71 till early March 72 as a trainee.The main thing that has stuck in my mind all these years is the abominable quality of the pig swill they called food.Everything tasted of vinegar.If you found a piece of bacon with any meat on it you were a lottery winner.I lost well over a stone in weight while I was there.I could not bring myself to eat the shit that was servred up to us unsuspecting trainees.It was some time after I left that I heard about a scam that was going on at the time ,involving the supply officer and some of the catering staff.They were given £2,000 a week to feed the recruits.Unfortunatly it was a classic case of ,one for you and two for me.The officer and staff concerned were pocketing £1,000 of it to be shared amongst themselves,while poor little troggy survived on the crap that was purchased with the remainder. I can still remember my first meal after having arrived at Raleigh at 9am,I did’nt get anything to eat till 9pm.It was POT MESS of course.Mince,tinned tomatoes and spaghetti all thrown into a large container and heated.Of course it had a strong taste of vinegar.All the food tasted of vinegar ,always,no matter what it was.And there was the bromide.Enough to kill and elephant.In the tea of course.I lived out of the naaffi
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Ha ha Digger, thanks for that and how right you are. I certainly remember the bromide although I’d forgotten about the vinegar. I’m amazed to hear about the scam in the supply department; a £1000 a week in 1971 must have been a fortune – it’s still a fortune now! I’m surprised they got away with it.
Pot Mess? Yes I remember it well…’Baby’s heads’ and anything else from a tin mixed up in a pot. Pretty disgusting but I suppose it was a belly filler.
I’m glad you sent me that comment Digger, it actually came in 40 years to the day that I arrived at Raleigh so it’s pretty special. Many thanks. Alan.
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It was the perfect scam.The new recruits would’nt say boo to a goose let alone complain about the food.They were buying meat unfit for human consumption and lacing it with vinegar,then mincing it all up.This was a well known way to preserve and kill bacteria in meat that was on the turn ,used during the war when there was rationing.Caterers and chef’s were all involved in the fraud and on the payroll.I remember listening to the news report.I think the supply officer involved was a LT CDR Cathcart and there was an enquiry and presumably courts marshall.The main items on the menu were , Mince,Tinned tomatoes ,baked beans and spaghetti and the desert was mostly sponge pudding and custard with virtually no sugar.Cheap and tastless and the meat bordering on fetid.All the savoury items laced with vinegar.So much for the good old Pusser looking after the boy,s.
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Wow I didn’t know it was that serious – courts martial eh? I missed that somehow. But now that you mention it I have to agree at not being impressed with the food at Raleigh either; that first meal was pretty disgusting particularly for young lads who had just left Mum’s cooking behind.
As you probably know, having been reading my blog, I was at Raleigh from 27 September 1971 for 6 weeks before moving on to Pembroke but was more consumed by home sickness to think about what I was eating. I suppose Digger, that since we are both still alive and kicking, we probably owe our survival to our early days at Raleigh where we may have developed an immunity to rancid food?
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From Digger via Email:
Al, I hope you dont mind my venting my spleen on your site.Raleigh was not all a bundle of fun for me.I remember one poor lad in my class who was mercilessly bullied.It was criminal what that young lad endured.It resulted in him leaving and the asshole who delighted in being the bully boy,going on to find another victim.Still I s’pose that was life in a blue suit cheers Digger
Reply to Digger from Alan
Digger. I don’t mind one iota you venting your spleen on my site in fact I’m delighted. So delighted I’ll be cutting and pasting your email and publishing it. I think the truth is far more important than waffling on with rosy glasses and it’s fantastic for me to read your account of a period that I experienced. By all means Phil if you read anything in my memoirs which you feel you’d like to comment on please do. I applaud you for it. Alan
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Hi,have just enjoyed reading your post,i was at Raleigh same time Oct/Nov 1971.Was Junior assistant steward 2″nd class!.Came out in 78 as L/std,now living in North Yorks.Jim Kelly.
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Hi Jim and thanks for your comment. It’s been quite enjoyable recollecting memories of Raleigh; although it was 40 years ago it sometimes still seems like yesterday. I came out of regular service at the same time as you in 1978 (small world) as a LSA. I live in Newark, Nottinghamshire now and work in a local children’s home. Great to make your acquaintance. Alan
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