Well here I was in a far off land, work finished most nights about five but obviously there were evenings when I was duty, this involved just fire rounds at first, i.e.: walking around making sure nothing was going to burn, well lets face it we couldn’t sink in a dry dock.
Food was cooked in the accommodation block, were the cooks had never had any master chef
classes, but managed to feed us reasonably well.
Most evening I played squash or went out for a three mile run about Chatham. The highlight of the week was the Pembroke hop, all the local talent would turn up and parade there handbags around the dance floor until they got stuck in a small circle not unlike cowboys and their wagons.
I was mainly an onlooker, and in the early days I would watch intently at the mating stomp of the prowling matelots. They also circled eyeing up and down these young girls and of course some not so young who were all labelled with the unfortunate tag “f troop”, most were hardened boppers some were there just up for free drink and a shag, however there was a just a few who had the misplaced feelings that they would find love.
This ritual lasted for at least an hour and probably about four or five drinks, the more talented and seasoned Casanovas would move in and take the pick of the bunch leaving the scraps for the hyenas that had already had to much to drink or those poor sailors, the usual dregs, who were inflicted with language disorders or leprosy. 
Back at the mess, I walked in on Willy dancing to some very loud Motown music.
He wasn’t perturbed at my entrance and carried on dancing; I could just see his open eyes above his smiling teeth. I was amazed at how he moved across the floor and moved to the music, I remember thinking, now here is a master at his art.
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