Choice's, Choice's.

Type 21 Frigate

I joined my next class of trainees and continued through my training at Collingwood, it wasn’t long before I had finished this phase of my training and looking forward to joining my first ship.
The navy at the time was in a transition period and all the new ships being built were much smaller and they were powered and driven by gas turbines this was the class 21 frigate. One day as part of my training we had an away day trip to the Dockyard at Portsmouth we had the opportunity to have a look around one, HMS Active she was very modern and I thought “yes this would do me very nicely thank you, unfortunately picking where you wanted to go was not quite that easy.
It was only a few days later that we were all instructed on how to fill in a Drafting Preference Card, not so simple. This was provided we were told, to provide the navy with the information that they could use to ensure that sailors were, as much as could be possibly guaranteed a choice in there own future. The form was simple enough!
“What naval port do you want? What type of ship do you want? However the form then became like a bookies slip, give your preference in order of preference, is the port more important than the ship? Give your type of ship preference; if your preference of ship is deploying to a foreign port is this more important? The form was well presented and on completion, you had provided enough information for them to put you were they liked! It made you feel that you had been given the choice.
I waited with baited breath to find what square hole they were going to put this round peg in.
Eventually the day came when we were all given our sealed envelopes. There had been lots of hype about the outcome of our Christmas lists and many were expecting to get there dream, that was, to be drafted to the ship they wanted and the port they wanted. I had asked for the new type 21 frigate running from Portsmouth, they gave me Portsmouth which was fine, and they gave me HMS Glamorgan a county Class Destroyer.

HMS GLAMORGAN

I was ignorant of what type of ship she was so I thought that will do me I suppose. Others got there dream but some trainees got the equivalent of a car ferry running from Largs, there was some tears.

Body odour, or just imagination

Returning to the camp was a relief there was now purpose to my life again and the solemnity of the previous weeks was soon behind me and humour was again breaking through the clouds.
I was no longer with the same class of trainees as I had previously, they had moved on to different subjects and I had no way of catching up, so, there was now a slight predicament what to do with me until I could pick up were I had left off with the next class.
It was going to be several weeks because of the forthcoming leave periods. The list of jobs I could have been given was vast and many were interesting, I didn’t want to be gate staff as that meant shift work and being so junior I would have no doubt had the permanent night shift. I could have been given the harbour training ship; at least that would have felt like a step nearer, actually being in the navy. The armoury could have been good fun, loads of time on the ranges. No, none of these jobs were for me.

I started at the “Piggery” the very next morning. Collingwood had its own pig farm, they had dozens of pigs and they all needed feeding and cleaning out. Talk about shit jobs, I had never seen a pig but I imagined them to be a reasonably small and docile animal, I was not prepared for what I met, the most awesome bad tempered porkers in the world, and “shit” you would have to see it to believe it, these monsters threw it out horizontally, sometimes several feet.
Looking back there should have been a health and safety induction for the job, they could bite hard, stand on your feet, squash you against any movable or immovable object, they could urinate over you, shit on you and if they were in an amorous mood well, I’m not even going to go there.
The first job of the day was to visit each dining hall in turn to recover all the slops from the previous day’s meals and also that morning’s breakfast, it included all perished food, raw food and grease that had or hadn’t made it to the ovens.
We then placed the tons of waste food into a container that was poured down a chute were we had to run our hands through it to remove any cutlery, glass, salt sellers or Iranians that might have got into the slop by accident.
It was amazing some of the stuff that was recovered from the slop; the slop was then boiled for a long time in a pressure vessel were it was maintained at a set temperature.
This was the time when we cleaned out the pig pens, after the pigs had been removed, I must add. Nothing had prepared me for this task; it’s not like picking up horse crap from fresh straw or even picking up after your dog. This was almost biological warfare, all in one overalls, worn, so the legs were outside the wellies, never mind a pitch fork to pick it up, this stuff was just like the porkers had been on vindalloo, come to think of it they probably had been. It had to be diluted with water to get it down the drains; I was brushing, whilst up to my knees in it for over an hour.
The most dangerous time of the day was when the pigs were at the troughs, the food when ready was piped from the pressure vessel along pipe work to the many feeding stations, the pigs knew it was coming, it was the time to make sure you were well out of their way.
The only good thing about the job was I finished early, however any time gained was lost in the shower trying to be rid of the smell.
Eating in the dining hall never had the same attraction again. I always thought I could smell the pigs and I was also sure other people could smell them as well.

It was probably just imagination.

SEA DANCER

After the initial shock and pain of the hospital visit my instincts guided me to be there for my dad, after all I was not in any position to help my mum, only prayer and time is going to provide a prognosis. The first night passed, with no change, however I was told that was good, the days followed on until I had been there for over two weeks, the life threatening injuries were under control and my mum was out of danger.
My relationship with my dad was pretty much as normal, however, I knew he was grieving, after all he had lost the physical and able person he had fallen in love with. My mum had survived beyond expectations and the scars would heal, but she was looking at a life in a wheel chair with the possibility of double incontinence.
My mother had also been in the Navy, having been several years as a cook before leaving to ply her new found trade on the unexpecting public, she was very tallented, she made all her own clothes and unfortunately mine as well as I grew up.
She was a fabulous dancer, very good looking and would not get the chance to sit down if she was at the dancing. She became a very popular barmaid, the best woman darts player in the town and almost unbeatable dominoe player. Betty as she was known was never to be the same again.
I decided to return to HMS Collingwood, knowing she was on the mend and going to be eventually transferred to a paraplegic unit in an Edinburgh hospital.

It was to be a changing point in all our lives.

High Dependency Unit

Arrival in Scotland didn’t have that, “you take the high road and I’ll take the low road feel about it this time”.
I met my father at our home, it felt a bit like meeting the Captain, for the first time in my life I was unsure of what I was going to say, I was unsure of my Mums circumstances and it made for an uncomfortable atmosphere, I have to explain, my father had been in the Royal Navy for over twenty seven years and had left prior to me joining, we had never been close and on many occasions I think I joined to get out of his way. We had never had much to say to each other and here we were both suffering in our own emotions.
My Dad had never shown any feeling or emotion so he was always hard to measure. Dad was an orphan, his own mother had died shortly after child birth and for many years he thought she had died during child birth. He was the last born of five sisters and three brothers; they were all split up and grew up in foster care and children’s homes.
He was in a state, unshaven and smelling of alcohol, he looked like he had not slept, his eyes were bloodshot and he had obviously not been to bed. “how is mum, what happened, where is she,” all the questions that had been going through my head all night were now coming out, not giving him any time to answer. Is she alive?
For the first time in my life I could see my Dads eyes welling up. “Mum has been in an accident in her car, she is critical but alive, she has broken her back in three places along with several other bones, she lost a lot of blood through bad cuts to her face, skull and other injuries”. “She is in Edinburgh Infirmary; you can visit any time you want.”
I don’t know why, but I was expecting him to put his arms around me, he never did.

I arrived at the hospital alone, everything was all a haze but I still remember being asked my age and was I alone. The doctor in charge insisted I should be escorted as it was my first visit and it may be upsetting.
Many emotions were entering and leaving my mind and I wondered if I was really mature enough to carry this out, the nurse took me through to the high dependency unit, where I was taken to my mothers bed side, her face was unrecognisable as a face and certainly not of anyone that I had known.
Fortunately she was maintained in an unconscious state; even in 1975 the ward looked state of the art and the machines were everywhere around her. I only stayed for a few moments, it was enough!
I asked the doctor what was happening and what her chances of survival were going to be, he said “ 50/50 but lets just take one day at a time, if she makes it through the night then the chances will increase.”
The next three weeks saw her out of danger but. My mums body had been damaged so much that she was never going to fully recover.

Homophobic Era

Although in training and still the complete green horn, life as a trainee was becoming more bearable, naval traditions and some unnecessary bullshit was still being applied but in general I was having a good time. Evenings were spent at the NAAFI listening to the same music over and over again; Collingwood accommodation had television rooms which were really ITV or BBC smoking chambers, a most unpleasant way to enjoy an evening.
Generally after the days class work, I played sport for an hour, shower and changed into smart clean civilian clothing and then it was off to evening dinner. There was a dress code even when in relaxed mode. Jeans and sports clothing was not acceptable, not even to eat a meal.
HMS Collingwood had four dining halls for junior rates, the camp had thousands of trainees, thousands into four meant organised chaos, the food was different in each dining room and the menu was always known the day before.
It was sometimes easier to take the most unpopular choice just to not have to stand in a queue for twenty minutes. Vegetarianism was not an option in the navy in fact it would have probably been seen as self inflicted injury and would have warranted some form of punishment.

While I was there, the camp was being used by the MOD to train up the Iranian Navy. I believe it was part of a package in preparation to selling on our old and spent ships. It was not uncommon to see two men holding hands, or even kissing, part of there culture we were told, but in 1975 homophobia was the accepted normal attitude by the general public, but it was still extreme in the services.
Any negative interaction would have been treated most severely, misdemeanour, it would have been less of an offence to have been caught shagging the captains daughter behind the NAFFI.
So it was definitely hands off the Iranians.
Training was entering its final stages with only a few weeks to go before passing out. One afternoon I was told to report to the command building, it was half way through a lesson on transformer rectifiers and totally unexpected, I was escorted by my divisional officer and we marched together for what seemed like an eternity, my head was full of anxiety and I never spoke, all my exam results had been average or above and I was sure I had not done anything wrong. My divisional officer, who I had spoken to only on one other occasion remained quiet and gave no indication of why I had been summoned, we arrived to be escorted to the captains office were we entered almost straight away.

The situation seemed totally bizarre to me, however I knew that there must be something wrong. The captain stood as I entered the room and welcomed me as if he had known me forever, “sit down we have had some bad news” he said, “your mother has been in a car crash and is critical in an Edinburgh hospital”, his face was open and he paused for a second for my reaction, it was as he expected I believe, I burst into tears, I was still only sixteen and control over my emotions had not yet matured.
Sobbing uncontrollably he continued to speak, however I had stopped listening. My next recollection was sitting in the guards van, beside the mail sacks on the night train to Scotland, still quietly sobbing.

The Matter Horn

Physical training was still compulsory but in addition I started doing karate, the style was Kyokushinkai. Kyokushin is deeply rooted in the philosophies of self-improvement, discipline and hard training. In this form of karate, students all must take part in hard sparring to prepare them for full contact fighting.
Unlike some forms of karate, kyokushin places high emphasis on full contact fighting which is done without any gloves or protective equipment. This apparent brutality is tempered somewhat by the fact that you are not allowed to use a non-kick or non-knee strike to hit your opponent in the face, this greatly reduced the possibility of serious injury. Knees or kicks to the head and face, on the other hand, are allowed.
When I took up the discipline bare knuckle punching had just been banned.
I continued the training for many years even though club membership was not an option because of my navy commitments. I did however continue to do my training at sea when the opportunity allowed. On many occasions I would be found in the lotus position in an engineering compartment somewhere in the bowels of one of her majesty’s ships. One of the first times my wife met me I had been running along the cliff tops on the Isle of White in my Gi. I must have looked like I had escaped from HM Prison Parkhurst.

LOTUS POSITION

















Part two training continued at a pace, but lots of opportunities to play football, rugby, go swimming or even canoeing.
Adventure training is always part of every planned training period; it gives the divisional system a chance to assess leadership potential and participants to learn team work and leadership skills. Our class went to the New forest were we helped to refurbish an old farm building.
It was so cold that on the first night I put my sleeping bag inside a plastic survival bag, in the morning I was so wet inside my bag I thought I had wet myself, when I found out I wasn’t the only one who had the problem it was pointed out that it was because the body moisture had been unable to escape.
We slept in tents for the weekend; I shared with a Weegie called Ziggy, why Ziggy, I don’t know his second name was Barber normally that would give him a nickname of Ali. Anyway Ziggy was a laugh and was always telling jokes but he did have a habit of getting in the shit, to wise for his own good! He spent the weekend in the forest growing the most enormous zit on his chin; we actually started a sweep stake to see when it would burst.
We arrived back at the camp on Monday night and the zit was still holding out, it was massive and had deformed the side of Ziggys face but he was scared to go to the sick bay incase they lanced it.
Wednesday arrived and it was fanny night at the Collingwood club.










The Matter horn was now bright red and it looked as if there was more than one head but no peak, but it was yellow all around the tops, obviously full of puss.
Ziggy would normally hold the dance floor for the whole evening when he danced, he was good, it never mattered to him weather or not there was woman dancing at the same time.
Bye tea time he was in so much pain and the thought of not going to the club was so overwhelming he new that something had to be done, we tried a bread poltis, no, all he did was scream and kept taking it off.
In the end we tied him voluntary to his bed; he wanted someone to punch him, that didn’t seam an option, so we agreed that on the count of three I would squeeze it. Bye this team we had an audience, poor old Ziggy, we counted to two at least four times and he kept on backing out. In the end his head was held in a grip and I just grabbed it, it wouldn’t burst. Ziggy was screaming and I had to release him, it looked really angry now and had defiantly changed shape. Tears were running down his face, he wasn’t crying, it was the pain making his eyes water. I made a final grab squeezing as hard as I could between both my thumbs, it gave, not once but twice there was two separate heads, the relief on his face I’ll never forget, there was puss everywhere.
We all went dancing.

A Night at the Opera.

It was 1975, Queen were at No1 with the vinyl single Bohemia Rhapsody, President Ford was trying to regain public respect after “tricky dickey’s” Vietnam nightmare and his demise in the Watergate cover-ups. The Cold War was being hyphenated by SALT agreements and Margaret Thatcher was elected Prime Minister to the disbelief of the Labour Party.
Smellys of the year were Old spice, Charlie and Brute, Curley perms were the in hair fashion for men and just imagine how sleazy they looked in the, in fashion, garish, lounge suits.

Der-dum, der-dum, der-dum-dum-dum-dum, make a guess at the movie of the year? Television had a manic hotelier demonstrating how not to run a hotel, “Fawlty towers”. And in even lighter entertainment, a man with a cigar was making children's dreams come true. Yes! “Jim L’ fix it”.
“Bob Marley and the Wailers” raised the profile of the devoted Rastafarian and paved the way for a reggae explosion in Britain. The Beatles officially dissolved their partnership in 1975.
Children’s toy of the year was, “The basic Lego Set”.

I joined HMS Collingwood for professional training; this was going to be my “bread and butter” for the rest of my naval career, no different to going to college really but with the added interest of being paid and learning how to kill a man in unarmed combat.
Duties were more often and even more tedious, picking up litter in given area’s, standing on street corners and noting which classes were misbehaving while marching and the best one was the fire duty.
When you were fire duty you got to sleep rough in a designated building, go to the front of the dinner queue and if required run what in effect could have been anything up to a mile with a tin hat pushing a heavy trailer full of axes buckets and spades and hose reels.
There were some other duties, which all included cleaning or carrying out ceremonials, like raising and lowering the flags and opening and shutting gates but none were sought after. The further through the training, the less duties you got unless you had been found guilty of certain misdemeanours and in these cases you got shit loads of duties, one of which was getting caught trying to get your leg over on the camp, I hasten to add there was a WREN division at Collingwood, this was one misdemeanour that was popular but the Camp Captains daughters were definitely off limits.

Training began with the absolute basics, ohms law and all the other physics associated with the movement of atoms and collection of charges. I never did physics at school so it was all new and I found it all interesting.

AC followed DC theory, then motors, generators and switchgear, class work was interesting and the instructors even more so. Some instructors were young and keen others old knowlegable and humerous the mix was good.

We marched between school and every other instruction and in the usual manner voices would come from hidden places and windows "take charge of that class, class leader, get in step, bring that class to halt report to me."

Nothing different to HMS Raleigh but now we had to worry about misdemeanours!

The Bumpton Fire Department was alive and kicking.

Admiral Lord Collingwood

HMS Royal Sovereign

HMS Collingwood was calling, and part two of my initial training, this is where I found out I was going to be called a greenie! Nothing to do with my night of passion at Kinghorn, no, greenie was the old and colourful name given to Electrical Engineers because they were recognised by a thin green line on their sleeve. This was the tradition with other branches of the navy as well, only the medical branch carried on the tradition in today’s navy, but for some reason they were never called redies.

HMS Collingwood is coveted in naval tradition, the fourth and last in a long line of ships named after Admiral Lord Collingwood; he had a long and distinguished career in the Napoleonic period of naval history and was second in command to Nelson at Trafalgar, flying his flag in HMS Royal Sovereign he was the first to engage the enemy fleet during the battle. Nelson and Collingwood were great friends throughout their careers.

After Trafalgar he was in charge of a massive fleet in the Mediterranean, blockading both the Spanish and French fleets and slowly draining Napoleon’s resources and his ability to wage war.

The camp had a history as well:

HMS Collingwood was built as a new entry training establishment for "hostilities only' ratings of the Seaman Branch. It was built on wet and boggy corn land in the 1940’s.

HMS COLLINGWOOD was under the Command of a Commodore; training began a week later commisioning, with batches of about 1000 trainees joining every 3 weeks for a 10-week course. In 1946 the Electrical branch was formed and HMS COLLINGWOOD took over from HMS VERNON and other establishments for the training of officers and ratings, except those of the Fleet Air Arm, in the maintenance of all electrical and radio equipment in the Fleet.
Subsequently, the Branch assumed additional responsibility for weapons and became known as the Weapon and Radio Branch and later, the Weapon and Electrical Engineering Branch. In 1979, as a result of the restructuring of the whole Engineering Branch, it became the Weapon Engineering Sub-Branch, passing Electrical Generation and Distribution to the Marine Engineering Sub-Branch.
In 1963 a programme was put in hand to replace, over a period of 25 years, all the original huts with new buildings and modern facilities. Tall 60's-style Junior Ratings' Accommodation Blocks were opened by HRH The Princess Margaret in 1966.

Where do I come in, In 1975, after my first leave. My official title was now Junior Electrical Mechanic Second Class, they couldn’t go any lower than that, but I was pleased to know I now had a place on the career ladder.HMS Collingwood had the biggest parade ground in Europe and even though I was now entering the professional part of my training, I was later to find out that I was going to do a few miles marching around it.

The Hound of the Baskerville

The evening was enjoyable several beers a Chinky then home to bed, I never seen my parents until the next day, it was as if I had never been away. I was reminded several times about my use of expletives by my dad, and told to turn my music down and stop banging doors by my mum.
My Dad said he understood that it was hard to get out of the habit of barrack room talking.
Weegies say fuck without pausing for breath, they say it in between every second word and it is generally followed by shit or some other expletive. I think people swear to create a masculine identity, I also believe expletives carry connotations of lower classes and lower economic standing. So it was understandable that after nearly four months with the "Tourette Syndrome Clan", that I had found a new way of describing everything. They would probably describe Fifers in exactly the same way!
I had a fortnight, lots of money and I just wanted to party, the only problem I had was that most of my friends were unemployed, fixed up or skint, there was an apathy setting in on them which surprised me. I noticed they bought drinks singularly and they lasted long after the fizz had gone. Even still, conversation was lively and humorous; we talked about most things, we put the world to rights and of course argued about footy.
Most of my leave was spent sitting in front of the telly at home with my Dad working shifts and My Mum at the Pub. Family social interaction was non-existent.
Friday night came round quickly, and it was off to Kinghorn for a few bevies in the Ship tavern and later to the Cuinzie Neuk to listen to a live band. I ended the night getting a lumber, well It was to help my friend Alan Hunter out.
There was two girls, Weegies of course! Alan begged me to go with the ugly one, just so he could get his leg over, of course I obliged, we set off for the caravan sight, via the back door of the COOP bakery I always need to eat after a few drinks and after all it was late and I needed something to occupy myself on the long walk to the caravan sight with the hound of the Baskervills, It was going to be energy sapping.
No need to go into details but I ended up more than energy sapped and Hunter begged me to tell our friends that he was a real stud.
I got home just in time for breakfast, my Mum was very annoyed that I had stayed out all night. She didn’t believe I had been playing football and I suppose the love bites were a bit of a give away.
Nothing else really happened on that leave, other than the Hound of Baskerville came looking for her knickers that I had taken as a trophy, it was an embarrassing scene, I told her it must have been Hunter because he was that way inclined.
I have never seen him again since that night.

THE HOUND

Eight stone of kit bag

The journey back to Scotland and Burntisland was longer than the journey down; the train seemed to stop everywhere! I was returning to what I was expecting to be a great welcome home, after all I had been away for months.
I was full of banter with the people I was meeting on the journey, I wanted everyone to know what I was, what I had experienced, what I was going to do.
The journey passed quite quickly, I suppose, helped along by a few tins of beer, well maybe more than a few.
On arriving home the smell in the air seemed different, and the wind was blowing, there was no one to meet me but I didn’t expect there to be really, it would have been nice all the same.
The time taken from the station to the house would have been covered in record time, but I was hindered by my Pussers green suitcase and eight stone of kitbag, to anyone watching it must have looked amusing.
I arrived to an empty house and an empty high street, my parents were both working, it was now early evening and I knew that the local “Palace de dance” would open around eight o’ Clock, I was desperate to meet up with my old school friends.

I dressed appropriately for a Saturday evening on the town.
The night club hadn’t changed in forty years and the original bouncers were still at the door, I was well known in the town and having a mother as a bar maid in a local pub was as good as a golden handshake to get in.
On this occasion, however, sods law, I was stopped, the bouncer, who I knew well, didn’t recognise me, the naval skinhead haircut didn’t help, it was near the point of no admission when I reminded him who my mother was and he remembered me and with a cuff round the back of the head I was in.
I set about looking for my friends, most of whom had left school at sixteen just like me.
They were all there in the various groups some were glad to see me, I got the usual comments, in what was lovely to hear, spoken in a fife slang, “your talking Weegie, have you been away then, how much do you get paid”.
It was nice to be home, I never stopped blethering, and by the end of the evening I felt that I had dusted out the foreign language and had reverted to being a Fifer.

The Gunners daughter

We all new where we where being drafted too, that was defined right back at the beginning on that very nervous day in the Edinburgh recruitment centre. My test results were not good enough to let me join as an apprentice, but I had been offered to join at the dizzy height of Junior Electrical Mechanic Second Class, I can’t remember my response at the time, I suppose I was just glad to have been accepted.
HMS Collingswood was my destination, but not until after Friday Divisions, and, a two week period of leave, I was going home, two weeks seemed a long time, I was looking forward to seeing my family and friends for the first time in months.

Left, right, left, right, lefffft, the parade ground seamed more acceptable now, it wasn’t the alien territory any more. The GI’s all had personalities now and nobody had kissed the “Gunners Daughter”! It rained, it shined and it blew a gale no matter what the weather, the Chief GI was determined we would not to let ourselves down on Friday, what he really meant was we would not let him down!
Friday came and went so quickly, a lot of razzmatazz, a very poor quality Royal Marines band, the drummer of which must have been pissed as nobody was in step when the GI screamed “March on the Guard”, after a few marching passe's the beat was recognised and the echo from the surrounding buildings was filtered out. So there we were standing in the heat of the day for over two hours. We were inspected over and over again as if something might have changed in the time we were stood there.


The ceremonial salute went well, it was the local Mayor or something, elected from the ranks of the local round table no doubt. He was probably an ice cream man by day!
My most lasting memory of the day was that my parents hadn’t managed to come to see me pass out, I promised myself that it was just a matter of fact, however, it was a solemn feeling.


The gunner daughter:
Naval slang for the gun to which men or boys were lashed for punishment.

Marching Men and Sinking Ships

Marching Men Sinking Ships

Parade training was now intense, we were using rifles now on the parade ground, this was to practice marching with a gun and also to practice our ability to salute with a weapon, this was in preparation for our passing out parade. The next time we were on divisions we would be the guard of honour.
Time had moved on and now it was our turn to laugh at the new entries in their awkward ways, saluting the wrong people and tripping over each other.

We were spending more of our time with adventure training, compass reading, hill climbing and still those early morning runs, waking up the bootie's before going to breakfast.
A weekend sleeping rough in the Welsh Brecon Beacons orienteering and eating Pussers ration packs this provided a different type of break from the normal. The walking was tiring but we did manage to get a night at a local bar, no lassie’s this time, just old Welsh sheep farmers and the local ale. We had heard stories! We laughed at the thought and even though the sheep looked tempting to some of the Weegie’s, they were so pissed that the sheep were quite safe.

We looked forward to range training, using the different types of weapons, it was quite frightening at first but it became fun as confidence grew in our own abilities to overcome the new and unknown, I managed to excel on the firing range, enough to be awarded my marksmanship badge.

On one day we went fire fighting in a mock ship, oil fires of all different sizes were started throughout the ship. Tackling blazing, fires between decks was not easy and the training we were given provided a good insight into what to expect if it were ever to happen in real life. It was obvious now, more than ever since I had arrived in Plymouth that team work was so important.
Every day there was new tasks to complete, new things to learn including the (Naval language), Jack speak , it was so strange, completly new and very explicit but I knew it was the way of communicating, and it would be for the forseable future.

The training I knew had to be tough and realistic to provide the reality that was required to ensure that, even though recruits, on reaching our first ship we would hit the ground running.

Another day was spent on another mock ship, this occasion the task was to prevent it sinking. We approached the task with huge enthusiasm, mallets, wooden bungs, shrapnel boxes and wooden spars. The exercise starts with an explosion, the water starts rising straight away it is coming out of holes in the bulkhead out of broken pipe work and through hatch covers, the task was to stop it before it got to a certain level. Unfortunately we sunk, and unfortunately the consolation bag meal that we had for lunch never made up for the disappointment.

The ship was just a box on hydraulic legs that tipped as the water came in, it was very realistic, and as the water was rising it became more important to stop the leaks, especially when the level reached just below the family jewels, alarm bells, sirens, flashing lights caused a total cacophony, then there was no lights, we tried in vain to stem the flow of water in the dark but to no avail.

The time had almost come for our Part One training to end, HMS Raleigh was now embedded in our lives and it was a period that will never be forgotten. I was still just a boy but inside I felt I had almost come of age. Friendships were built and the shared experiences of that short time together were to provide strong bonds.

It was our last week and on the Wednesday we were due to do NBCD training and the dreaded Gas chamber, we had been fitted for our new Gas masks in the third week and now they had arrived it was time to see if they worked.

The masks had a small disc on the side like a key ring, it had our official identity number, date of birth and our religion, not a nice thought!

We marched to the gas chamber with trepidation, the fear of the unknown, it was probably the slowest pace possible without it being blatantly obvious.

On arrival we found it was another box, this time it was made of stone with a concrete lid and it had a very strong looking metal door. On entering, the feelings of nervousness were quite overpowering, the Petty Officer who was doing the dirty deed was very jovial, "nothing to worry about there is a 100% passmark required for this test he said in a protensious manner", funny guy, I thought!

We were instructed in the correct way to put a gas mask on, "any other way would not be effective", he said. As fast as _ _ _ _, was my interpretation of that comment.

The gas used was CS gas, we all had to get inside the room which meant it was busy in there, the exit was closed, we were informed that once we had proved that the mask worked, we were to remove our masks and take a lung full of gas and then vacate the compartment as quick as possible. that needn't have been said, my bodies natural reactions I knew were going to kick in.

The gas pellet was lit, and we all just stood around looking vacantly at each other, "Gas, Gas, Gas" was shouted, on went the mask having to release it from it's haversack. Two lads ran for the door straight away "to slow shouted the Petty Officer", he was grinning to himself.

We stood around for a few minutes It felt hot in there, and I could feel a burning sensation on my skin, "don't rub it Wedge, you will make it worse"!

The time had arrived "take off your masks, breath in and then leave in an orderly fashion", leaving was easy, but certainly not in an orderly fashion, survival mode kicked in, we all went for the door at the same time, arms were thrashing to reach the exit first, the room was very small but the door seemed so far away.

Eventually outside vomiting seemed the most common response, burning eyes, breathlessness, there were sailors falling over, running around and some were crying, "sounds like a night on Union street", I thought, eventually composure was regained, I was glad that it was over, never again I thought.

The two lads who ran for the door had to re-enter the box, they put their masks on before entering but they were now in the more unfortunate knowledgeable position of having seen the effects of the gas and they are going have to go through it.

After a few minutes they came flying back out and their reactions were as expected, this time it felt amusing to see, and now the Petty Officers earlier grin was understandable.

Pussers Ration Packs:

Survival food rations that come in different menu's, there is always a bar of chocolate, tea, a tin opener and some toilet paper the other ingredients vary, however, it usually all goes in one pot, even the pudding. the only thing missing is the christmas cracker joke to improve the moral.

Drugs, Alcohol and Venereal disease

The time past so quick that the light hearted banter took the evening, buying rounds of drinks was a new experience, never before had I the money or even the inclination to spend my time in this way. Ladies were showing great interest in the fresh faces in uniform, it would seem we were a great attraction even here as if they had never before seen a sailor. Likely they were interested in relieving us of more than our money.
There were six of us in all and that meant if we managed it, six pints would be consumed, this seemed to be a reasonable amount and we all agreed to retire in a soberly manner and return to camp after that point. Best laid plans of mice and men, the noise grew louder as the evening moved on, the old salts watched on in amusement as the next generation of pretenders followed on in their steps.
The sixth pint on the table and almost time to depart, I was being eyed by a good looking girl, we had caught eyes several times during the short time that we were in the bar, she had more courage than I because she made the first move, she had friends with her and they were egging her on. She stopped in front of me, while all around looked on silently, she said in a broad Janner accent, “can I touch yer dickie for luck”, my face must have been a picture and going red quickly. This was obviously not the first time she had said it and it was said in a fashion that it was obviously her party trick. I got the feeling all her friends knew what my reaction was going to be, the old salts were laughing into there beers at my obvious embarrassment. I replied “naw thanks”. The last pint went down quicker than the first and we left for the ferry back to Torpoint.
The evening had been great fun really and I was feeling quite encouraged by the young girls advances, we staggered our way along Union street and eventually sobered up enough to get back to HMS Raleigh and passed the gate staff. Others in the class had not been quite so lucky there were stories of vomiting, fighting and also one very expensive leg over, others never made it back in time and as a consequence we all suffered.
The next day started slow as most were “under the weather” but it was Saturday, everyone had been enthused at the enjoyment we had from our short period of relief from camp life. The weekend was our own but it was spent getting over the Friday night and preparing for whatever came next on Monday morning.

Captains Rounds:
We were informed that failure was just not acceptable, everything had to be cleaned, more than cleaned, all surfaces had to be spotless, all metal polished, windows without smears, curtains Ironed and tied with a white bow, heads and bathrooms squeaky clean, inside of overheads, carpets hoovered, beds made in good old naval fashion, the list was endless. We worked all night without sleep the end result was in our eyes, perfect, we finished off with a personal touch stacking all our hats like champagne glasses with the cap tallies facing the front.
While Captain’s rounds were being carried out we marched to the cinema, not to see the latest blockbuster, no, this was billed as Drugs, Alcohol and Venereal disease. After an hour of screwed up faces of horror I was glad yon lassie never got to touch ma dickie.

Not only had we passed rounds we had also won the Captains cake for the best Mess.
The cake was wonderful and in our enthusiasm and lack of plates we made an absolute mess, just in time for an impromptu visit from the accomodation Petty Officer who then rescrubbed the whole block because of the state of our mess. We were not popular. Who could imagine winning the cake and then rescrubbing all in the same day.


A Sailors Dickie:
Is the blue vest and collar that is worn by a sailor that hang over the back of his suit.
Historically worn to prevent tar from the pony tail getting on the clothes. The three white stripes on the collar are also historically said to commemorate the three battles won by Nelson.

In Naval folklore if a young maiden rubbed a sailors dickie it was supposed to bring them good luck.

Janner:
Any English person born within ten miles of the sea, especially someone from Plymouth

Under the weather:
During storms the lookout in the crows nest was pretty miserable, and he was continually soaked with cold, harsh spray, often causing him to become ill.

Rescrubbing:
This is the unpleasant act of doing the same actions all over again, usually after a failure.

Lady of the Night

The kit muster went well! Standing next to my bed, to attention, having just saluted and blurted out that I was ready for inspection, was on my list of worst ever experiences. I need not have worried, the inspecting Officer seemed to know how nervous I was, and he showed more interest in why I had wanted to be a sailor than in the quality of my hand stitching or sharpness of my creases.

Standing on parade or being inspected was becoming part of daily life but in the future when all the bullshit was over, it would become far less common an event. The operational and technical Royal Navy was different but without the initial training and discipline, the backbone, the essentials of the job could not have been achieved.

Having past with "flying colours" we were allowed to go “ashore”, Our first jaunt was not going to be to eventful we all had to go in uniform, be inspected before leaving on the Liberty boat (another blue bus), we also had to go in groups of no more than six and no less than four, we could not visit any public houses, tattoo artist or ladies of the night! “As if”!

Plymouth, the very home of the Royal Navy were pubs and red light area’s were only separated by tattoo artists was like a bright light to a moth. We arrived by way of the Torpoint ferry after a short bus ride from the camp.
We had to pass Aggie Westons on the way, we had been told about the Sailors rest by sea daddy as part of one of his “sea dits” it was nice to see part of naval history.
It wasn’t far to the centre of town and "Union Street", the forbidden land. The patrons of this area named it the strip as it was just one strait road with bars, dance halls, flashing lights and lots of ladies.
The fact that we were in our uniforms and were only sixteen was a slight hindrance but we stuck at it and were soon allowed into a bar.
Uniforms were not usually worn by off duty sailors so it made it very obvious that we were still in training and also underage.
The Naval patrols cruised the strip in search of anyone drunk or doing something that would bring the Navy into disrepute.
Keeping a low profile was going to be a priority. I had had alcohol before but not in any quantity, the hooching bars were full of "old salts" only to happy to be bought a beer and tell a story, I was more interested in sightseeing than listening.

Unfortunately we only had (Blue station cards), which meant like Cinderella we had to be back in past the camp gates by a set time, sometime it was refered to as cinderella leave, any fun and enjoyment was to be crushed into just a few hours, not a good idea when it was the first time as sailors we had seen alcohol and woman.

Liberty boat:
On most naval ships one of the boats is designated the Liberty boat, it would be used to transfer sailors for some leisure time to the nearest harbour, even on a shore establishment the tradition is carried on and it is possible to miss the liberty boat as it can just be a designated time.



Going ashore:
In the same manner can be the movement away from a ship or out of an establishment.


Flying Colours:
If a fleet won a clear victory the ships would sail back to port with their colours proudly flying from their masts.

"Sea Dit”:
Royal Navy expression for a tale, story or anecdote.
Sailors tend to “spin their dits” when feeling relaxed and sociable - often (in times past) after the mid-day issue of grog, or during a make and mend (a half day free of duties) or, best of all, when putting the world to rights in the bar of the Fleet Canteen . Some dits are tall tales, where accuracy may take second place to sensation. verification of the dits between eye witnesses to the events described were often wildly inaccurate.

Blue Station Card:
Blue station card was given to sailors under the age of seventeen and a half this card was to be handed in on returning from shore, the navy take the responsibility like parents to make sure that the younger sailors are tucked up in bed before a certain time.

Old Salts, Men who have spent most of there lives in and around the Royal Navy, always willing to share a dit and give advice.

Benbow an officer

Nearly 300 years ago, when the British Royal Navy was in its infancy, four Captains mutinied and left their Admiral to be destroyed by the enemy. His career in the Navy begins in 1678 fighting pirates in the Mediterranean. Before long he is driven out by his temper and harsh tongue, court martialled for insulting a fellow officer. He returns to the sea in command of his own merchantman and establishes his bloodthirsty reputation by delivering the heads of several pirates to the authorities in Cadiz.
In 1688 the Glorious Revolution finds him back in the Navy under William of Orange, fighting the French. He fearlessly takes floating bombs into enemy harbours and explodes them in an effort to destroy St. Malo and Dunkirk. As a Rear Admiral he is given the task of pursuing the French privateer Du Bart into the North Sea.
During the brief peace with France William sends him to the Caribbean to rid the West Indies of pirates. He chases the notorious Captain Kidd up the American coast till he is caught in Boston.
War with France resumes in 1701 and William sends Benbow back to the West Indies to intercept the Spanish galleons. Eventually he collides with his second in command, Colonel Richard Kirkby who leads three other captains in rebellion. The ensuing mutiny and trial are well detailed.
Despite overwhelming odds Benbow fought on. After his leg was destroyed by chain shot he had his wooden bed brought up to the ships Quarterdeck and continued to direct the battle from this remarkable command post.
This is a factual and historical account.

Benbow Block

Cross country runs, parade training, class work, marching, the days were just so full of exercise. Eat, there was no limit to what we could have, the galley was just time consuming but as long as you threw it down you could just about eat as much as you want, not such a good idea if the running or assault course was in the afternoon however, we did have those who tried.
We started to work as a team, we marched as one body, we played as one team, we worked as one unit and whenever tea was mentioned we all looked forward to a dip in the fanny together, real teamwork! We had lived in each other’s pockets now for almost six weeks. It was strange because we were in such close confines all the time we new each others families, each others likes and dislikes, we could understand each others moods, even those who you would not normally accept as a friend became someone to whome you would give your last Rollo.
Keeping standards high was becoming more than a personal achievement, now it was more of an community cause, if one fails we all fail, Looking back, this was institutionalising, I suppose we had just about achieved what was expected of us in first phase training.

At the end of six weeks we left our hut behind, we were moved to the futuristic building that was called Benbow block, the Weegies seemed more impressed than the rest of us at the move, carpets, single beds, toilet with doors, Fluorescent lighting and a hoover instead of a brush.

Now we could use the camp laundry and soon we would be allowed out of the hallowed gates from which we had been bound by our lowly status.

Within a week we got our first kit muster, we had to look at the seaman’s manual
to find out how to do it, my dirty pile was bigger than what I had laid out on my bed for the inspection. Everything had to be folded the same size as the seamans manual including the oilskin coat. (no way).


Bedding and every thing just had to be perfect, almost everything that we had been issued with had to be on show and in it's dedicated position according to the naval bible.
The accommodation was no exception we cleaned it from top to bottom, we cleaned the windows using newspaper and vinegar. The toilets were scrubbed, there was an air of doom, who was going to let the side down would we all fail, we had to stand by our beds as the inspection commenced I had a lump in my stomach and a sphincter muscle doing half a crown threepenny bit.

Pay and Parade

Losing track of time what week was it, I wasn't sure anymore, I had forgoten about home, I was starting to enjoy the life, all this adventure and they were paying us to do it. The first payday had come and gone, we all received the same, a casual payment it came to our hut with an officer and a very large dour faced Regulator (Navy Copper), we all had to sign for it.
The second time we got paid was different, Sea daddy had warned us to make sure our kit was spotless; we marched as usual, this time to the galley. We stood in line for what seemed an eternity while the line of sailors meandered around the place like a hoki-koki at a very large wedding. Eventually I arrived at the front, a Regulator barked “Off caps, one pace forward, name, ID No,” the money was counted out in front of me by an Officer and then unceremoniously dropped in my hat, “ right turn, one pace forward march,” I was then stood in front of the Master at Arms he made me recount my money, I could feel his eyes checking over my uniform for even the slightest imperfection.

Slops, was the camp clothing store nothing to do with pink, they always had a queue on pay day, people getting new boots or hats, I recon the Master at Arms got a take.

This happened every fortnight, I was paid £29, more money than I knew what to do with, I set up an allotment, sending my Mum £5, she received a book and she could cash it in at the post office, I never changed it until I got married many years later.

Marching drill was now everyday under the watchful eye of the Gunnery Chief and his Petty Officer Gunners,the collective name was GI's. We had to turn out in our best uniform and march around the parade ground once every two weeks for the leaving class. The GI's would be affronted if anything was not just Ship shape and Bristol fashion.
The Gunnery Chief was short with ginger hair and a ginger beard, it was obvious he enjoyed the power that went with his position, he used to promise that if anyone turned up on parade with better boots than his, they would be allowed a stay of execution and get the afternoon off, I never heard of anyone managing it.

We were lined up like the cutlery on the Queens dining table, we were inspected at least twice before we got near the parade ground and the at least another twice while we were there. Standing for always over an hour, and in any weather usually listening to the Royal Marines band playing historical moral building music, not very well!
Then the relief seeing the VIP return to the dais.

It’s amazing how, even after you have been immobile for so long, your legs can still move when the parade staff scream “by the left quick march”, it takes at least four steps before the blood gets down to the feet and by then, normally, no one is instep with anyone else. We always seemed to get a Gunnery Petty Officer to ourselves running up and down the line barking orders, we never managed to go around the parade ground in one, we had become so accustomed to the low waling voice from the dais area shouting out, “around again Sir”, our class Officer never seemed to mind, his marching was as bad as ours.

Sou Wester

Premature voluntary release, (PVR), it was used in most conversations between recruits, I expect it was because the training was hard and the discipline was probably a new concept to many. PVR was like a tainted way of leaving the navy early, set in by the establishment for the few who just couldn't cope with the life style, for some it was like a hidden trap-door that opened when it was known that they were not going to make it.
We lost several Weegies in the first week, and I must admit I was tempted myself, I remember thinking about all my school friends,unemployed and playing football everyday. It was but a passing phase.
Having learnt on paper how a three in one whaler worked we soon were given the chance to put theory into practice, we were let loose in the confines of Plymouth dockyard. With the possibility of rain we had to wear oil-skin coats and a Fisherman's hat, later in
life I found out the hat was called a sou wester.

We boarded our whalers on the opposite side of the Tamar River, and set off using the boats engine, we went in and about several old frigates that were anchored in the middle of the river, they were in "mothballs", after we all had a shot of going ahead and astern, we then had to put up the mast and sail the whaler, all the words that we had read about in the naval manual were being used, and also many more that certainly were not, however they were being used in a nautical fashion.
We were sailing around, the rain had not arrived as had been predicted, the sun was beating down and there we were all trussed up in oil-skins and life jackets like an advert for the RNLI. Tourist boats were passing us with people in tee shirts and shorts. These boats I later found out were romantically called fanny boats, this had absolutely no relationship to the fanny in a previous post. They waved and smiled but it wasn't hard to imagine what they must have been saying under their breath. We were not allowed to wave back, these tourists were now called civilians, normal people but different, the difference I was not going to learn about for many years.We dropped the sail, and the anchor, we then made the boat ready for it's third mode of transport and finally I got to put my rowlock in a gunwale"out oars", We then pulled together or in fact we didn't do anything of the sort but after some encouraging naval slang we did get under way and we eventually made land with the threat of "no evening meal" hanging over us. All that was missing from my first day at sea was grog and a sea shanty.
In the 1890's the Montague Whaler was adopted by the Royal Navy as a general purpose sea boat being named after Admiral Montague who was responsible for its development. Either 25 or 27ft long they were used throughout the fleet for more than 150 years. They were excellent sea boats and as lifeboats have made voyages of thousands of miles. Naturally the Navy raced them with ferocious competition between ships and shore bases for the trophy in the form of a cockerel, so that the winner could have the accolade of being called the "cock o' the fleet". It wasn't until latterly that an engine was introduced. The Montague has not been manufactured since the 1960's but the design has been used and changed in more recently made boats.The navy now use Rubber or Fibre glass boats.

Bamby on Ice

The first week soon became the second, we were not allowed off the camp for the first eight weeks and evening entertainment was non- existent. We had to study in the evenings and keep our kit in a perfect condition. Hours could be spent polishing parade boots and getting the creases just right on clothing. We tried using starch to keep the folds in but it stained the white front that sailors wear under the jacket. We did learn tricks and shortcuts to make the appearance perfect however, if they were found out, the consequences were quite harsh.

Duties:
These really were only very basic at first, and mainly were for the upkeep and general cleanliness of our own surroundings. The thought of cleaning communal heads and bathrooms was not pleasant but we all had to take our turn.

Saturday we played football and inter class rivalry was encouraged in sport as in every other area, The aches and pains of so much sport was soon to become something of the past and muscle started to replace skinny 
schoolboy puppy fat. The slow onset of puberty started to speed up, and with a camp of hundreds of hormonal pinball wizards, the sighting of a skirt would cause great commotion and send the weak of mind and body to the nearest toilet. Groatsie was one who could not contain himself.

The services are renown for the nicknames that people get called, most are harmless and boring, but some can be hurtful and derogatory. As a class we found that most people were just called by their second names at first, for obvious reasons, a shout of “Jock” would have made everyone turn around. We did however have some Macs, Tams, and Jimmy’s and they seemed to
be reasonable and quite affectionate in a mature way. We did unfortunately have a few wallies and dicks, which had nothing to do with what they had been called at birth.

We were soon to make friends, but class, social circles, dialect and intelligence were a factor, probably subconsciously!

I have always had some attraction to befriending people who have trouble being accepted and even in this environment it was no different. The trouble with having such a trait is you are then
associated by default. It can quite be painful at times but it soon sorts out real friends.

Never to be a sheep, I made friends with a Glaswegian called Groatsie.
Groatsie was unfortunate in many ways physically he was in poor shape
and when they gave out the looks he must have turned up late. He did have a brilliant sense of humour, and his one-line answers to
criticism were just to die for.

Groatsie had two left feet when it came to football and in all other sports he was like Bamby on Ice, he was quite intelligent and had no difficulties with the studies or keeping his kit perfect. The main problems came when we marched, his legs and arms never quite knew how to work together, and because his feet were huge he would be tripping himself and others up. This more than anything brought attention to him all the time and it was the trigger for bullying.

Poor Groatsie became the butt of many of the jokes and bye the third week he was starting to have trouble. Groatsie used take a shower when most others were in bed, I never gave it another thought,but one night he had to have a communal shower with
the rest of us after  a mud run, Groatsie was never shy, but when it came to showering he was.
Some thought he was just dirty but the truth was 
now obvious, it wasn't the acne on his back, or his physically
bent over and weak appearance, no, he had more Willy than the rest of us put together. Rather than being a blessing,Groatsie seen himself as a freak, any confidence that he had, diminished
over the following hours.
Groatsie left the navy the following day

Fanny Adams

Crime:

On 24 August 1867 at about 1.30pm, Fanny's mother Harriet Adams let Fanny and her friend Millie Warner, both 8 years old, and Fanny's sister Lizzie aged 7, go up Tanhouse Lane towards Flood Meadow. In the lane they met Frederick Baker, a 24-year-old solicitor's clerk. Baker offered Millie and Lizzie a three halfpence to go and spend and offered Fanny a halfpenny to accompany him towards Shalden, a couple of miles north of Alton. She took the coin but refused to go. He carried her into a hop field, out of sight of the other girls.
At about 5pm, Millie and Lizzie returned home. Neighbour Mrs Gardiner asked them where Fanny was and they told her what happened. Mrs Gardiner told Mrs Adams and they went up the lane where they came upon Baker coming back. They questioned him, he said he gave the girls money for sweets, but that was all. His respectability meant the women let him go on his way.
At about 7pm Fanny was still missing and neighbours went searching. They found Fanny's body in the hop field, horribly butchered. Her head and legs had been severed and her eyes put out. Her torso had been emptied and her organs scattered. It would take several days for all of her remains to be found.
Mrs Adams ran to The Butts field where her husband, bricklayer George Adams, was playing cricket. She told him what had happened then collapsed. Adams got his shotgun from home and set off to find the perpetrator but neighbours stopped him.

That evening Police Superintendent William Cheyney arrested Baker where he worked at the offices of solicitor William Clement in the High Street and led him through an angry mob to the police station. There was blood on his shirt and trousers, which he could not explain, but he protested his innocence. He was searched and found to have two small blood-stained knives on him.

Witnesses put Baker in the area and returning to his office at about 3pm then going out again. Baker's workmate, fellow clerk Maurice Biddle, reported that, when drinking in the Swan that evening, Baker had said he might leave town. When Biddle replied that he might have trouble getting another job, Baker said, chillingly with hindsight, "I could go as a butcher". On the 26th August, the police found Baker's diary in his office. It contained a damning entry:
24th August, Saturday — killed a young girl. It was fine and hot.
On Tuesday the 27th, Deputy County Coroner Robert Harfield held an inquest. Painter William Walker had found a stone with blood, long hair and flesh; police surgeon Dr Louis Leslie had carried out a post mortem and concluded death was by a blow to the head and the stone was the murder weapon. Baker said nothing, except that he was innocent. The jury returned a verdict of willful murder. On the 29th the local magistrates committed Baker for trial at the Winchester County Assizes. The police had difficulty protecting him from the mob.

At his trial on the 5th of December, the defence contested Millie Warner's identification of Baker and claimed the knives found were too small for the crime anyway. They also argued insanity: Baker's father had been violent, a cousin had been in asylums, his sister had died of a brain fever and he himself had attempted suicide after a love affair.

Justice Mellor invited the jury to consider a verdict of not responsible by reason of insanity, but they returned a guilty verdict after just fifteen minutes. On the 24th of December, Christmas eve, Baker was hanged outside Winchester Gaol. The crime had become notorious and a crowd of 5,000 attended the execution. Before his death, Baker wrote to the Adamses expressing his sorrow for what he had done "in an unguarded hour" and seeking their forgiveness. Baker's execution was the last to take place at Winchester.

Fanny was buried in Alton cemetery. Her grave is still there today. The headstone reads:
Sacred to the memory of Fanny Adams aged 8 years and 4 months who was cruelly murdered August 24th, 1867