CHAPTER 2: BESIDE THE SEASIDE

HMS Royal Arthur at Skegness was in the gimcrack buildings of Butlin's Holiday Camp: massive blocks, camoflaged to provide another of HM's stone frigates. We were collected at the station and carried through the gates into another world. Above the parade flew Commodore Buckley's broad pennant and there were sentries at the gate. We were mustered and another life began.

We were fed on meat pie and chips in the great empty echoing dining rooms, then the long walk down the rows of chalets, one of which, for the next six months, was to be my home. Well, not really my own home, it was to be shared with another sailor, as was the single bed. What a to do, two sailors and one bed! Not really a problem to the Naval mind: there was an upright at each end of the bed and between ran three planks; this created an obstacle; an obstacle which might have inconvenienced a bow-legged dwarf whose back was broken. That for six months was to be my defence against losing my virtue. Fortunately, my room mate was Alec Privett and Alec wasn't one of those. Fortunately for Alec, neither was I. I didn't sleep much that first night and spent the next six years trying to make it up -- I never succeeded.

So, at Royal Arthur, I began the process of learning. Oh--Yes, I learned, I learned the hard way. I failed, failed many times, but at the end, all I can do is look back and ask if anyone died because I failed them. I know that none died, know that many lived, but none of that mitigates the pain and desperation of failure, which had to be paid for in misery and self depreciation. Sometimes, however the Lady spread her favours wide and I lived when others didn't. Since then, I have never kept my winnings as a gambler. They have been passed on to those near to me.

The powers that be put me in class W102, which was a Telegraphist training class. It was a high pressure training situation for the intention was to push the usual R.N. training course of 18 months into just over twenty weeks, in addition to giving us a thorough training as an infantry batallion and a role in coastal defence.

I remember little about the camp itself, my memories are all of people, not memories of the Officers, though I saw Commodore Buckley and Lieutenant Commander Horne, who ran the training. My memories are of the men who taught me and gave me so much: Haes and Pass in the lecture room and Love Buck Jones and Twinkletoes on the parade. Fine teachers and fine men, if you wanted to learn, they would teach and take the greatest of pride in their pupil's success. Should you not wish to learn, that was too bad, for you.

Haes and Pass, shall I ever forget them? Pass, round faced, leather cheeks, plump, wearing the oldest of rough serge uniforms; an immensely likeable man; a specialist, with little time for anyone but telegraphists; yet a reservoir of patience, kindness and skill. After his morning "Tot", mellow and happy but still a wonderful "sparker". Haes, even more tot happy; a face seamed and leathery yet running away in the alcohol; always moving at the slow crawl; not so pleasant as Pass but there was never any doubt as to whose side he was on. Having said that, neither would stand shirkers, one either progressed as a Tel. or was transferred to the seaman branch and a quick trip to sea. Love, Chief Gunnery Instructor Love, ran the parade ground. A man in his late forties who bounced along, angular of face, red of hair and a voice like a file on angle -iron. A man who had fought the Turk at the Dardanelles; a man who was going to make sure that when the chips were down, men he had trained would be in with a chance. He worked us and gave no respite: there was no time; we were waiting for invasion and we had a large part of the coast to defend. We might not hold it against the best the Wermacht could throw against us, but at least they would know that they had been in a fight. I am always grateful to him, for he taught us all the basics of becoming fighting men. His second string was Buck Jones, full of bounce, stiff back, a happy smile and a bark. Between the two of them, they turned us from boys into men. I shall be forever grateful.

During the day we sweated at morse and Fleet signalling in the lecture rooms and in the evening went down to the beaches to guard against invasion. We went down to the beach with the setting sun, Love and Buck Jones spreading us along the dunes; my post at an old Maxim machine gun, out of which, I had once coaxed a burst of 17 rounds. The only way out of the post was at the front: this disturbed some ratings; we would not be able to retreat, they said. Buck Jones looked down his nose and said," Yes, once you are in here, you stay and fight it out; here we are and here we are bloody well going to stay. When they come we are not moving. They'll have to come in and get us if they want us ". Buck was only about 5'7", but I wouldn't have wanted to move him. I don't think he would have gone quietly. To young fighting men like ourselves, they gave a firm example of what we might have to do.

Our equipment was rough: we had the old Long Lee-Enfield, which was not calibrated for the modern ammunition; two ancient water-cooled Maxims on their heavy tripods and a case of hand grenades to each squad. On the roof the wooden guns ensured our safety against air attack. Each night we came off the beach at one hour after sunset and turned in on our bunks until going out again an hour before dawn. Between these times we lay in unbelievable discomfort: sailor's navy blue uniform, over which we wore a pair of khaki overalls; boots and full length gaiters; webbing equipment; gas-mask and keeping near at hand rifle, bayonet and tin hat. We tossed restlessly until "turn to", half between wishing to be out and the desire for at least a little sleep.

Meanwhile the W/T classes droned on to the endless sound of Morse, test being followed by test, each checking on our suitability to continue the course. A score of 98% or marching orders. C.P.O.'s Pass and Haes placidly relentlessly, jollying and pushing us along, but no sympathy, get the required score or go. Neither liked sailors, they liked the Signal's Branch even less.

I can still see Pass, sitting bashing at a morse key and happily recounting that the Signal's Branch had made only one move forward since Trafalgar, when some hirsute genius had replaced the wooden Ingelfield Clip with the current bronze one. I still found it lovely to watch these abhorred signal men marching down the road with all orders being given in flag hoists ; " G 3 ---Blue Nine---Down," sounded rather like a pooch on an outing. Really it was an order to change direction together at 3 miles per hour.

Ratings seemed to come and go with remarkable speed, while we as Tels. seemed to be there forever. I can clearly remember my first pay. Having real money was a wonder: two shillings per day, the princely sum of 14 shillings per week. Not given freely of course but collected with due servility: one went up to the pay table; took off one's cap; came to attention; chanted name, rank and number, while laying the cap on the table. Atop of the cap the pay-rating, under the paymaster's supervision, laid one's pay.This was collected, back to attention, salute, reverse and march away. They could of course, have made us grovel or crawl up for it. Nevermind, it was real money and in the town of Skegness could be exchanged for all kinds of delectable things which I had never had before. Indeed for the princely sum of two shillings and sixpence, there were bacon and eggs, chips and sausage for sale and, of course, temporary freedom.

While we slogged away at our training course, the war followed its ever descending path. May had seen the great German sweep round the Allied armies and the hasty retreat to the French coast at Dunkirk. Some units fought with stubborn courage, as did the rifle regiments at Calais, others had gone forward with a panache and courage which had for a while haulted the great sweep of the attacking forces particularly at Arras ; the Matildas and the Durhams had carried the battle to the enemy. However, by the first of June, Operation Dynamo, the evacuation of the B.E.F. was under way. The weather had been all that could be hoped for and by the 17/18 June some 250,000 men had been lifted off the beaches, saved, but at a ghastly cost to the Navy. On the same day, France sued for an Armistice which was agreed and signed at Compiegne on the 22nd. Britain, with its fighting equipment lost in France stood alone. From that day, rabble in arms like ourselves, stood to hold the beaches, if invasion should come. Fortunately, among the rabble, stood men like Love, Buck Jones and Twinkletoes. We were green, but with them leading us we hoped to give a good account.

Despite the shambles in France and now in the skies above us, we went on with our pursuits. There was "the' dansant" at the hotel on the front and we danced with the local beauties and dreamed our dreams. I had arrived in June and had been clever or lucky enough to disclose my interest in and prowess at cricket. This opened for me a whole new facet of Naval life, for after a series of trials, I made the Ship's side, the only rating to do so. For the trials, I had bowled flat out, pitching the ball about a foot short of length ---- adding intimidation to propaganda. To get out of camp was a sufficient reward but this, I found was only the start. We went off in a coach to some pleasant rural ground, where we played a friendly game. Lunch was however the highspot: out came a large wicker hamper; from the hamper came things quite new to me; legs of chicken; rolls of pork; fruit and above all bottles of a variety of wines. All the food which a pre-war Navy considered essential to the success of a gentleman's outing, nothing but the very best. I liked cricket ! I was sure it was the most wonderful of all games.

Match over, alas, I went back to the seedy glory of Butlin's dining halls, back to the huge halls with their trolleys and endless rows of tables. Meals were eaten to the accompaniment of the rumble of food trolleys. These trolleys, were a great asset, being heated so that the food served on the tables was actually hot. Our food intake matched the demands our work and we took aboard an official 4,500 calories per day: an amount which strangely enough, we found far below our needs.To make up these needs we went to the N.A.A.F.I. canteen and ate large amounts of sticky buns. Under this regimen, my weight climbed from 10 stone to 12.5 stones in a very short time. It wasn't fat, I was taking on but good hard muscle.

Came the long awaited time, when we were given a weekend leave. Somehow, I couldn't face Chopwell. Gert and I had been out for a few months and I was in that great trauma of turning from civilian to sailor. Not a translation which happenened easily. I went to Moss-side in Manchester, to stay with Curly Lancaster, my girl friend for the last months at College. It was the usual wartime cock-up. All station identification markings had been removed to baffle the enemy and I got off at the wrong one in Manchester. Curly of course was waiting at the other: neither of us seemed to have been particularly bright that day . I went out of the station and set out to walk up the street to the next station; Curly did the same; by the luck granted to idiots and sailors, we met half way. We went back to her home, a little corner shop in the suburbs. Her family made me very welcome but like all people newly introduced to it, were fascinated by the sailor's uniform. It was never designed as a uniform in which to fight.The bell-bottomed trousers were creased on the outside with seven creases and on the inside with a crease which ran the whole length of the trousers. Instead of a shirt, we wore a white "flannel", squared off at the neck and taped with blue tape. Over this went the collar, draped over the neck and tied round the waist with two tapes: the jumper surmounted this lot and was rather like a tight sweater which went over the head. Once into the jumper, a black silk ribbon went over the head and went down and under the collar: finally came the white lanyard, round the neck and looped back round the silk and on underneath. As I have said, not a fighting rig, not even one easy to get in or out of. The only useful design factor was in the trousers, where, instead of an ordinary flap, there was a drop down front which was held in place by a button at each side. As you can guess, we all had fun putting it on for the first few times. A properly tailored uniform could look very smart, most sailors in their "Pusser's" issue more resembled walking rag bags. I had hastened to buy a tailor made suit. It was a long week-end, in Navy terms, Friday afternoon until Monday morning; it felt more like a very short time before we were rolling back in through the camp gate.

We carried on with the routine steps in training. It was sometimes rather unpleasant. We did our gas training, teaching us to use swiftly and efficiently the gas-mask we wore on every occasion. To do this, we walked into a room awash with tear-gas, without a mask on of course; there we went through the drill of putting on the mask, walking around for a few minutes before walking out into the open air and joining the large group of weeping sailors. The intention, was to reach a stage where we could do it without getting a wiff of the gas.

We did infantry drill as platoons, as companies and finally deploying across the flat Linconshire country-side in divisions of some hundreds of men. There must be some fundamental law of military science which ensures that while advancing in open order, the command to fall is so calculated to ensure that each man drops into a large pool of wet cow-shit. Then, cow-shit and all swinging back to the camp to the music of the Royal Marine Band. It was hard graft and many of those who had come from sedentary occupations, arrived back in the last stages of collapse. I was a sceptic about all this marching and dropping. I think I would have settled for some good entrenching tools and practise in how to use them. I didn't think we were going to find ourselves in a war where we were going to do much marching around.

For sometime, the war was a remote event which passed us by, but eventually we were taught that we too could be at the sharp end. It was a beautiful summer's day, the sky blue and clear of clouds. We sat in one of those great glass and light metal framed buildings which Butlin had erected for use as entertainment centres, buildings now partitioned into lecture rooms, when the camp air-raid siren sounded announcing enemy aircraft overhead. Our orders under such circumstances were clear: up and out; fall-in in ranks outside; march to the nearest shelter; get in and stay put. These were orders laid down in the quiet of some discussion group: Pass and Haes had qualified in a rougher school. "Down ", they yelled, and down we went, scrambling for cover on the concrete floor. There was a series of CRRUMPS, and the building shook. "Down", they yelled, "Bloody well stay down ". We stayed down and as chaos came to an end, made our way out to the roadway outside. Here we could see the outcome of the attack. The road where we should have mustered had taken a stick of bombs and the toilet blocks alongside were now smoking piles of rubble from which came the screams of those in agony. Out to sea flew three Junker's 88s heading hard for home. Out of the sky above them rolled a "Vic" of three Spitfires. There were three crossing passes, the rattle of guns and the 88s were all smoking or diving seaward. In so many minutes it was all over. One 88 made a crash landing on the beach, the rest went in. I looked at Pass and Haes and recalled the number of times they must have been given the order which said how we should react under such circumstances. They had it in orders; they had it in writing; they had been told what to do. It dawned upon me, that our two drunken old inebriates knew far more about war than did those who were telling them what to do. Outside, the squads who had fallen in on the various roadways were counting their dead. We had no one injured. The bombs destroyed a lot of people, but in war, people unknown do not exist, and it affected us little. What did affect us, were the shattered toilet blocks ------ 5000 men and most of the toilets gone. I walked very carefully and gingerly for some days until the repair gangs had done their work.

Somewhere about this time, I was asked if I wished to apply for a Temporary Commission in the R.N.V.R.. I hastily said "No", it seemed to me that I was having sufficient difficulty qualifying as a Telegraphist. The other might come in due course, when I had proved to myself that I could stand the stress of fighting. Until then ---- No!

Skegness had few amenities, we did however use the afternoons to have tea and dance and the evenings for a substantial meal and quiet. I wandered back up the road to camp, replete and rather satisfied in my "Tiddley " suit, with its gold winged Telegraphist's flash - a suit made to just break all the regulations, not enough to get one run in, enough however to satisfy the wearer's vanity. I liked it, the "V" at the neck was too deep and scooped out into an illegal curve, the trousers too tight at the knees and much too wide at the bottoms; the collar much too light with a lightness gained by hours of steeping in salt water. Of course, it should have been done with seawater but that was not easily obtainable in the camp. I came, in through the gate in quiet content only to be fallen upon by C.P.O.Love. A man mis-named if ever there was one. This was a new Love, "Get fell in outside the armoury ", he ordered. We got fell in as ordered. This was the night of "Cromwell", when England stood at arms expecting invasion forces to hurl themselves up the beaches. Outside the armoury all was chaos. The armoury was of course locked and the duty Bumpkin didn't have the key. Even when it arrived, he refused to open the door without the order of the Officer of the Day, that although there were other, albeit junior officers present. Into this apparent deadlock intruded Love and in a gentle, saintly voice I had never heard before said ," Open the flaming door, before I beat it open with your flaming skull." Very quickly the door opened, O.O.D.'s permission or not, and we were issued with rifles, bayonets, grenades and of course our trusty Maxims. We marched off to die for England.

Sunset saw us disposed along the great ridge of dunes at Ingoldmells Point, no trenches and no entrenching tools with which to dig ourselves in. We used, as best as possible, the natural contours of the sand dunes, lying on the reverse slope to shelter from fire from the seaward side but wide open to flanking fire from any force that made it to the dunes. We were in a sorry state : no water bottles, no rations and no capes, only our weapons and 150 rounds of ammunition. We saw no Officers but as ever, Love, Buck Jones and old Twinkeltoes were in a dozen places at any one time : moving among us with the reassuring word; checking our wellbeing; giving us of the courage and determination that flowed from them. We lay and waited for the dawn, the dawn and the foe.Twice we lifted the Colonel of the Sherwood Foresters whose units flanked us. Brought in at bayonet point for identification, he demonstrated the awful language soldiers can use.

We lay and waited for morning and the battle, each of us in a little island of his own. Could we hold them on the beaches? I never dreamed that we could. I never met any one who thought we could. An iron was entering into our souls, If they came in past the Navy at sea, here on the beaches we would meet them, slow them down; cut down their numbers; give the few regular troops coming up in support a chance to throw them back into the sea. We had no tanks, no artillery and to our horror we found we had grenades without detonators. Yet we stood to face whatever the dawn should bring, a bunch of raw hands, a handful of veterans from the last war and a growing courage. We screwed ourselves up for the battle, not for King and Country, but for those at home and a girl with a warm heart and big brown eyes. Slowly the dawn reached in from the East, I eased off the safety catch on my rifle, checked that the bayonet was properly fixed, checked the magazine and with growing tension waited. The dunes were shrouded in mist which soaked through our overalls, damp and cold we waited. Love walked through our positions, a quiet gentle man, putting steel into us and the determination to stand our ground. Slowly the mist dispersed and the long sweep of water began to be visible. We lay taut and strained our eyes out to sea. We looked again and again, there was nothing to see but the great stretch of water. Slowly, it came upon us, that for this dawn at least they were not sweeping up the beach. The muscles and nerves stretched taut, began to relax and after a few minutes there were bursts of somewhat high pitched laughter.

Now, we know, that "Cromwell" was the code word to warn all forces that invasion was imminent. They never sailed. If they had sailed, I am sure that we, like so many others, would have stood to fight it out, no matter how hopeless the odds. We were not warlike, but we knew what we would not have done and though it took another ghastly five years, which few of us were to survive, we went forward with our faces to the disasters which befell us.

It was a beautiful autumn day and as the sun rose in the sky so did our spirits. Someone with more sense than most, had set out early for the beaches with a wagon load of food. Wet and aching, we welcomed the van with its load of tea, bread and sausages .We
welcomed the meal we had never expected to eat. There is an old service saw that, when the Army stops marching, it makes camp but when the Navy stops marching it makes tea. Fed, we marched back to camp leaving Love and Jones, while Twinkletoes hitched a lift. He was Twinkletoes because in the last great struggle, a 4" gun had rolled off its mounting and carried out a neat surgical job on his feet. It may have taken his toes but not the stout heart in that wrinkled frame with its short cropped marching gait.

It was a hard old world, we didn't go back to bed but to the urgencies of the morse sessions. Here we drowsed over our pads, while Pass sent morse to both rooms and Haes kept watch at the door while we slept. Next day we were back on the parade with Love, not the quiet, steady and very gentle man who had walked among us on the night of "Cromwell", and held a bunch of greenhorns, held them there on the beaches, when in all good sense we would rather have gone into the darkness, far away into the darkness, leaving behind the sea and all it might carry to us with the dawn. Oh! no, we had back the Love we knew too well, tall, sprightly, straight as a ramrod, face of bone and the pale blue eyes under the ginger head and the voice like a rasp on angle - iron. A wise man who knew when to be ruthless and when to let himself shine through. He gave just that core of steel to young burgeoning courage; to young courage without hope.

The life of the camp went on with, to our joy, long week-end leave or as the Navy says "Leaf". Such "Leaf" came all too rarely and fell into the chaos of wartime transport. There seemed to be no through trains from Skegness to anywhere in the British Isles and though we might begin our journey in daylight, its ending was always in the dark blacked out world. I never came to terms with the nightmare of wartime train journeys. No train ever met another, leaving me with overcoat, gas-mask and little brown attache case standing on some lightless platform, endlessly waiting for a train, which never seemed to come. Long, we waited. till out of the dark, a dull glow, swirling steam and then an endless caterpillar of carriages, trundling into the station. Every train was loaded, always to its maximum load. The train would stop, spew forth weary bodies, then edge forward again and as each carriage came up to the platform, a new load of bodies would be disgorged. Outside on the platform was a world of darkness and space, inside each carriage was a world of no space, bodies everywhere, on seats, on luggage racks, lying on corridor floors or even piled into toilets. A world jammed with kit-bags, rifles, gas-masks and everywhere choking cigarette fumes, swirling in clouds through the dimly lit, blacked out carriage. To survive, everyone smoked, sucking in air that left lips , mouth and throat foul and rancid while trying to doze in whatever space was available. Now and again, one would open an eye, only for a while, however, as the foul air caught at the tender membranes, leaving an aching soreness which would not go until one could escape from this moving nightmare. We spent so much time travelling, getting home on a Saturday morning and leaving for camp on the Sunday evening. So much travelling and so little time at home: using that short time, with real people, to build up enough courage and hope to go back and follow the long road. Strangely, it is the travelling I remember, perhaps the rest was too close to the heart.

Gradually, the time of training was drawing to a close. We were ready to go off and take our place in the war at sea, a war, which every sign indicated, we were losing. The country was full of broken regiments and wandering men: the press was full of stories of how the R.A.F. was winning the war; some of the truth we knew; the two stories did not match. Our camp began to fill with French sailors, a real rabble at arms, or at least a rabble without arms. To the camp came Admiral Muselier, to raise the standard of La France Combattante; the shiftless lines of smoking, talking troops virtually ignored him and he went away an obviously soured man. They chose to go home- how could it be home, with the German strutting the street? We heard later that the ship taking them to France had been torpedoed.Young and brash as we were, we had little sympathy.

Now we had reached that stage when we thought we were telegraphists. We could read morse ( we thought ), decode signals, manoeuvre fleets and we were ready to give our services to the ships which were gasping for our arrival. Came the time to pack our kit and go, not straight to sea but first to barracks and then off to join, "The Grey Funnel Line ". Perhaps we picked a particularly bad time to go, perhaps there was no good time to go. Whichever it was, we fell into either the long Atlantic war of bloody attrition or the sacrificial holocaust of the evacuation of Crete. So many of my friends went out and died before they even got their knees brown. The sea took them and they too went into that dim attic in my mind, pushed away, out of thought, until some smell, sight or word stirs the dust and they rise before me in all their youth and strength. So we went out to live each day, to reach each evening, thankful for the chance, that for us at least, there might be a tomorrow. Living on a high, not thinking of more than that day and its fleeting joy.