"Guz"- the
Navy's name for Devonport, one of its then three main
manning ports. "Pompey" for Portsmouth men,
"Chats" for Chatham men.
My girlfriend,
Mabel, and I decided to become
engaged. We had very little except hope and I took
the plunge and joined the Royal Navy on 9th
August 1937. I reasoned that the education I had
received at school would stand me in good stead in
the service. When the family learned of my decision
there was concern. Gran Paul was quite put out; she
had lost a son in the Navy and didnt want to
lose a grandson. Cousin Reg told me stories about
conditions of life of stokers that he had witnessed
when working in warships. Uncle Bill Harvey told me
to reconsider and become a policeman; there was still
time, he added. But no, I wanted to do my own thing.
So I became one of the lowest of
the low in the Royal Navy, a Second Class Stoker,
official number D/KX 91819 H. J. SIDDALL. Notice the
number came before the name. I reported to the
Recruiting Office on that Monday morning and,
together with other new entries, walked to the Royal
Naval Barracks, known as H.M.S. Drake. We were
taken to the barracks block that would be our home,
and there met the other new entries which made up 129
Class - our official title.
Our class instructor
was a Welshman, Stoker Petty Officer, who put us into
ranks of four to be marched to the sick-bay for a
strict medical examination. Consternation broke out
as soon as we set off. One of the lads could only
march with same side leg and arm moving together,
whereas you might realise that these limbs move
alternately. Being new entries, we werent
expected to march smartly, but at least we were
expected to be coordinated. At the medical
examination the specialists tried to discover why the
lad could not keep in step, but to no avail, and he
was promised to the Seaman Chief Petty Officer for
extra marching drill. We found out later that he had
previously joined a Guards Regiment. There, with all
their expertise, they could do nothing about the
lads defect and so he joined the Navy. As he
had joined the Seamans branch, he was shunted
off to other pastures, so we never knew if he broke
the Chiefs heart or the other way around.
After the medical and providing a
specimen in a test-tube ("From here?" was
the standing joke), we marched to meet the dental
officer. Now I am sure he was in danger of becoming
unemployed because, with that horrible pointed piece
of apparatus he found holes in my teeth where none
existed before. This seemed to be general complaint,
but our Instructor Petty Officer assured us that we
would enjoy the treatment. "They are always
careful with the new entries," he said. I
wondered why he smiled when he said that - silly me!
Formed into a squad again, we marched to another part
of the sick-bay and were vaccinated. Against what, I
dont know, but our upper left arms were
slightly scored by the blade of a sharp knife, on
which the vaccine was impregnated. Having been
vaccinated when a baby, the effects of the new
vaccination were slight, but for those who had not
been previously treated, they suffered somewhat with
pain and swollen upper arms. Those "Ohs"
and "Ahs" when they were putting on their
uniform jumpers!
All this routine took up most of
the forenoon. We were given dinner in Raleigh Block
dining room - and a satisfying meal it was. Soup,
main course and a sweet, plus being waited on by
engine room ratings. The general concensus amongst
the squad was "this will do us!" In the
afternoon we were "kitted out". Two of
everything, which went with the old saying: "One
on and one in the wash." Black boots, two pairs;
thick navy blue woollen socks, two pairs; white
underpants and vests, two sets; one woollen navy blue
jersey; two white shirts; two serge uniforms; two
black caps and one white cap, sailors, for the use
of; a cylindrical metal box in which two of the caps
would be stored; two blue collars on which were the
three white, narrow tapes, origin unknown; two large
black silk squares, to be made into scarves as
mourning for Nelson; one lanyard to be worn if ever
allowed liberty; two boiler suits to be known as
overalls; one navy belt with pouch pocket; one long
black oilskin coat. Then followed the ancilliaries,
one ditty box made of white wood which, under
penalties of severe displeasure, had to always remain
in that condition; a "hussif" - short for
housewife - containing necessities for the repair of
service clothing, needles, wool, a piece of beeswax,
some essential buttons and a block of wooden type
comprising carved wooden letters on a holder, making
the name and initials of the owner. Two white cotton
towels; brushes; boots, two, clothes, one: all
sailors for the use of. Then last of all one was
issued with a kit bag into which was stuffed the
whole issue. How the Supply Assistant gauged the
sizes was something of a miracle. I must add to the
issue two black cap ribbons, emblazoned with the name
H.M.S. Drake; these ribbons would be tied
round two of the three caps. In the summer the white
cap would be worn and the two black caps stowed in
the metal hat box. Later each of us collected two
brass name tallies, in strip form, one for the ditty
box, the other for the hat box.
Kit bags were filled, tied, slung
onto the left shoulder and, once more a squad, we
marched to our New Entry Block, our home until we
passed out from training. Here we left our kit and
marched once again, this time to the main offices of
the Naval Barracks where each one of us signed a
service document, consigning or condemning our bodies
to King and Royal Navy for a period of twelve years.
The witnessing took place in front of officers with
gold rings up to their elbows. Then we were given a
fortnights pay, thirty five shillings, and once
more marched, this time to the Naval Stores, where we
could purchase bars of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste
and a half-pound tin of cigarette tobacco. We must
have covered some ground that day!
Back to the New Entry Block where
more kit was issued. This time it consisted of two
hammocks, a set of hammock ropes and clews and two
metal rings, plus two covers and a wool blanket. All
had to be marked with our names, uniforms using the
name tapes, boots stamped with metal letters which
cut into the leather, hammocks, bed covers and
blanket marked in large type stamped with black
paint. Then we learned the art of slinging a hammock,
the recognised bed for the duration of service life
and, when correctly lashed, a life-support should one
ever finish up in the sea. Each of the hammock ropes
was tied to the hammock and the clews, made of
codline, secured the ropes to the metal ring. When
this drill was completed our hammocks were left in
the slung position. Next came instruction on packing
a kit bag, wherein the uniforms and kit would reside
until we moved out of the Training Block.
We learned that we would not be
allowed out of barracks until we had become efficient
members of His Majestys Royal Navy and so
conduct ourselves when ashore. Being in a Royal Naval
Barracks, the term "ashore" seemed strange,
but nevertheless once outside those gates we were
"ashore". In the Mess Hall we were shown
our mess table and hammock rack. The mess was
provided with mess traps, which comprised
a set of pots and pans. Two members of the squad were
told off to be the cooks of the mess for twenty four
hours. Their duties were to fetch food from the
Trainees Galley, supervise the food being
fairly apportioned, then, when the meal was over,
wash the dishes and take the clean pots to the
Galley, where they would be religiously inspected by
the Chief Cook before being accepted. Clean they had
to be or re-scrubbed.
I suppose by then, after the last meal of the day,
realisation came to a number of the class that this style of living
was not going to be quite like home from home. With aching arms from
vaccinations, singing feet from unaccustomed boots and thick socks
and no soft chairs on which to rest weary bones, life was certainly
going to be different. We took our positions on the mess stools each
side of the table and they became our recognised spaces. Our kit
bags were stowed in the horizontal racks, the bottoms of the bags
outwards, showing name, official number and home base; ours were
stamped with a "D" showing that we were Devonport ratings. Kit bags
were pulled from racks and possessions re-stowed for ease of access,
ditty boxes placed on the mess table for those who wished to
commence letter writing. The ditty box was sacred, to contain all
private possessions (I still have mine), brass name tally polished
and scrubbed clean.
On guard duty at the Royal Navy
Barracks, HMS Drake, in Devonport 1937
The N.A.A.F.I. was doing a steady
trade, selling stamps, writing materials and
cigarette rolling machines, plus cigarette papers. I
learned from some of the "old salts" who
had been in the Navy for at least two weeks that
during the Great War somebody named Tickler supplied
much of the tinned food to the service, so anything
coming from a tin was naturally named a
Tickler. It followed that any cigarette
made with a Rizla cigarette paper and tinned tobacco
was called a tickler. Later the old sea
dogs would dispense with machines and roll their own
using fingers and thumbs.
Time came to sling the hammock and
turn in and, unless one was careful, to turn out
again! Once in and wrapped in the blanket, the
occupant was literally cocooned. There was no pillow
so one had to improvise with a jumper and towel, the
clothing having been folded and placed on ones
space on the stool, socks in boots under the stool.
The Duty Petty Officer came into the Mess Hall,
shouted the time-honoured "Pipe Down",
switched off the lights and so ended the first day of
life in the Royal Navy.
Not many of us slept well; a
strange bed plus the fear of falling out when one
turned over. At six thirty next morning, Tuesday 10th
August 1937, with only eleven years and three hundred
and sixty four more days to go, we were awakened by
the Duty Petty Officer coming into the mess hall and
shouting at the top of his voice the time-honoured
method of waking sleeping sailors: "Wakey,
wakey; show a leg there," repeated as he passed
each mess table. How to get out of a hammock was the
next piece of drill. To roll over and fall out meant
a five or six feet drop to the floor; the method was
to grab the metal bar overhead and lift oneself out.
First job was to lash the hammock after the last call
from the P.O. to "lash up and stow".
Blanket folded, edges of the hammock brought together
and, using the very long rope called the hammock
lashing bind the hammock tightly seven evenly-spaced
turns of the rope. The tighter the hammock was
lashed, the longer it would last as a bouyant support
if ever the time came to abandon ship. At hammock
inspection, before stowing them in the hammock
netting, the P.O. was heard to mutter, "Abandon
hope!"
The wash place was in the basement
of the hall: concrete floors, galvanised wash bowls
with hot and cold taps, mirrors which had seen better
days. It was a case of dont bother with the hot
water tap at that time of the morning the boiler
hadnt had time to heat any water. Still, it was
August and that wasnt so bad. We dressed in the
rig of the day, a serge blue uniform and collar,
known as number threes. The two cooks of
the mess brought the dishes of breakfast food from
the galley, plates and eating irons were laid and the
food apportioned, together with a mug of tea each.
Rounds of bread were cut and so we ate. When
breakfast was over, we all mucked in to "dish
up"; the two cooks washed the plates, cups and
dishes, the remainder of us dried and stacked them in
the racks provided at the end of each table. The
floor was wax polished, so after sweeping our area we
were given old serge material, wrapped on large,
wooden-handled blocks to polish it.
Then came inspection time. Were the
kit bags in line in their racks? Lift out all
hammocks from the racks. Were they lashed tightly
enough, the seven imperial turns of the hammock
lashing spaced evenly? Nothing seemed to be
satisfactory in that first forenoon, but upon
reflection this was always the case. We were not
going to be shown that drill many times; in future
any hammock not correctly lashed would cause the
owner to be charged with having a "slack
hammock". That meant extra work in the evenings,
between four and eight oclock, known as the
"dog watches". Correction - I should have
written sixteen hundred and twenty hundred hours.
After inspection
129 Class
formed up into a squad and marched to the Armoury. To
collect rifles and bayonets? Oh no, to collect
webbing gaiters, Royal Naval pattern. The pattern
number of the gaiters was entered into a log, which
each recipient signed. Then back to the wash-place,
where we scrubbed our gaiters and proceeded to khaki
blanco them and clean the brass end of the straps,
then leaving them to dry in the boiler house.
Then came my first job of work in
the Royal Navy. Working in a warship? Working in the
boiler room or engine room of a warship? No. We
marched to the Officers cricket pitch and, in a
long, regular line, we walked with backs bent weeding
out daisies and dandelions. For our first week as
sailors of the King, we would be roustabouts, doing
any job that came along. This week was known as
"Nelson Week" - dont ask me why. One
wag reckoned it would be to let the effects of the
vaccinations wear off and give the dentist plenty of
time to have a fair shot at us.
While doing this weeding
129
Class already got into trouble. Along came the
Gunnery Officer, resplendant in blue uniform, two
gold rings on each sleeve, wearing the regulation
black leather gaiters, back as stiff as a ramrod, red
of face and wearing a bright steel chain, to which
was affixed a whistle. We were halted, stood to
attention and the Petty Officer called to reckoning.
Why were we on that hallowed ground? The P.O. gave a
satisfactory answer but we were still in the wrong:
we should have been wearing gaiters. "But their
gaiters are drying after being scrubbed and blancoed,
Sir," offered the P.O. Not good enough,
seemingly; rig of the day meant wearing gaiters, so
instead we should have been wearing boiler suits. By
now the welcome piping of a boatswains whistle
could be heard, followed by a bugle call, which in
Naval jargon meant "Stand Easy". This was a
respite from work, when smoking was allowed in
authorised places and those nearest the NAAFI could
rush in to buy a cup of canteen tea. Not so for us.
We had to march back to the New Entry Block, change
out of serge suits and don boiler suits, something, I
hasten to add, we would live in for most of our
service lives. Still another hitch occured; until a
white and blue propeller badge was sewn on the arm of
the overall, it would not be the official rig of the
day. Next lesson: how to prepare a linen badge for
sewing on the overall. Turn in the edges of the
material after liberally scoring the back of the
badge with soap, pin it to the overall arm and sew it
on, using medium-sized stitches of white thread.
Sounds easy enough, doesnt it? With left arms
screaming in agony from vaccination and doing sewing
using fine stitches, its a wonder any of the
badges ever reached the appointed places!
We were the first awkward and new
entry squad our Petty Officer had met; he must have
thought we had been specially picked for him. He
began to pray for noon-time to come so he could go
for his tot of rum before dinner.
(Nelsons Blood always worked
wonders; so we discovered when our training was
completed after four long months.) The sewing episode
took us up to dinner-time, which was at eight bells,
or twelve noon. "Cooks to the Galley" was
sounded and in our mess hall and whilst the two duty
members of the squad went to fetch the three courses
of food from the galley the remainder of us went to
wash and brush up, then roll out the white oil cloth
and lay the table. The Petty Officer came to
supervise the dishing out of the meal and, like the
remainder of the class, I was ready for mine. The
meal consisted of soup, main course and sweet and
generally the food was the sort to satisfy any
appetite. The sweet was more often than enough a lump
of suet pudding with either a jam sauce or custard,
sometimes a Spotted Dick, a suet pudding
liberally spotted with raisins. At first I was
puzzled by the letters R B G printed on
the dinner menus, but quickly learned that this was
the Naval abbreviation for Rich Brown Gravy, which
accompanied the meals regularly. Our Petty Officer
returned at the end of our meal to supervise the
washing-up routine. From then on the two duty cooks
had to do everything to leave the mess spic and span.
This meant washing the dishes and drying them,
washing the pots and pans and returning them to the
galley, sweeping out the mess floor and stacking the
mess gear as required. After supper two other lads
would be nominated as mess cooks for the next day.
At one o clock - or, I must
write, thirteen hundred hours - the training classes
resumed their various stages of drill on the parade
ground; we were sent to the periphery with brooms to
observe the drilling classes and have a good
sweep-up, as our Petty Officer remarked. Here
we fell foul of the parade ground Chief P.O. - a
martinet in gaiters, complete with chain and whistle,
together with red face which must accompany all those
who can bellow to be heard on the other side of the
parade ground. We had to spread out, keep moving and
working; there were plenty more brooms in store when
we had worn out ours! That was a long afternoon,
pushing a broom up and down the approach roads to the
square, covering one anothers ground over and
over. I was told to sweep the approach path to the
Barracks Church and finished up weeding the
lawns surrounding the church, which was a change from
pushing a broom. Eventually time came to return
stores, which comprised wheelbarrow, brooms and
shovels. In my later, senior times in the Navy I
often recollected being a temporary Barracks sweeper!
Because of the passage of years I
have forgotten to mention two other items of uniform
kit which had been issued. These were uniform
duck suits, made of heavy-duty twill
material - the trousers almost stood up on their own.
The other item was known as the "torture
kit": the P.E. kit, consisting of shorts,
singlet and plimsolls, all white.
The remainder of "Nelson
Week" we spent at the beck and call of anybody
in authority who wanted bodies. The coveted job was
to work in one of the barracks galleys, digging
the eyes out of potatoes, washing and drying the
tiled walls and floors - in fact anything which was
considered too menial a task for the recognised
trained cooks, or chefs, as they liked to
be called. Call one of them chef and he became putty
in your hands. Why were these menial tasks so sought
after? Because at stand easy we would be
given a cup of tea and a bun. The buns were made for
the tea-time meal and to have this all warm, straight
from the oven, was highly relished.
Several of 129 Class had
been put into the barracks hospital or Sick
Bay, which was tended by Sick Berth Attendants,
commonly known as Poultice Wallopers. The
effects of the vaccinations were causing severe
swellings and painful arms; this was expected from a
fair percentage of new entry classes. Upon reflection
this could have been the reason for Nelson
Week. I remember how on one of the days we
survivors marched into the Drill Shed and for a whole
forenoon were drilled by the Parade Ground Chief
P.O., old gas and gaiters himself! It had
come to his ears that we menials - and Engine Room
ratings at that - were not saluting officers
correctly. By the time he had finished with us we
were proficient at standing to attention, sitting to
attention, saluting to the left, saluting to the
right, saluting on the march, saluting at the still,
in fact in how to acknowledge anybody in authority.
No wonder there has always been a rivalry between
Engine Room and Seaman branches.
Slowly the sick and infirm returned
in dribs and drabs, until finally 129 Class
was back to normal. Towards the end of that first
week, with class numbers complete, we had a
badge-sewing session on duck suit, jumpers and second
boiler suits, followed by a kit inspection. The kit
had to be laid out in a set manner, each item folded
or rolled according to the dimensions in our Engine
Room text book, the "Stokers Manual".
The manual contained the primary essentials of Naval
Engineering and I well remember one of the priceless
snippets of information, which read: "When the
pump kicks up a ruction, theres likely air
within the suction." Another life-saver was that
to work in a coal bunker one needed a Duck Lamp,
illuminated by a flame generated from rapeseed oil.
That afternoon came the dhobeying -
washing clothes - lesson. I have mentioned the double
issues: one on and one in the wash. The wash place
was reserved for our class that afternoon; we had to
take a clean towel and underclothes, white shirt,
socks and boiler suit. We had previously slung our
clean hammocks and changed bedcovers, so the articles
each of us was going to dhobey consisted of a uniform
collar, underwear, socks, white uniform shirt, boiler
suit, bedcover and hammock. With the wash-house doors
locked, we had to strip naked and begin with washing
our vest and pants in the wooden troughs. There was
an ocean of hot water and our instructor, still
clothed I must add, emphasised that, when serving in
a ship, one stripped off in the bathroom and dhobeyed
in this manner. There was an art to washing the
uniform collar to ensure that the blue in the
material did not run into the three white decorative
tapes. The same applied to the strip of blue material
around the neck of the white uniform shirt. Then came
the job of washing the boiler suit. This large
article seemed to take forever and the P.O. was here
and there with instructions. Next came the bed cover
and hammock, which were first soaked in the trough of
soapy water, then laid out on the wash-house floor
and scrubbed with a brush. Out plugs to drain wash
troughs, fill again with warm water and rinse the
soapy dhobeying. Each wash place had a hand-operated
centrifugal water extractor, which we packed with the
clothing and took turns in rotating the drum as fast
as possible until there seemed to be a danger of the
whole caboodle leaving its mountings. The drum was
emptied and refilled until all the clothing had been
dealt with. Then came the turn of the boiler suits,
the bed covers and hammocks. The whole lot of
dhobeying was then hung on drying racks which were
trolleyed into a hot room adjacent to the boiler
house. Remember, we were still without a stitch of
clothing, so the next order was to fill the wash
troughs with hot water, douse and soap ourselves from
head to toe, deluge ourselves with hot water, then
dry off and dress in the clean clothing. This was a
naval dhobeying session when serving in a ship. The
word dhobeying was purloined from India and
simply meant "washing of clothes".
On Saturday forenoon, before
becoming odds and sods again, we marched
to the Parade Ground and, being the most junior class
in training, were taken to where we would be placed
on the following Monday forenoon, when all of the
classes would be assembled, ready for instructions.
At noon we were free of all duties, ready and waiting
to commence training. Our Nelson Week was
over and some of us were already learning to roll as
we walked! That evening I went to the Barracks
cinema, entry fee threepence. On Sunday forenoon the
class was mustered in the rig of the day and marched
to St. Nicholas Church, in the Barracks. After the
service came "Pipe Down", which meant we
were left to our own devices. We borrowed an old
football from the Physical Training office and spent
most of the day, masses of us, on the soccer pitch.
And so came Monday forenoon;
129
Class fell in, four deep in the rig of the day which
was Number Threes and wearing, at last, those
gaiters. Pre-war gaiters were somewhat longer than
those of modern day, and our Class Petty Officer,
being on the short side, was wearing gaiters which
seemed to reach to his knees. There we were on a fine
August Monday, on our appointed spot on the Parade
Ground, at attention waiting for "Colours",
when our day would officially begin. Over the air
came the sound of a bugle, the White Ensign was
hoisted up the Barracks flagpole and the
bellowing voice of the Training Commander ordered the
Training Classes to march off. The Royal Marine Band
struck up a marching tune and so, stepping off with a
left foot, each of us moved. A loud drum beat kept us
in step and it was often said that the powers that
be, stationed on the dias, used to say sotto voce,
"Seamen will march off in columns of four,
Stokers will follow in a bloody great heap."
Evidently, members of the Engine Room Branch were not
credited with much in the way of Parade Ground
skills. Somehow or other 129 Class marched
past the saluting dias, accomplished an "Eyes
Left" and an "Eyes Front", proceeded
to march to the end of the Parade Ground and halted.
Here began the rudiments of drill. Stand at Ease,
Attention, Stand at Ease, Attention, Stand Still,
Right Turn, Left Turn, About Turn and Stand at Ease.
After this chaos, the Instructor P.O. began to
demonstrate these movements and we followed. Having
broken the back of these movements we then learned to
step off, left foot first on the order "Quick
March". Sounds easy, doesnt it? But we
each had a different length of pace, so this had to
be coordinated; apparently the marching pace in the
Royal Navy is the longest of the three services. The
P.O. had to brainwash us with a monotonous
"Left, left" as we marched. He stood to
attention and barked his orders. "Quick
March" was eventually accomplished then came the
"About Turn" on the march and of course,
shambles set in. No wonder we were at the far end of
the Parade Ground! We got around somehow and were
promptly told that John Browns cows could have
made a better job of it than we had. So the forenoon
went on its weary way.
The "Stand Easy" bugle
did not affect 129 Class; like Pickfords, we
just kept moving. To make matters worse, our portion
of the Parade Ground was adjacent to the Naval
Dockyard and there was soon a group of workers
watching our performance from the other side of the
high boundary railings. Came Eight Bells - noon - and
we marched off to our Mess Hall and were dismissed
for dinner. Our Petty Officers tot of rum must
have been most welcome to him that day. That
afternoon we fell in once more outside our Mess Hall,
marched back to our patch on the Parade Ground and
the drill continued until mid-afternoon. By then we
seemed to be marching on our knees. And so the first
day of drill ended. After the cup of tea and a bun
came another dhobeying session - very light this time
- consisting of underwear and socks, followed by the
usual wash-down. By now the next class of trainees
had moved into the Mess Hall and we old
salts could see ourselves mirrored in them.
Bewildered, strange feet and arms beginning to ache,
their Petty Officer shepherding them to do this and
that: a week ago they had been us.
Just about to finish his training
was a school-chum of mine, Reggie Head, who took me
to the carpenters shop and purloined a length
of wood, about twenty four inches long, and one of
the chippies cut a v-groove at each end
of it. This became a hammock stretcher which held
open the end of the hammock in which the head rested.
Reggie had already been drafted to China to serve in
one of the gunboats which patrolled the rivers. After
saying thanks and cheerio, I never saw him again and
dont know whether he survived the war. But
production of the hammock stretcher that night caused
a run on the chippies shop in the ensuing days,
until eventually any suitable piece of wood was
quickly adopted.
Next morning we were given
appoinment cards for visiting the dentist, which.
caused some adverse exclamations. My turn came and I
dreaded it. Check the name and official number and
sit in THAT chair. Abandon hope all ye who sit here!
The Dental Officer was clothed in a long white coat
so it was not possible to determine his rank. He
checked the dental card and then I heard the whine of
the drill and the next sensation was the feel of the
drill. It went down and down until I felt he must be
determined to completely penetrate my jaw. Oh, the
pain! But he couldnt feel anything; and I could
only moan and squirm to no avail. Eventually he
created what seemed to be the entrance to a coal
mine; then I had to rinse my mouth out and he
proceeded with the filling. "Thats all for
today," said Sir. "See the S.B.A. on the
way out for your next appointment." So there was
to be another session, and from the S.B.A. I learned
that there would be several more agonising sessions.
The last one would have gone down well in a music
hall. The Dental Officers jacket was hanging
behind the door and the three gold rings on each
sleeve indicated that he was a Commander, who also
wore scrambled egg on the peak of his cap. Perhaps
business was brisk, or he was having his annual
refresher course, because he certainly set to work on
the last tooth to be treated. Down, down, down went
that drill and the pain was so intense that I just
had to hold his forearm to stop the treatment. The
Commander seemed to explode. "Take your hand
from my arm or you will be charged with striking a
superior officer!" he screamed. I removed my
hand promptly, but the drilling was complete. Again I
discovered with my tongue what seemed to be an
enormous cavity and he told me to take the glass of
water and rinse out my mouth. Having used all of the
water, I still had bits of tooth in my mouth, so I
began to spit the pieces out. The officer must have
been still on the boil because he shouted: "You
filthy article! Do you spit all over the carpet at
home?" "Please, Sir," I answered,
"we dont have a carpet at home."
Which of course was true. I was motioned to return to
the chair and he proceeded to complete the filling of
the last tooth. "Take care of those teeth,"
he said, "I dont want to see you here
again." I mentally endorsed those sentiments and
it was with joy that I rejoined the squad on the
parade ground. There is no doubt that those Dental
Officers knew their onions; here I am at seventy six
years of age and still possess twenty six of my own
teeth, with most of those fillings of August 1937
still intact. But it did hurt!
One forenoon, instead of marching
to the parade ground we were ordered to parade with
towels and duck suits and we marched to the
Barracks indoor swimming pool. Here we were
greeted by the Muscle Bosuns - Physical
Training Instructors - well-developed specimens of
manhood, dressed in white, short-sleeved vests and
navy blue, rather tight-fitting trousers and white
plimsolls. Those of us who declared we could swim had
to change into our duck suits. The P.T.I.s
stood around the sides of the pool, each holding a
long wooden pole. At least the water was warmish and
into the deep end we swimmers had to jump and swim to
the shallow end. Swimming when wearing a duck suit
became an effort; coming to the surface was the first
obstacle but I managed that and swam to the shallow
end. A particular P.T.I. became my mentor and after a
short stand at the shallow end I was told to swim to
the deep end, return to the centre of the pool and
tread water until told to leave the pool. I managed
this without much difficulty; he followed my
progress, holding the end of the pole over my head in
case of difficulty, in which case I would be allowed
to grasp the end of the pole and be pulled to the
side of the pool. Treading water, wearing that duck
suit, seemed to go on for a long time, but eventually
he told me to leave the pool and so I was classed as
a swimmer. Off duck suit, dry oneself and change back
into uniform. My identity card was stamped and I did
not need any swimming lessons. Several of us passed
that test and then came the turn of those who
professed not to be able to swim. They were given
swimming briefs and told to enter the shallow end.
One could see the fear on the faces of those fellows,
and so began their swimming lesson. A P.T.I. gave
them a rudimentary lesson and then they had to face
the deep end of the pool and swim. Some tried, but
the feet of the remainder were literally frozen to
the bottom. Those P.T.I.s showed little
sympathy and the lesson continued for the remainder
of the forenoon. We who could swim were lucky. At
"Stand Easy" we were allowed to go to the
NAAFI canteen and buy a cup of tea and a wedge of
apple pie, just like real sailors. It only happened
that once, but it was a treat. Before we entered the
canteen we had to show our cards to a duty P.O.
Seemingly the swimmers stamp was an open
sesame!
I stayed for the remainder of that
forenoon by the pool, mentally blessing the big boys
at North Corner, who taught me to swim in deep water.
Those long days of swimming during the school summer
holidays certainly paid off. Of course we had also
had swimming lessons whilst at school. They commenced
in the first week of May at Mount Wise Pool, an open
air pool with changing facilities on the side. Boy,
that seawater was cold and we scrawny rabbits used to
shiver when trying to dry and dress. We used to run
part of the way back to school in order to bring some
warmth back into our bodies. Still, we could swim!
We who had passed the swimming test
marched to the wash place to put our duck suits in
the spinner, then into the drying racks. Strangely
enough, I dont remember ever having to wear
them again; they finished up on the bottom of the
Mediterranean, somewhere off Crete. There was a very
subdued crowd at the mess table that dinner-time; the
swimming lesson had changed the outlook of a number
of the class and frightened them into the bargain.
There was no question of not wanting to learn to
swim; it was a must and training would not be
complete without that stamp on the identity card.
That afternoon saw each of us on
the parade ground, under the instruction of our P.O.,
taking a turn at drilling the remainder of the class,
learning to give orders at a distance from the squad.
And so that day ended; there were some letters
written home that evening, many unhappy ones, judging
from the conversation. Next morning we had to parade
in P.E. kit - vest, shorts, black socks and
plimsolls, knobbly knees and all. When in P.E. kit
all movements in the Barracks were carried out at the
double. I hasten to add that the class P.O.
wasnt so attired; he gave the order to move off
at the double and he marched in the ordinary manner.
When we were a distance ahead of him he simply
bellowed, "About turn." Of course by now we
were proficient at that movement and so we doubled
away and then returned to the P.O., just like a dog
retrieving a stick. By the time we reached the
gymnasium door we were on our knees, and we
hadnt even commenced P.E. yet! Once inside we
were handed over to the tender mercies of the Muscle
Bosuns, the same team who had dealt with us the day
before. Well do I remember that order: "Top of
the wall bars, go!" Whilst hanging from the
highest bars we were reminded that all movements
would be carried out at the double, that the word
"Still" meant that we froze and that in the
gymnasium the shouted orders certainly would not be
misunderstood. So began the first of our twice-weekly
P.E. sessions, each beginning with what was termed a
loosener-upper; we were then split into
groups, to be handled by one of the P.T.I.s.
Movement was their theme, and we moved! During those
lessons we learned to climb ropes; until we learned
to use the feet and legs, we didnt ascend very
far. The continual drill of P.E. lessons soon
smartened us and we became an efficient class.
One forenoon, I was marched into
the drill shed and there our Divisional Officer,
Lieutenant Rampling, rated us Leading Hands of our
respective training classes. Each of us was given a
badge in the shape of a naval crown, to be sewn on
the arm of the Number Three serge jumper. And so I
became Class Leader of 129 Class. This
involved being responsible for the class in the Mess
Hall, the tidiness of the mess at all times and each
forenoon and afternoon marching the squad to our
appointed patch on the parade ground. This
responsibility brought priviledges; I was no longer
included in the Cooks duties, became an
overseer when mess jobs cropped up and was allowed to
go ashore after supper each evening. On
occasions one had to have the judgement of Solomon;
of course the P.O. was always available if necessary,
but that had to be avoided if one was to stay in
control.
Some Saturday
forenoons became a headache when, instead of parade
ground drill, there would be a Saturday rounds of the
Mess Hall. At a set time the Training Commander and
his entourage would inspect each mess and all of the
area apertaining thereto. Table and stools outside to
be scrubbed, mess traps to be polished, floor to be
waxed and polished, lights and shades removed and
cleaned, hammocks stacked extra firmly in the hammock
rack, kit bags placed correctly in their racks:
everything by six bells (eleven oclock) in the
forenoon to be "shipshape and Bristol
fashion". In would swarm the Commander and the
rest, consisting of Divisional Officers, the Training
Chief P.O., the Class P.O.s and literally Old Uncle
Tom Cobbley and all. The sole idea was for somebody
to find something not as it should be. We class
leaders had to report our respective messes as being
ready for inspection and await the
"Ahs", as something was discovered,
whereupon one was called to see the Training
Commander and given a reprimand, the severity
depending on the fault. Each Sunday after Rounds the
best mess was given a whopping great fruit cake for
tea, instead of the proverbial currant bun. When we
passed out of training we discovered that during
those weeks each mess was awarded a cake, regardless.
But those inspections kept us on our toes and aboard
ship those Saturday Rounds were still part of life
till I left the Service. (But I dont remember
any cakes being awarded!)
Mentioning the Drill Shed, we
drilled there on rainy days, and this was never
welcome. Being much more confined than outdoors, the
close proximity of other instructors shouting orders
often became confusing and inattention caused mayhem
when wrong movements occurred. The Training Chief,
old Gas and Gaiters, would come storming along like a
galleon in full sail, firing broadsides.
And so life went on. Each
fortnight, on a Friday, we paraded in the Drill Shed
for pay. Paymaster Officers sat behind tables
displaying initial letters; the money for each
individual was contained in an envelope. Each of us
had been given a pay number and fell in according to
our pay number in front of the table displaying the
relevant letter. Even the manner of being paid was
carried out to a drill. Next up to the table placed
his right hand across his forehead to grasp the left
side of the brim of the cap. Whip off the cap, come
to attention, call out the pay number, Sir, and hold
the cap, top uppermost, in front of the Paymaster. A
Chief P.O. called out the amount of money to be given
and the Paymaster would empty the contents of the
envelope on the top of the cap; the recipients
left hand had to cover the money and hold it in
place. A smart right turn and march away from the
table, only to be apprehended by somebody in
authority, who could be heard to shout, "Get
your hair cut!" On cap after counting and
pocketing the cash and back to the mess.
That Friday afternoon every second
week would see us marching to the Naval Stores, where
we could purchase a half pound of cigarette or pipe
tobacco and bars of Pussers Soap. These bars of
yellow soap weighed about a pound and cost threepence
each. Cut into portions and used for dhobeying and
personal washing, they were exceptional value for
money and nobody had any excuse for being dirty - in
fact nobody dared. You will remember the tobacco
issue when I just write ticklers.
Twas a usual routine when New
Entries marched down the road to the New Entry Mess
Hall for the old salts, who had been in
the Navy for ten minutes, to be in the roadway to
shout, "Go home, go back; youll be sorry.
You shouldnt have joined!" and so on. This
was an accepted routine and generally a
looked-forward-to event. Came our turn to stand in
the roadway and advise the New Entries,
which we did in the time-honoured way. Unbeknown to
us the Training Commander had been informed of these
receptions and, together with a group of P.O.s of the
Regulating Branch - ships policemen - he
appeared on the scene. There was no use our trying to
disappear; we were caught red-handed. When the
Training Commander and P.O.s shouted
"Still!" in unison we had nothing to do but
stand still. My class was lined up in fours and our
Station Cards cum Identity Cards were confiscated.
Being a Class Leader, I was treated to a first class
bottle, and the whole class was put in the Training
Commanders Report as defaulters: commonly known
as being in the rattle. This meant that
the next morning we paraded in the rig of the day,
immaculately dressed, outside the Training
Commanders office after Colours. I had to
inspect the class before reporting them to the Class
P.O., who in turn reported them to the Divisional
Officer. He then inspected us and informed us that
"Gawd help us if the Commander found a hair out
of place!" In his opinion we were skates, had
let the side down and poor old Nelson must have
turned over in his barrel of rum. After his minute
inspection I had to march the class to the
T.C.s office and parade the felons outside, the
D.O. and P.O. walking behind as though to
disassociate themselves from us. I was detailed to
bring the class into the building and line the lads
in single file in the corridor. Here our names were
checked by a Regulating P.O. - a ships
policeman, known as the Crusher. All
being present and correct, we were initiated into the
drill required to be carried out by a defaulter. When
his name was called by an R.P.O., the defaulter would
enter the T.C.s office, come to attention
smartly in front of the table, behind which was the
T.C. and our D.O. At one end of the table stood a
very imposing figure in the uniform of a Chief P.O.,
wearing on each lapel a badge in the pattern of a
laurel wreath. He was the Master At Arms, the Chief
Constable when aboard a ship, hereinafter known as
the Jaunty or Joss Man, the senior lower deck man.
Now came the drill. First Joss would bellow,
"Off Cap!" and the defaulter had to whip
off his cap in a manner similar to that of the
payment drill, but instead of holding it out in
front, hold it firmly down by his side. Joss read out
his number, rate and name. In my case it went like
this: "D/KX 91819, Stoker Second Class, H. J.
Siddall, charged with causing a disturbance yesterday
during the dog watches." Came the time-honoured
question to a defaulter from the Commander:
"What have you to say for yourself?" There
is a lower deck repartee attached to this question,
said mentally of course: "And he, calling nobody
on his behalf - and all the same if he had done - was
found Guilty." Which, when translated, means
that no matter what excuse could be thought of, it
mattered not. My reply to the Commanders
question was simply that I was continuing a custom
which had apparently been going on since time
immemorial. But it was not acceptable; I was guilty
of the charge and the Commander ordered me to do two
days of extra drill in the dog watches. Joss shouted,
"On Cap," which I did in another drill
movement, "Right Turn" and "Quick
March" out of the office.
Being the Class Leader I was the
first to be heard and "weighed off" - lower
deck jargon for being awarded punishment. The
remainder of the class was dealt with in turn, each
being given the same award. Our Station Cards were
confiscated and we were told to listen for the order:
"Defaulters to muster in the Drill Shed",
which would sound off in the dog watches.
Once outside the office and
mustered, it was back to the Parade Ground and more
drill. By this time we were into intricate movements
like "At the halt on the right form squad."
Chaotic at first, but it improved and so at the end
of the day we waited for the dog watch order. After
the cup of tea and a bun, the mess all squared away,
came the pipe: "Men under punishment to muster
in the Drill Shed." I mustered all my criminals
and in a squad marched them to the Drill Shed and
reported to the Duty P.O., who happened to be a
Seaman P.O. Now he had two causes for grudges: one,
if there had been no defaulters he would not be
needed to supervise the drill; two, this bunch of
miscreants were from the Engine Room Branch.
Literally oil and water. He checked names and read to
us the form of punishment, which consisted of an
hours drill each evening and frequent
mustering. He knew his stuff when it came to
drilling. Besides our class there were several
miscreants from other branches and for a solid hour
we were drilled on the Parade Ground. His speciality
seemed to be having everything carried out at the
double - and we had two evenings of this! Still, it
finally came to an end and never again did we seek to
harangue the newcomers.
At the end of two months of drill,
on a Monday forenoon, we marched to the Armoury and
each of us was issued with a rifle, bayonet and
webbing equipment essential for the carrying of arms.
Each rifle and bayonet had to be preserved in grease,
so after having been allocated a rifle and its number
recorded, the squad marched to blocks basements
and, after donning overalls, we set about cleaning
the greasy things. I know that I removed most of the
grease using rags, but cannot remember what was used
to render the rifle finally clean. Then came the
cleaning of the bore of the rifle, the blade of the
bayonet and an inspection. Cleaning the bore was the
most important and we had to repeat this process
several times. Then into the colonnade for the first
lesson of drill with a rifle, so that when we marched
onto the Parade Ground we would not present too much
of a shambles. Demonstrations and drills,
demonstrations and drills, until the P.O. roared,
"Youre supposed to be drilling with that
rifle, not climbing around it!" Then off
overalls, leave them in the Armoury, and once more
fall in, ready to march to the Parade Ground. Having
learned how to carry our rifles, it was time for the
rudiments of rifle drill: at the halt, shoulder arms,
port arms, trail arms, ground arms, butt salute,
general salute with arms and, as our P.O. said, we
tended to climb around our rifles. "That was
simple, just wait until you have to fix
bayonets", we were informed. We didnt mind
waiting. That evening we appropriated as many brooms
as we could find and practised the movements. We had
to return the rifles to the Armoury and collect
overalls, and memorise the number of our rifle. We
were told always to check the number of the rifle
when collected; and another oft-repeated pearl of
wisdom: "Check the number and you will never
clean someone elses rifle."
The number of non-swimmers was not
diminishing very rapidly so it was arranged that one
afternoon each week, when they were at the swimming
pool, we swimmers would muster at the basement and
scrub and blanco the webbing gear of the squads
rifles. Overalls on for this job and the seaman in
charge of the Armoury collected a penny from each of
us for a mug of tea when Stand Easy
sounded off. Naval jargon again, his part was known
as running a tea boat, and most welcome
it was. We learned to stop climbing around the rifles
and instead have the rifles climb around us. A
special piece of metal was fitted to the rifle: its
purpose was to fit it together with two other rifles
to stack them in the form of a tripod. There were
some frozen moments when we piled arms,
stacking them in the threes, and marched off to hear
a clatter as one or more stacks collapsed because of
insufficient care or being too hastily piled. The
next of drill with the rifle was to learn to fix
bayonets The drill order was carried out upon hearing
the two words "Fix Bayonets" and with it
came the old salts rendering of that order. It
goes something like this in its Westcountry
rendering: "When I says Fix doan ee move, but
when I says Bayonets, you whips em out, one,
one two. An mind ee dont lop yer
oppos yers off." (The word
oppo comes from watchkeeping duties, when
upon completion of a four hour period with machinery,
one was relieved by ones opposite number.)
"Official" portrait in
1937
When marching with bayonets fixed,
sailors have the chinstays, normally stored in the
caps, down and fitted under the chin. The blue band
of material was made of coarse tape and, when under
the chin, produced an irritation. So one patronised a
Naval Tailor. The reps of numerous Naval
Tailors were allowed to enter the Barracks in the
evenings to collect orders, so one of the first items
purchased was a cap, made in the tailors shop.
They cost a half-a-crown and the chinstay was made of
a softer material, the inside of the cap was lined
with red and green coloured material, so of course
the caps were known as Port and Starboard
caps.
After learning the drill with a
rifle and bayonet came the day to visit the rifle
range, for the purpose of learning to shoot. Now the
rifles with which we drilled were not suitable for
taking to the range, because of age and the
mishandling over the years. So one afternoon it was
on overalls again, return drill rifles to the Armoury
and collect a serviceable one, once more packed in
grease. Another de-greasing session followed, each
preparing his rifle for the next days lesson.
Because we would be out of the Barracks for the whole
day, early next morning, this time wearing our
oilskin coats, we mustered outside the dry provisions
store to collect victuals for meals whilst on the
range. Next visit the Armoury to collect a rifle,
check the new number and memorise it. Then down to
the Pier and embark in a cutter, and cross the River
Tamar to Trevol.
For that day we had been handsomely
provided with beef, potatoes and cabbages, plus
loaves of bread and a large block of butter. There
was a supply of tea, tins of evaporated milk and a
large bag of sugar. On entering the range we were
welcomed with open arms. We learned that this was
because of the provisions, not for the shooting
drill. The cooks of the range party promised us
big eats - in which they would of course
join us. And so we had our day of shooting. The
oilskin was to lie on when in prone position.
Admonitions were given by the Gunnery Instructors:
"Dont do this; dont do that,"
all to be observed when handling those lethal
weapons. If someone forgot the instructions, look
out! Any deviation saw the culprit running around the
range for several circuits. We fired from several
distances; all of the ammunition expended had to
match the number of empty cartridge cases collected
and handed back to the Gunnery Instructor. This was
in early December and the cold weather made us ready
for the dinner served up by the range party. A cup of
tea in the middle of the afternoon finished off our
day on the range. After the ceremonial cleaning of
the rifle bore and subsequent inspection, each member
was given his days score. To my surprise I had
enough points to be chosen to join the New Entries
Rifle Team. In subsequent competitions I won a bronze
medal (which is somewhere with the life-saving
medal won by my Dad).
The next part of
training saw us visiting warships and being taken to
the engine and boiler rooms. On the battleships we
seemed to go down and down and couldnt help but
feel that we were lost. Finally, in mid-December we
prepared for our Passing Out parade. There were kit
inspections, mess inspections, drill inspections, and
on the appointed day there was Full Divisions, which
meant being included in the Barracks personnel,
marching past the Commander-in-Chief of the port, who
took the salute. 129 Class, the class
passing out, marched past with rifles and fixed
bayonets, then to our patch on the Parade Ground to
be inspected by the C-in-C. With that completed we
marched to the Armoury and returned weapons and
webbing. We had completed our training, we were
Engine Room ratings - albeit Second Class Stokers -
and joined Raleigh Block, which in those days was our
Mess Hall. We transferred our kit out of the New
Entry block and then reported to the Engine Room
Regulating Office, where I learned that in January I
was to join H.M.S. Revenge, a training
battleship.