From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

© Copyright 2011 Brian(Bill) Haley BEM.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-1-4269-9576-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-9577-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011917068

Trafford rev. 10/14/2011

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Contents

About the author

Acknowledgements

FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS

REMEMBRANCE DAY

About the author

Brian joined the Royal Navy at HMS St. Vincent on May 6th 1963 at the age of 15 years, having left school without any educational qualifications.

In writing this book he makes no apology for the early years of life in the Royal Navy when describing the brutality that surrounded every young impressionable boy sailor from the day they joined up.

Those same impressionable boy sailors’ who would emerge some years later as seasoned professionals, with a sense of pride of belonging to a Royal Navy that gave them an open door to the world.

We the unlucky

Led by the unqualified

To do the unnecessary

For the ungrateful

Enlistment into the Royal Navy

Acknowledgements

Dedicated to the memory of Mum and Dad.

To all those people who knowingly, or unknowingly, contributed to this book, because without them this book would not have been possible.

To my wife Jacky who was asked to proof read my work at the most inopportune moments.

To Kerry Debra Gordon I told you I could do it.

Matthew Amie Darryn Joshua, every one’s a coconut.

FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS

Three nightmares disturbed my childhood dreams. The first two were based on the unknown fears of falling overboard from a fast, high sided ship, into the cold unforgiving sea and, secondly being buried alive in a dark metal coffin. My third nightmare, however, was based on a real experience, when as a seven year old I had a terrifying confrontation with a coin operated ‘laughing sailor’ in an amusement arcade. No sooner had I dropped my old blackened penny into the slot did this hideous puppet burst into a crescendo of laughter. I screamed in terror, and vowed I would never become a fully paid up member of the Royal Navy.

Until.

My departure

Join the Royal Navy and see the World was the bold advertising slogan for recruitment into the Royal Navy in the early 1960s. A slogan that was a truthful boast to entice and allow young people to visualise what life could be like beyond the horizon, to imagine places and a way of life of people in countries with names that only appear on maps, names that are even more difficult to pronounce.

Exciting, confusing times, in pursuit of a young man’s dreams, when, reluctantly moving away from his family. A family that he cared for and valued, safe in the knowledge that love was the central theme to home life.

May 6th 1963 I left home in Crediton Devon. The sun was trying its hardest to brighten up a somewhat overcast and chilly early spring day when I stepped out of our front door onto the busy, uneven, pavement outside 90 High Street. Ian Osbourne, a school friend, was setting up the stalls of his fresh fish business across the road, he glanced over to me and, without words, signalled a ‘go for it’ hand gesture. It appeared that the class from Shelley School were embarking on their individual way of life, we were all tentatively moving on with our personal dreams.

As I purposely walked away from home I was totally unaware, or prepared, for the harsh disciplined way of life that was about to consume my whole existence.

Passing the British Home Store supermarket I was fully aware that when I rounded the next corner this would signal the ties of home would be broken as I went out of sight of my Mother, standing by the front door, waving. I waved back, fully aware that Mum was crying. I was leaving home for ever at the tender age of 15 years with very few educational qualifications and even less know how or experience of life outside the protective cocoon of my immediate family.

Meeting up with other raw recruits at the Exeter recruiting office gave me an insight into the people who would share my first year of training at HMS St. Vincent in Gosport, Hampshire. An insight that would confirm to me that we were all embarking on a journey into the unknown.

The diesel train chugged slowly out of Exeter Central railway station, with amongst other passengers, 15 Royal Navy new entrants, alas, arriving at Fareham railway station with only 12 Royal Navy new entrants .Apparently 3 of our group were homesick after just 4 hours away from home; or was it because their packed lunches consisting of a corned beef sandwich, can of lemonade and an apple was signalling that home comforts and cooking was a luxury from the past and, that was a sacrifice not worth contemplating or continuing with.

As if to mimic our collective mood the rain was pouring down as we arrived at Fareham railway station. A miserable day that did little to raise our waning spirits. The station master glanced in our direction, smiled mockingly with a ‘you don’t know what you have let yourself in for’ look on his unshaven face.

Leaving the train we carried our respective bags onto the concourse outside the station where a royal blue bus with ROYAL NAVY emblazoned in white paint down each side was waiting just off the main thoroughfare. The bus driver, with a knowing glance that signalled, I’ve done this journey so many times before, never uttered a word, maybe an occasional grunt, but never a considerate word of encouragement. The weather mirrored his demeanour, cold, unrelenting and unlikely to change. In turn we threw our bags and suitcases into a canvas covered lorry that was parked adjacent to the bus. I can remember vividly wondering if my bar of red carbolic laundry soap would survive the mountain of heavy duty suitcases that were cascading, unceremoniously, on top of my threadbare holdall. (I need not have worried because I returned the soap to my Mum 22 years later, thanking her for her kind thought).

Finding a seat on a 40 seated bus was not difficult. As I sat down I felt very emotional and tearful, as a wave of despair engulfed me. I couldn’t tell anyone, I felt alone for the first time today, the day I had been looking forward to for as long as I could remember. I looked around at the faces of the other new entrants, I was looking for some encouragement or moral support, and none came. The faces of my new found colleagues echoed my feelings and mirrored the look of despair, intrepidation and concern as to what we all had voluntarily let ourselves in for.

Being awarded the British Empire Medal

Joining HMS St. Vincent

The uncomfortable bus journey to the centre of Gosport seemed to take forever, a slow uncomplicated ride of 5 miles occasionally interrupted by traffic lights that would turn red as we approached, even the traffic lights were trying to tell us something, or so it seemed, especially when our collective emotional state appeared to be conspiring against us.

We turned off the main road; the bus coming to an abrupt halt underneath an old arched clock tower, the gateway to HMS St. Vincent. I was still feeling very emotional, I don’t really know why but at that precise moment all my well thought out reasons for wanting to join the Royal Navy left me, the reasons didn’t seem to important anymore. I felt vulnerable, alone and, I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to join the Royal Navy.

My self pity was suddenly shattered when, with an almighty bang, the bus door was flung open followed by a loud unfriendly voice bellowing out instructions; latterly recognised as orders. Orders that came fast and furious; orders that were well practised and rehearsed. Sit up straight in that seat Talk only when you are spoken to From this moment on everyone you speak to will be addressed as Sir If you have any questions wait until tomorrow

Right you miserable bunch of jetsam fall in on the parade ground Or as we were later informed, the parade ground, also known as God’s little acre. new entrants standing in a line on God’s little acre, as the lorry carrying our worldly possessions screeched to a sudden halt 20 metres away to our left, sorry, to the port side.

Without any concerns for personal property, our suitcases and holdalls were hurled to the ground from the back of the lorry. We retrieved our belongings and were ordered back into line. A framed photograph of someone’s Mother lay on the floor after all the bags were re-united with respective owners. Who belongs to this asked the duty Petty Officer in an inquisitive manner. Me sir came the trembling voice from the crowd. Well, pick it up and say goodbye to mummy, because there is no room for sentiment here. At that defining moment came the realisation that life would never be the same again.

The rains began to explode like gunfire on the tarmac covered parade ground when we were instructed to march towards a small sandstone building situated behind the main concourse. This uninspiring building was cold, damp and time ravaged, devoid of any maintenance with row upon row of bleached white tables .On each table, at strategically placed intervals, were placed piles of navy blue overalls. We placed our suitcases and holdalls on the table in front of their respective owner. Removing our civilian clothes we were instructed to dress in the overalls .The overalls came in only one size, big. The holdall contents were placed in front of each new recruit plus, all recently removed civilian clothes. The duty Petty Officer then advised us to parcel up all our civilian clothes, plus, unwanted holdall contents, along with the holdall itself, using the brown parcel paper that was provided, securing the whole package with the string. Writing my home address on the parcel signalled an emotional response, I did feel alone, I did feel like a fish out of water; collectively known as homesickness. The parcel was sent home, with unwelcomed haste, the next day, inside of which I had hand written a note which read ‘Arrived safely and starting to settle in’ I sometimes wondered if my father could read between the lines of the note, understanding what I was saying but, aware of how I was feeling.

The only immediate task left to complete before we left civilian life behind was to sign on the dotted line, to commit our future to life on the ocean wave.

This first day had been long, tiring and very confusing so it was a welcomed relief to be told we were going to see our new home; a second floor dormitory in Hawke building. As the new entry class of Hawke 584 walked hurriedly up the cold stone steps to our lodgings the dimmed lighting cast an eerie shadow over the paint flaking walls, a prelude to seeing, for the first impression, our high ceiling, and damp walled living quarters.

Two lines of pot marked metal grey beds were separated by metal lockers also painted grey, probably to match our grey mood. The bed and lockers were positioned and separated inch perfect apart, in straight lines, parallel to the walls. Each locker with the bottom draws open in anticipation of the next occupant.

The linoleum floor covering was so highly polished; I’m convinced it would have been possible to have a face shave using the floor as a mirror. I began to wonder how the floor was kept so highly polished (believe me over the next few days I would find out) we were assigned a bed and locker in strict alphabetical order. The bed and locker, fourth down on the port side, belonged to yours truly.

My sacred place where I wrote letters, cleaned my shoes, but above all else, during those early days, a space to collect my thoughts and, attempt to make sense of this new found way of life.

We were issued with two pairs of striped flannelette pyjamas, then pointed in the direction of the shower and wash room .We were advised to get to know each other in our class, talk to each other and, start to build up some team spirit After which, time for sleep and, prepare yourself mentally and physically for the rigors of tomorrow and, beyond.

The wind and rain, outside the windows, sounded like pebbledash on a newly built house as we collectively, as a team, helped each other to make our bunk beds. Placing what looked like a potato sack over a horsehair mattress, the smell of which reminded me of harvest day back on the farm. At that juncture I was considering making a run for freedom, but stopped myself when I pondered the thought of being Court Martialled before my career had even started. If I had woken up to the fact that, at this point of service life, I had not signed on the dotted line, so leaving would not have been a problem to anyone.

Two linen white sheets and three itchy woollen blankets were covered by a reversible blue and white counterpane with an embroidered anchor in the middle, white on one side, blue on the other side. The one pillow was placed inside a crisp white pillow case. So, all that remains to do now would be to shower and, try to have a reflective sleep and, mentally prepare for tomorrow.

Tomorrow came far too quickly and ridiculously early, probably four hours to early to what I had been used to. At five o’clock in the morning, or was it night-time, the banging on a galvanised, highly polished, dustbin lid did very little to encourage a sleepy fifteen year old boy to put his feet on the floor. The very same duty Petty Officer who we met yesterday was striking the dustbin lid with a soup ladle and had a different idea of how to get his point of view across to the class, when he said feet on floor he meant, feet on the floor, now. He hoisted up the feet end of my bed to its full vertical upright extent and imprisoned me between the wall and a rapidly disintegrating, previously, well made bed. I got the message and scrambled out from underneath the pile of bedding, to the amusement of my classmates who, like me, had just learnt a lesson.

I had just enough time to box off my bedding, shower and parade in my oversized blue overalls with the other class members outside Hawke building. The weather was still very wet and cold, just right for a ‘trot’ around the parade ground. How’s that for character building? Character building we were continually told made for a better team!!!

At about the time when we considered that enough was enough and, a leisurely warm water shower would be in order, plus a change to dry clothing, prior to breakfast, the dulcet tones of authority instructed us that before we can go anywhere, just one more little task.

The one more little task was to climb over the top of the one hundred and ten feet high central parade ground mast. Vertical jacob ladders, overhangs, up one side and down the other. The cold rain and wind were forgotten and replaced by fear when I looked up to the top of the mast and thought to myself ‘no way’. As I grasped the icy metal ladder rungs I was consumed with the dread of falling into the wire net below. A sense of self preservation works to your advantage when faced with instant death. Team work and encouragement to each other got the class through that task, a task that would soon become a daily task .No accidents were reported that day, probably more by luck than judgement.

As we shuffled towards the dining hall, overtaking and bumping into new entrants from other classes, I was suddenly confronted by an eating area that could have been taken straight out of a Charles Dickens novel, Oliver Twist’s work house. Rows of grubby looking tables with long benches for seats littered the eating area, with just enough room to feed all the new entrants at one sitting. Row upon row of miserable looking people, not being allowed to speak to each other for fear of a trot around the parade ground, new entrants forcing themselves to eat the gruel.

As I arrived at the counter, my day was about to go from bad to worse. Because, strategically placed at the end of the meal counter was a large wire basket full of warm bread, affectionately known as toast. So far so good, until I had the audacity to take two pieces of toast. The dining hall was stunned into silence, apart from the merciless verbal attack from the leading chef who had the dubious duty of monitoring the toast, who bellowed out the fact that he considered me to be greedy, how greedy I was to have the nerve to take two pieces of toast when the quota was one piece of toast per person. My punishment, yes you have guessed, was to trot around the parade ground until I was aware of the mistake I had made, or, until I dropped through exhaustion. At which point I made a conscious decision not to allow any one person, or authoritative figure, see me crack under the strain or, appear unable to cope with any punishment they may deem necessary to throw my way.

Needless to say I missed breakfast, but from that incident onwards my mind was made up, I would play the game, read the instructions and, laugh in the face of adversity. A tactic that has served me well and, remains my modus operandi to this very day.

Having changed from a wet pair of overalls to a dry pair of overalls we were ordered, as a class, to march to the establishment pay office. An office situated in a building reminiscent of all the other buildings that made up HMS St. Vincent. Inside this building stood six or seven experienced looking sailors each holding our individual signing on papers. Once signed would signal the end of civilian life and we would belong to, the property of, Her Majesty’s Government. The signing on process, in total, didn’t take longer than one hour, being able to read the small print was not an option. Having signed on the dotted line I walked away from the desk, and then the enormity of what I had just agreed to hit me. I had signed away my independence for twelve years. Three years boys’ service followed by nine years mans’ service. What had been signed for could not be unsigned; I now belonged to the military, to obey orders and to do whatever I was told to do.

I now had an official number. How reassuring to know that I was the proud owner of a unique personal identification number, a number that would become etched on my psych forever. My birth name had changed slightly, apparently Royal Naval personnel like nicknames, some linked to tradition, from Brian I became Bill, presumably because of the rock and roll singer, not really life shattering but pleasing all the same. Alas, junior electrical mechanic Bill Haley had arrived.

To be issued with your very own Royal Navy uniform was the highlight of day two. We mustered, as a class, on the parade ground wearing overalls and black plimsolls, only to be told that while we were waiting a trot around God’s little acre would wake us up and, put us in the right frame of mind for the tasks that lay ahead.

Sweating and feeling somewhat uncomfortable due to the chafing under the arms from the wet and course serge overall material we headed for the clothing store.

Once inside this cold drab pre-war building we were positioned, a metre apart, behind a row of bleached white trestle tables, (probably the same tables we met yesterday). The uniform we were issued with didn’t come in small, medium or large measurements. If the uniform was too big, you will grow into it, if the uniform was too small see if you could swap with someone in your group that looked like they had a problem of wrongly fitting kit. Needless to say, a finer bunch of new entry misfits you couldn’t wish to meet.

Cap sizes were issued in a more acceptable way. A tape measure was placed around your head and a measurement shouted to a person standing between rows and boxes of round white caps. The store man, looking more like an extra from a horror film, with his bushy eyebrows and pronounced stare who, wearing a stained brown coat coverall, burst into life and unceremoniously slid down the table two caps of the desired size, inside each cap was a cap tally with the ship’s name, HMS St.Vincent , one gold ribbon, one rayon ribbon. The gold ribbon cap tally was for Sunday best with the much duller cap tally being reserved for everyday use.

The full number one and number two dress uniforms were not exactly bespoke but, they were made to fit with a more realistic approach to fitting the intended sailor who would be wearing the uniform.

Who said size doesn’t matter!!!! If the sailor was taller than five foot seven he would be required to have seven horizontal creases in his bell bottom uniform trousers, smaller than five feet seven required only five horizontal creases. The number of creases signifying traditional Royal Navy events relating to Admiral Lord Nelson. Although, from a logistical point of view the concertina effect of folding up your bell bottoms when packing your kit for transit from ship to ship would allow you to arrive the other end with bell bottom trousers that did not resemble a scran bag of unwanted kit.

Once all our kit had been issued we moved to the next room, the kit marking room, not really a room more a dimly lit shed. All the cotton fabric issue uniform was left in a pile with your name, printed on card, placed on top of each respective uniform bundle, in my case B.HALEY.

Markee, a small demur looking man, who spoke not a word, systematically stamped, in black permanent marking ink, my name on every piece of newly issued uniform kit. For example B.HALEY stamped above the pocket of a shirt. B.HALEY stamped inside the waist band of trousers and so on until all my kit could be identified .We left our kit overnight for Markee to work his magic and, mark every piece of uniform kit for the class of 584.

We picked up our personal uniform kit the next morning, then we were ushered back to our dormitory, when, having placed our kit on our bed, the fun was about to start, because, one of the less conspicuous items that we were issued with was a small blue rectangular pouch filled with cotton thread and sewing needles, a pouch affectionately known as a ‘housewife’. The fun