Читать книгу Rum Bum and Baccy - Bernie Howard - Страница 7

I was always going to sea when I left school, God knows why, as there had never been a sailor in my family, and the only ships I‘d ever seen were rowing boats at Hunstanton. In those days, prospective employers came to your school to head hunt, so when someone came from the Merchant Navy I went along and listened. Everything sounded great until the bit where you had to pay for uniform and training, and although not much, I did not think that my father’s wage would cover the halfpence of tar they cost. It was the same thing with the Fishing Fleet, and then along came the Royal Navy. Not only was there nothing to pay but you got paid. I was sold.

I had my medical in London on my fifteenth birthday having previously passed the entrance exams, so in the early summer of 1962 I was off. My father took me to Swaffham Station and as the Norwich train pulled in he told me, as he pushed me onto the train, that I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to, placed half a crown in my hand and shut the door.

On arrival at Norwich I made the short walk to the Recruiting Office on Prince of Wales Road, where the rest of the Norfolk conscripts were waiting. A burly petty officer, who seemed like he’d had a tot too many, told us he hated Geordies and warned us to look out for them. He gave us the Queen’s shilling and sent us back to the station to catch the Ipswich train where we began our journey to HMS Ganges.

Ganges was a boy’s training establishment at Shotley which was just a few miles from Ipswich; being the size of a small town it housed two thousand two hundred boys and a few hundred ship’s company. By looking over the water you could see the ports of Harwich and Felixstowe.

On arriving at Ipswich we were met by lads not much older than us but in uniform, and petty officers who told us to wait together until the next train came in, then we would be taken by lorry to a place called the Annex.

The next train pulled in and out jumped what looked like a Borstal contingent. These lads looked bigger than us; all dressed in “TeddyBoy” suits or leather jackets and jeans, D. A. haircuts, sideburns, they looked tough and a voice behind me said, “Jocks and Geordies”. So this was a Geordie, obviously a Jock’s friend. Now us lads from Norfolk were mainly in school uniform, some even in short trousers, so we felt very intimidated.

We were now bundled into wagons with R.N. painted on the doors. A few miles up the road we passed HMS Ganges and pulled up at our destination – the Annex.

For the next six weeks we were prepared for life at Ganges, kitted out with uniforms, work clothes, sports kit and anything else we needed. We said goodbye to our civilian clothes and the next thing was hair cuts. So it was off for a quick visit to Shotley, the Ganges barber. Shotley could scalp a boy in seconds flat, so this visit didn’t take long. Now wearing the same clothes and with bald heads, we all looked the same, and the only way we could tell a Geordie or Jock from the rest was by not having a clue what they were saying. It wasn’t long, however, that we all picked up bits of each other’s lingo, dropped certain bits, and somehow formed our own language.

The Annexe was horrific – up at half past five in the morning for a freezing shower, double everywhere (run), no talking, no smiling, nothing on bread, no sugar, no toilet doors, no TV or radio, and after having been screamed at ’til seven o’clock in the evening, we retired to bed. Here we had to keep complete silence, but after only a few minutes some unfortunate would start crying or sneeze or a moth would fart. Screaming would start up again. Up we’d get, put all of our newly gained kit into our kit bags, go out to the Parade Ground with kit bags on our shoulders, and we’d run round and round until someone collapsed. I’ve done this in the pouring rain in pyjamas.

After a couple of weeks we had to march into Ganges to climb the mast. Our instruction for this was that it’s 142 feet high and has a net a dozen feet from the ground. Should you fall from halfway up, apparently you’d bounce off the net and go through the Post Office roof. If, however, you were near to the top, the net would make you into chips. There were P.T.I’s (physical training instructors) at different footage on the mast, which we thought were to help if you were in any difficulty; however, their purpose was, should you freeze in fear as many did, to scurry above the unfortunates and jam on their hands. Anyway, it must have worked because we all passed without anyone being chipped.

Being in the Navy you had to be able to swim and should you not pass the given test, you became a backward swimmer and had to go to the swimming pool at six o’clock in the morning every day until passing. First of all, you had to put on freezing cold, soaking wet overalls and then, lined up around the deep end, you’d get pushed in one by one. Then sink or swim. If you swam to the side – great, if you sank they’d hook you out with poles then, apparently to teach you quicker, you’d get pushed off the top board. This worked for me and I passed in three days.

After six weeks in the Annexe we marched with our kitbags on our shoulders to Ganges itself where Rodney 16 Mess was to be my home for the next forty-six weeks. Our new home had to be kept immaculate; the bins and floors were literally like mirrors and in any spare time we were kept busy polishing with boot brushes. Our mess was on Long Covered Way which was like a road covered with mess decks either side. I can imagine it about a quarter of a mile long. This also had to be immaculate and was kept so mainly by misfortunates with toothbrushes scrubbing away for hours on end and being punished for talking or having spots or some other crime.

Our days were now kept busy by school, instruction, drill, sport, seamanship, rowing, kit maintenance, numerous inspections including arseholes and foreskins. This I can’t make out to this day. About once a week we had to stand in pyjamas at the end of our beds with kit laid out for inspection. As the Officer and Chief PettyOfficer passed you dropped your pyjama bottoms, pulled back your foreskins, turned around and opened your cheeks. Our embarrassment must have been their pleasure.

Ganges used to hold a cinema in the gym. I think it was on a Wednesday and films were advertised on the side of the Parade Ground. The cost was around sixpence, a fortune to those of us who only earned fifteen shillings a week – seventy-five pence in today’s money. After being in Ganges for about six weeks we were told we could go to the cinema.

A friend and I queued up in the rain for two hours to see a Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis comedy. On paying, we sat on one of the many forms laid out for the show. The Chiefs and Petty Officers were at the back on more comfortable chairs all chatting away whilst us boys had to keep complete silence. The film had only been going for a few minutes when Jerry Lewis started his antics and a boy two rows back from us started to giggle. A petty officer stormed down and kicked six rows of us out. Apparently you mustn’t laugh at a funny film.

There were many types of punishment at Ganges, the most severe being cuts. Cuts was a form of the birch and I was to taste it to a very painful ordeal. I had been on weekend leave to Swaffham where, at a Youth Club dance, in a fight I injured a lad from Kings Lynn, and got arrested. The next day I was escorted back to Ganges where I was put on Captain’s Report and awarded six cuts. To receive your cuts you had on your works trousers inside out. This enabled you to lean over the bench, a patrolman to pull on one pocket one side and another patrolman to pull on the other. A third patrolman who was about twenty stone had the cane and delivered the strokes. After each stroke your ass was inspected to make sure you’d been cut and that the strokes didn’t cross. It was impossible to lay on your back or sit down in Instructions for a few weeks after this. Later, upon leaving the Royal Navy, the Master of Arms who oversaw this took a pub in Swaffham called the White Lion on Station Street and he became a very good friend of mine. Tony Meredith was his name and I had great respect for him.

After a year you left Ganges a “TROG” which you’d be ’til the day you die. TROG quite simply means Trained Rating Of Ganges. Ganges had been very tough and even cruel, but for me if helped me to deal with life afterwards, facing as you do many a tricky situation.

Junior Mess – HMS Ganges