"Brown Hatter's overalls"

That night ... by Telzey

My first night aboard was eventful, embarrassing really, having arrived in my mess deck "3P", the letter denotes how far aft you are on the ship and the number is the deck level down from the upper deck. The mess was relatively comfortable but compact, there were men sat in the mess square drinking and playing cards. I was welcomed in as a new member and told this was the greenies mess, I was shown to my bunk and told that I would have to live out of my Kit bag for a while as there was no lockers available.
Naval tradition ensured that everyone was in bed by a certain time, “lights out” or “Pipe down” after which only watch keepers would be found wandering the ship. When that time came I opened my kitbag and pulled out my Pyjamas, my mum had insisted I take them, they had been my fathers, "made of good Irish linen and almost brand new",! she had said.





My first mistake, pyjamas were alien to me anyway so I think it was the thought of walking to my bed in my underpants in front of strangers, but then again it wasn't as if it was the first time since I had joined the navy. I entered the mess square and approached my bunk, the ambient noise of sailors talking stopped and I became aware of the sound of a running ventilation fan next to where I was going to be sleeping. I turned to get into my bed when the mess erupted in laughter. “Brown hatters overalls and Oh my god what are they sending to sea now a days” were among many other jovial abusive remarks that I had to incur

I learnt a good life lesson that night and never ever wore "brown hatters overalls again. ”Thanks mum”, no wonder they were almost brand new. “ Thanks Dad”, you must have known what would happen.

I had the middle bunk, of three high, sixty people sleeping in an area not much bigger than an average living room. The ship had several such messes , usually each different branch ie: electrical ratings would share a mess along side electrical ratings. Stokers would share with stokers and so on. The higher ranked ratings would get better accommodation and officers would sleep in the wardroom annex. This was up in the superstructure of the ship. The ship was outfitted for a flag rank officer and his accommodation was sumptuous in comparison to the rest, he even had a small annex for his own bath.












HMS Glamorgan was a fine ship and my first job on her was "a lamp tramp” I spent all day every day changing light bulbs. However when we sailed for the first time I had other duties to perform.

HMS Glamorgan

  

I left HMS Collingwood with my green pusser’s suitcase and my kitbag. The sum of all my worldly goods, at least I didn’t have to take a hammock with me that would have been too much. I got a taxi all the way to the ship as the weather was not in my favour.

Portsmouth dockyard was a dark and dismal place normally but when it was raining it was just the pits. The many jetties were doubled up with ships, the dry docks were all in use but on a wet Sunday in spring there was hardly anybody to be seen.
The taxi driver knew his way around the dockyard, the knowledge gained over many years, his wealth of knowledge of shipping movement in and out surprised me but listening to drunken matelots on return from the various pubs and clubs every evening gave him a better insight to what was happening with the fleet than most admirals.

We arrived at HMS Glamorgan in good time, I remember just sitting and staring for what seamed ages, my thought pattern was broken by being asked for the fare.

Having disembarked from the cab I remember just standing for a while looking at my first ship she seamed huge, she was shored up in a dry dock there was no grey paint on her at all, she was orange from the bow to the stern, looked like vandals had been tagging, someone had painted right across the stern "R.O.M.F.T.

It was months before I heard the ROMFT said, this time in a drunken conversation, I was to embarrassed to ask what it meant. That would have shown my greeness, I found out later it was “Roll on my fucking time”, it was said commonly by disgruntled sailors if they wanted to move jobs, ships or even out of the navy, on one occasion I heard it used when talking about a divorce.
I eventually managed up the gangway with my cumbersome load the boatswain at the top watched me struggle, I remember the smirk, "Salute the flag", he shouted at me as I arrived at the top, I had completely forgot the naval etiquette in my labours. I gave him my papers, he knew I was coming. Just seventeen I was feeling overwhelmed and he obviously sensed it. He made a phone call and shortly afterwards someone arrived to show me to my mess deck.

Making a pond

I do have a life that is not steeped in masts, cannons, sailing ships and jack speak.

This is my weekend project that has taken many months and not finished in a long shot, it will be nice to keep it as a record and just something to blog about.

The process is boring but the end product
will hopefully be worth all the hard work.
It is a family effort me, angela my wife and my grandaugthter Kayleigh.

Make a slideshow - it's easy!

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.