Ship’s husbandry to me was the biggest waste of space in the known universe. The instructors were obviously deficient in the brains department, and I remember the whole class being subjected to a week of theory on how to clean a floor, a tiled floor or a wooden deck, and what colour bucket and cloths to use. They even had the amazing blue cleaning shit! Now, in the navy it was affectionately known as pusser’s blue, which was without doubt the cornerstone of all naval and quite possibly all cleaning organisations throughout the world. Who knows where this shit came from but it seemed to me like every ship on the planet used it. You were only supposed to use a capful per 10 litres or something, but we all learned using it neat was a lot fucking quicker. After endless lectures on how to clean we were then subjected to how to chip and paint, what brush to use and how to clean them. Now, looking back the navy could have saved itself a whole heap of time and money on this subject, because in the real world at the time no fucker did anything like how we were instructed. All cleaning equipment was kept in cleaning lockers on board ship, which inevitably ended up having only one bucket, three filthy cloths, gallons of pusser’s blue and an equivalent amount of deck polish, this being despite the endless resupplying of such lockers. This was due to the fact that the whole lot would be thrown over the side on completion of any cleaning periods. MARPOL (the International Convention for the Prevention of Pollution From Ships) wasn’t even known about back then. As for upper-deck maintenance, all rust was painted over with generous amounts of grey-white or black paint slapped on by the bucket load whilst having a fag and trying to sunbathe if at all possible.
Workshop technology was interesting and eventful with everyone getting to know a lump of mild steel and a file very intimately. We had a trade test where this lump of metal had to be rubbed to death to form a clamp to exact measurements and within tight tolerances. Only when this was completed were you allowed to progress to lathe and milling machine work. To be fair, at the beginning I don’t think anyone knew the difference between an open-ended or ring spanner, let alone being able to manufacture everything from a gasket to an engine part. So I guess it was pretty sound training. The workshops were really cool but possibly the hardest part of the training, as you really did need to pass the trade tests. However, the instructors, all old boys, were actually very helpful, patient and informative so it was a useful time of learning. You were allowed to smoke as much as you wanted and take breaks whenever, but failure to complete the test pieces or the diesel engine overhauls and have a successful running machine at the end of the allotted times meant you’d be either back-classed (start the course over) or SNLR (Services no longer required; in other words, fired – dismissed from the RN). All manufactured parts, engine strip downs, overhauls and rebuilds were examined and tested for tolerance, torque settings procedure and completeness, in addition to our theoretical and practical abilities being continuously assessed. I must have done okay as I won the Best Engineer award at passing out. I still have it in my office today.
The day before we passed out from the engineering school the issuance of draft orders was made, detailing what ship and where we would be going. There were lots of screams for joy but more disappointments amongst us than anything else – not many global trips going on at the time. Some were drafted to go on to further training and become electricians, and others to the submarine service which was very short of engineers. No one wanted to join the ‘sludge mariner’ brigade. I was drafted to HMS Gainsborough for eight weeks’ special drafting and instructed to join her in Portland two days after passing out.
The Gainsborough was a guided missile destroyer and, at 5,400 tons, a sleek grey messenger of death, and fuck she looked awesome to my young eyes. She had just finished a work-up and what was called BOST, which is Basic Operational Sea Training. She was sailing at 4pm for the fjords of Norway and then up to the Arctic Circle. Joining the Gainsborough was just weird – my first ship. I was joining as a junior mechanic. I remember trying to clamber up the gangway with all the stores going on board by way of human chain and then hordes of people coming off in what appeared to be an uncontrolled and chaotic fashion, all part of an organised plan to get the ship ready for sea. It was just incredible how much activity was going on all around the ship and her berth. It was like watching swarms of bees in a hive, busy looking after the queen and preparing her for something remarkable and exciting – a hive of activity, so to speak. I introduced myself to the quartermaster, who piped (made a broadcast) for another young lad to escort me to my DO.
My divisional officer was the DMEO, a Lt Dent, who was a very calm, polite and nice kind of chap, nothing of significance, probably a uni graduate, so all brains and no common dog. I had an interview with him in his cabin almost immediately. An officer’s cabin on a warship isn’t much to write home about – there’s a settee, which in fact is the upturned bunk, a foldaway chair and a cabin door curtain, all made with the very same gopping (‘gopping’ is naval slang for disgusting) cream and green floral material seen throughout the fleet and as I had seen in Raleigh, a small fold-down writing desk and a foldaway sink. Despite the draft order instructions and any expectations I may have had, I was to be berthed in the bear pit, or stokers’ mess. I was to be assigned marine engineering duties and allocated a part of the ship where I would be expected to work on a daily basis. However, I’d be called upon by the ops officer for special duties as and when required and given further instructions when appropriate. My divisional officer encouraged me to follow the engineering watch bill as much as possible to get my task book signed off quickly. Failure to complete my language or other special assignments meant I’d probably be forced to remain on board as an engineer because the fleet was so undermanned after the Falklands War. I think many matelots had left the service after the Falklands War, causing huge manpower shortages and fuelling the mega recruitment drive that had saved my ass.
He informed me that he knew why I was on board and then simply offered me a cigarette; inhaling deeply, he was almost at pains to tell me this was going to be a difficult eight weeks for me. To achieve and maintain confidentiality of my secondary tasking whilst living aboard as an engineer would be a bigger test than the one planned for me when we reached our theatre of operations, but apparently it was an assignment that was meant to be a test not only of my engineering and language skills but of my ability to fit in to new surroundings and be a team player. I remember watching the blue smoke from his cigarette spiral upwards and then get sucked up into the extractor as I looked up searching for some sort of divine inspiration or confirmation to continue with what I had got myself into. He was super-overprotective of me I think and he wanted me to know that Cdr Brown was hoping to hear good news and that I could come to him at any time for help or advice. He wanted promotion, I remember thinking. Fortunately, there was to be a group of trainee engineers joining before we sailed who were specially selected for fast advancement and this would help my blending in with the whole shebang. He wished me good luck, signed my joining instructions form, pulled back the cabin curtain and released me into the Andrew proper fashion.
I’m not sure I was ready or even properly briefed as to the double life that was implied and that I needed to adopt for the coming weeks or indeed for my entire future. Looking back, if I’d fucked up it wouldn’t have mattered as I wasn’t anything other than a baby engineer at this time, and if it had all gone pear-shaped I would remain on board and no one would be any the wiser or even give a shit. Maybe that was the idea, and a bit of an insurance policy for the organ grinders, whoever they might have been. The challenge of adopting and embracing this opportunity to run parallel careers at such an embryonic stage in my service was no doubt a mindfuck but hugely attractive for some reason. I guess being different is exciting and it certainly made me feel valued, which is something I had craved above all things since DECAF.
The whole ship was alive and buzzing with action – all too much for me to take in really. I wandered the passageways wide-eyed and
lost, trying to find my way around the labyrinth of compartments and decks. A whole new bigger orchestra than that I had experienced on board the Atlantic Star, everywhere was just manic with activity. I had just a few hours to get all my kit on board, new safety kit issued, my joining routine completed and get all my shit unpacked in the mess. All the smells and noises were very familiar and exciting, just like the Atlantic Star, but she was different in so much as she was packed with so much equipment and so many crew, leaving very little room to manoeuvre through this steel maze built on iron decks and weapon systems. It was overwhelming.
The bear pit, or stokers’ mess, really was a fucking amazing place. I think that I was billeted in 3Q mess, which translated means three decks down and reasonably far aft. I had my kit bag and pusser’s suitcase to unpack and stow away before we sailed. Now, there were about 40 guys down that mess deck and enough room for about 10. Mess decks are like catacombs, dark and full of bodies; half of the entire mess deck was in darkness, as watchkeepers who had worked through various times in the previous night slept in bunks that were three high, very narrow, all with curtains or blankets hung to afford some privacy to the occupant. As many as three rows of bunks lined each side of a ‘gulch’ (a gulch being a bedroom or bunk space within the mess deck, with the exception of the mess square bunks that were folded down to form a settee arrangement to afford some kind of living space). Of course, all these settee beds would be assigned to the sprogs or newcomers to the mess, with the senior guys and leading hands living in the deepest darkest gulches where there would be no disturbance to their sleep from noise or light pollution. The higher you were in the pecking order the better sleeping arrangement you could command.
Bunks were very narrow, about the width of your forearm, with approximately 30cm of headroom when lying down, fitted with a seatbelt or bunk strap (for rough weather) and a bed bag into which you’d zip up the mattress and all the bedding once you vacated it. You had a bunk ventilator and a bunk light, which initially you were made to believe you had to pay the chief electrician a usage fee for. Under each bunk space were three drawers for your footwear, and a good tip was never to get a bottom bunk, as you’d either get stood on as someone tried to climb in the bunks above you, pissed on (drunkenness or just bed-wetting) or have the drawers underneath you opened and shut so often it would drive you simply insane due to additional sleep loss. The deck was tiled and obviously a fucking nightmare to keep clean. The place stank of cigarette smoke, half empty trays of food and heaps of empty beer tins from the previous night’s piss-up, which no doubt added to the suffocating atmosphere which was to be home for the next two months. It was cold as the ventilators blasted fresh air in from the world above. No windows or views except the odd poster of a naked woman on a beach someplace exotic which all matelots seem to dream and talk of endlessly in the boredom of a life at sea. I stowed my shit and went up top to sneak a look outside as we sailed.
My daywork assignment was to work in the shipwright’s workshop, which was on the upper deck. I went up top to find it. I remember listening to the gas turbines spin up, a high-pitched whistle that grew in intensity as the turbines each passed self-sustaining speed, and then waited patiently for further orders. Increased vibrations through the deck and into my boots gave an indication that the Gainsborough was being released from her ropes holding her alongside. As the ship’s props gripped the water to push her ahead, the harmonics changed, the turbines wheeze became a roar and the ship slowly moved ahead. Ropes were tossed from ashore and hauled in by seamen in No. 2s, there was lots of shouting from the deck petty officers and a blast or two from the ship’s siren as if to confirm the conductor, the captain of all the goings-on, was in agreement or approval.
We had left the wall and were making our way out into the Channel all looking very smart, with the berthing crew at harbour stations in No. 2 uniforms lining the waists, forecastle and flight deck. Off to sea. The sea air in our nostrils and excitement in our hearts. It’s not to be underestimated or simply laughed off; it’s an experience to be on a British ship of the line, the sheer history demands your respect; ‘England expects’ is upon you as you imagine being aboard with Lord Nelson but with more firepower than the entire Spanish Armada beneath your feet. Only now, instead of the bosun calling us to beat to quarters, it would be a siren and a call to action stations as tradition was again replaced by technology.
The Gainsborough had both gas turbines and a steam plant, the operation of which remained a complete fucking mystery to me. I was initially satisfied by simply learning how to find the engine rooms, gear room, boiler room, generators or other machinery spaces around the ship. I learnt how to conduct machinery rounds with a mentor; I wasn’t allowed to do anything on my own as I wasn’t qualified at the time and needed to double bank and then pass AMC (auxiliary machinery operator) certificates and an oral board before being allowed to become a ‘watchkeeper’! Wow, no fucking thanks, that would have meant more work on top of the endless cleaning and all the exercises that never seemed to end. There were watchkeepers and dayworkers. The watchkeepers would have the privilege of keeping the ship running at night and through the silent hours, whilst the dayworkers worked a normal day with the exception of the compulsory attendance at all the exercises and drills. It was hard work, long hours and relentless. I don’t think many of the crew really wanted to be at sea, but instead all wanted to reach new and exciting ports of call where they could spend all their money on booze and women, including prostitutes, it mattered not to most.
Life at sea is routine, routine and more routine, but with lots of little surprises like fire exercises, flood exercises, machinery drills, weapon drills and a whole plethora of other drills to keep every day interesting, but then even this becomes routine, routine, routine, routine, sometimes made more difficult by the changing of the watertight condition ordered by HQ1. All ship’s doors and hatches are assigned a flood risk of X-ray, Yankee and Zulu. X-ray identifies those hatches lower down in the ship, and Zulu is every fucking door and hatch from the bottom to the top, making moving around the ship really difficult. State 1 was war, State 2 was ready for war or defence watches, and State 3 was peace time – it changed every day as we exercised continually, which is what the navy did and probably still does when it’s not cleaning ready to conduct exercises.
Meals were breakfast, lunch and dinner, same time every day and with a strict pecking order to who went through to eat first. There was always some sort of additional snack at 4pm which I still affectionately remember as ‘four o’clockers’, which became ‘nine o’clockers’ when the ship was alongside. This was often a boiled egg, bread and spreads, cheese and corn dog or some other light ‘snackage’. Food was good or bad depending on the chef or the mood of the chef. However, to this day it amazes me how a chef could engineer a potato to be completely incinerated on the outside with nothing but fresh air on the inside, like a hollow piece of coal. Maybe the fluffy inside was extracted for the officers and used to make mash potatoes… Chefs, hmm… I think mostly they were just people who tried to prepare food, albeit sometimes in horrific conditions especially as the weather deteriorated the further north we steamed.
The galley was always awash as they tipped the broilers onto the floor or were scrubbing out after trying to cook something. I always liked the cooked breakfast. Doesn’t matter how much they fucked up everything else, a bit of crispy bacon or burnt sausage in a cheap slice of white bread is just fine. That is until you were on ship’s bread – that meant one swipe of a knife with butter over your bread resulted in it all rolling itself up into a ball of fucked-up bread and butter that looked like a dough ball and became absolutely fucking useless. Back then supplies ran out quickly and the first to go would always be the milk, after which the chefs made up great big churns of ‘millak’ which was white watery shit that you’d only give to someone if they were your worst enemy. It goes without saying the NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes – a shop), which was commonly referr
ed to by all those at sea as the ‘Colonel’ or ‘Colonel Gaddafi’, did a roaring trade about a week after sailing on just about every pussers’ grey I sailed on.
You lived in darkness most of the time; your bunk space never saw light because there was always someone sleeping, except for evening rounds when an officer would walk around the ship inspecting heads, bathrooms, passageways and mess decks for cleanliness. Fuck, the navy loves to clean, every fucking day you would be cleaning something, and when you’d scrubbed it to death you had the joy of painting it and then cleaning it again. Being at sea is generally boring and it drives everyone to seek something fun to do in order to cope with the mundane routine that becomes your life. Thank fuck for alcohol. As ratings we were allowed to be issued with three cans of beer per man per day. This was issued, paid and signed for at the Gaddafi. This usually got stockpiled for party nights and hidden in all manner of places, like vent trunking, in the A/C space or plumber block space until the appropriate evening, sanctioned by the mess leading hand, for a party night.
The first night out at sea proved to be such a night and it was to initiate all us newcomers to the navy and to our mess deck. Let’s face it, it’s just plain old bullying by today’s standards but I still believe that it had its place and should be allowed to continue to this day. The choice of poison was very limited: CSB, Red Death – or McEwan’s – and golden cans of cider.
Initiation takes a boy and makes him part of a family and a team that will, in the event of war, fucking fight for each other all the way. It’s not PC anymore, but it’s what gangs seek to achieve in cities around the world, what churches cry out to their congregations to put together in the way of fellowship groups. Initiation, coupled with pride, honour, tradition and all the other bollocks civilians don’t understand, despite all its faults, bonds men into that band of brothers which breeds a loyalty and respect that no other country in the world could fucking understand or emulate. Yes, alcohol is bad, and bullying is bad, but what I’m describing was the foundation of what made us different, made us better than the rest, made us the best. This shit happened in all the units I joined throughout my career and made me and all my military brothers become so fiercely proud and protective of why we defended Great Britain, this green and pleasant land. Proud to stand and drink toasts to Her Majesty at dinners, functions and events, that’s what the fucking terrorists hate – our pride, our history and our traditions. Fuck them! This was just a taste of the initiations and bonding that I experienced, but I know that those who later served with me and later saved my life did it because they belonged to the same gang as me. It’s that simple. We belonged to the best gang, HM Forces UK.
The Steering Group Page 10
