Open Writing

In my serving days a destroyer in the Royal Navy was maid-of-all-work, and as such a ship, the HMS Wrangler was no exception. With myself as part of her complement of ratings, we served as members of the British Pacific Fleet in the struggle against the Land of the Rising Sun. For us throughout that period there were no heroics, no deeds of derring-do, no perilous adventures, since the enemy was constantly somewhere else.

For some of the time our role was escort for larger warships, including aircraft carriers. A further period entailed the carrying of mail, materials and men from island bases to ships at sea and also from ship to ship. What seemed to occupy the majority of our time, however, was the apparent meaningless meanderings over miles of desolate ocean for days and nights on end. Those patrols were no doubt necessary. After all, there was a war on and many of the areas covered were in enemy waters. Nevertheless, tell that to a bunch of lusty matlows in their late teens. Their minds cruised through different oceans.

Still, such meanderings were interrupted periodically with day-to-day shipboard duties. As already mentioned, there was the need for the transference of property from ship to ship at sea, and where this entailed personnel, then a breeches buoy was employed. Such an apparatus, when used for lower deck personnel consisted of the customary lifebuoy with a pair of canvas shorts attached. For high-ranking officials, the American navy supplied a high-backed tubular steel chair with multi-coloured striped canvas upholstery complete with tasseled canopy. How pretty the ensemble looked, dangling between two ships which were plunging into and out of the waves whilst the chair’s occupant tried to adopt an attitude of stoic indifference. But when the two vessels moved closer together and the supporting ropes sagged ever nearer the frothing water below, then we observers knew just how they would feel. No one ever got so much as their feet wet, however. But I did witness some poor chap’s entire kit receive an unwelcome christening when the guide ropes dipped and the carrying wire-mesh cradle disappeared temporarily beneath the bubbling briny -- could have been an admiral. What fun!

Oiling ship became routine, going alongside the tanker, then having fuel oil pumped across into our depleted tanks. Whilst lying astern of an American warship on one such occasion awaiting our turn to refuel, a submarine warning was sounded. Ignoring any niceties, the American, quite rightly, veered away, leaving the tanker to turn off the tap -- or should that be faucet? -- as oil was surging every which-way. It transpired the alarm was false, but it was entertaining whilst it lasted. Meanwhile the cost of wasted fuel oil would no doubt have been charged up to Uncle Sam.

‘Coxswain to the wheel’ became a familiar pipe over the Tannoy. It meant yet another going alongside, a manoeuvre oft repeated, so much so that a high state of proficiency was attained. Well, it was for the coxswain. He was the one who steered the ship, and all credit to him since he never hit another vessel. But then, we in turn were never bumped, which should say something for the accompanying helmsmen.

There developed at this time an almost regular dropping alongside the USS Dakota, a cruiser, whilst frequent visits were made to the ‘Mighty Mo’, the USS Missouri, a battleship -- still afloat -- whose life rafts seemed bigger than we were. She also carried a tropical growth of vegetation high up amongst her superstructure, which already bristled with radar and radio aerials. Indeed, the whole resembled a greenhouse. There was, for accompaniment to the nodding fronds of flora a 36-piece jazz band beating out the rhythm on her afterdeck. And what did we have? A small pile of gramophone records and for colour the labels on tins of Nestle’s evaporated milk. Fresh milk at sea was ever non-existent.

Indeed, ‘fresh’ as applied to food had by then become a word of no consequence. Yet for all the masterful handling of the ship by the coxswain it became quite noticeable that we gave a wide berth to the Montcalm. She was a British supply vessel which accompanied the fleet, stocked with heaps of wantables on our part yet which, for some reason known only to himself, our captain chose to distain. It wasn’t as if he would have had to pay for the stuff out of his own pocket. At least, I don’t imagine so. Although one could never be sure just how Admiralty minds worked when sat behind a desk in Whitehall being denied action on a daily basis -- by a Wren!

Fresh food then was substituted in our diet by dehydrated meat, potatoes and veg which, when served up came as a tasteless slurry, not at all popular. Jam and bread sufficed for many a meal. Alongside the Dakota one time, her captain kindly offered us the pick of his extensive stores. Again our captain with musty Royal Naval dispassion condescended to accept a little fresh bread only. The Dakota had her own bakery. We had an element heater on which we made toast -- when we had anything to toast. The mess deck mumblings resulting from that shameful refusal brought accusations of total disregard to Marshall Aid in force at the time. For me the most favourable daily intake was the lime juice ration, my own and another rating’s who didn’t like the stuff. There was rum for those who ‘drew’. I was too young, ‘UA’ under age, being less than 20 at the time. Strange though stocks of that commodity never ran out.

Time passed, one day or night being much like another, four hours on watch, eight hours off, with dog-watches to break the pattern. Thus every third night was a full night’s sleep. Then the constant round began all over again. Daytime off watch was spent working ship. What was done was so exciting that I have few memories from then. At least we didn’t have to paint ship or wash paintwork either, favourite naval pastimes for idle hands and sickeningly repetitive.

One night whilst acting as lookout I was sorely tempted and debated with myself quite seriously as to whether I should report what transpired to be the moon. Stupid as that may sound now, at the time it was quite logical. I first saw a bright light on the horizon. The sea was flat calm, and its distant surface acted as a reflector to the illumination. A pale golden star first made its appearance, to be followed by a brilliant whiteness which, as I still hesitated to report the strange apparition, gradually revealed itself, displaying more and more of the tip of a sickle moon. Never since then have I witnessed such a revelation of lunar beauty.

Another time, also on lookout duty, I counted 21 shooting stars in one half hour’s watch. There was wonder all around, and at times it thrust itself upon one, albeit in a roundabout way. Nights when the heavens were blacked out by cloud brought an impenetrable darkness when nothing was visible. It was on such a night as I stood on deck that something hit the bulkhead beside my right ear. An immediate thought was, ‘Who could be throwing things at me?’ Then reality dawned. We were miles out at sea. There couldn’t possibly be anyone within throwing range. I bent down and fumbled around. I had to since I couldn’t see the deck. Then I found the object -- a flying fish, still alive. So I sent it back from whence it came. A destroyer sits quite low in the water, and presumably as she had dipped lower still, the flying fish had chosen that moment to leap, as they do, missing me by inches. Had it hit me, the surprise would have been greater still, for both of us. Fish and ship which passed in the night!