Open Writing

Much of the time I spent as crew member aboard the Royal Navy destroyer Wrangler in 1945 seemed to be occupied wandering around the Pacific Ocean in an apparently aimless fashion whilst the time ticked by routinely, with only the occasional memorable event, such as the day that, finding myself at the after end of the ship, I realized I was alone, a rarity in service life. I sensed ‘summat was up’ and so began to cautiously wander forward when there came the sound of gunfire, not too far distant.

At the time we were sailing in the company of the cruiser HMS Norfolk, and it was her guns which were giving voice. Glancing skywards I saw a downward spiral of black smoke with an aircraft dangling on the end of it. The smoke stopped when the plane hit the water, and that was the end of a kamikaze bomber and its pilot. For him, the Divine Wind had been blown from the sky, ‘Divine Wind’ being a translation of kamikaze, so I’m told.

What had originally occurred, I was later to learn, was that the alarm bells had been sounded, and I had never heard them -- cloth ears! Thus I was absent from my action station, a position which proved to be of such import to the safety of the ship that I had never been missed. At any rate no comment was ever made, and I had sufficient wit not to pursue the matter.

Pay in the Royal Navy always included a clothing allowance. Therefore when one’s bits of kit expired, they had to be replaced by purchasing from naval stores. ‘Slops’ was the term applied to such amenities. This was available on a shore base, but at sea no such source of replenishment was available. Consequently, in our case at that point in time one’s clothing became rather ragged through constant washing, this being necessary because of the heat.

I never knew of any other way of laundering clothes (dhobeying) when on board ship other than in a bucket, in the bathroom, in the nude. That way it didn’t matter how much splashing took place -- just be careful of using bleach! I even tried washing a blanket in a bucket. It wasn’t a success. I found the best way of washing my hammock was to tie a rope round it then trail it over the side when at sea. Drying it in the sun afterwards produced a brilliant whiteness.

As time went by, my only pair of working shoes developed holey soles, which allowed ingress of sea water and spilled fuel oil, not a healthy brew for feet, which, despite regular washings, caused galloping toe-rot or some such infestation to take up residence. Tropical ringworm had also made its presence known amongst us, and I provided a home for seven cultures of the fungus, again despite daily showerings, but sweat was our constant companion. Applications each day of dilute iodine shifted the ringworm. Footy-powder of some kind cleared the toe-rot.

Cold water was a nonentity whilst at sea at that particular time. The ship produced its own fresh water from the briny, but consumption was such that the desalination equipment could never satisfy demand. Consequently it was tepid water only on tap.

Amongst the many shortages endured was one of toothpaste, so I resorted to using salt. Evidently I was over liberal in its application, since one morning when I bared my teeth before the bathroom mirror I was quite alarmed to find they had turned green. So did the rest of my features when I saw them. The sea never churned my stomach as much as that sight did. My first thought -- as a late teenager -- was how could I expect to charm girls with my snot-green teeth? Much to my immense relief, the verdigris-like deposit disappeared gradually as a result of persistent brushing -- without salt.

Throughout those times of inconvenience we were constantly ploughing our way up, down and around the Pacific with occasional glimpses of land. We learned to identify Mumbo Jumbo Island, a solitary lump of sandy outcrop too small for habitation. Other islands came and went, amongst which were Guam and Manus where, unfortunately, we made no landings, simply collected stores and the all-important mail. It was oppressively, humidly hot in our steel cabinet, but at least there were neither flies nor mosquitoes. Yet microbes did exist in the harbour water, and after a dip there we were glad to shower and remove the microscopic pests.

Back at sea there were times when we slid through oily waters whose surfaces it seemed possible to walk upon. Then again we would head-butt waves which were hundreds of tons heavier than ourselves. Something like that had apparently happened to the American aircraft carrier we saw, one with a wooden flight-deck which was flopped down over her bows. That must have been some weight of water she had hit. It certainly gave her a very forlorn appearance. We might have suffered too from the waterspout sighted had we not chosen to give it a wide berth.

In retrospection it seems quaintly odd that pleasure-seekers pay to be tossed around, driven to mountainous heights then plunged into the depths of some white-knuckle, belly-wrenching theme park ride. Perhaps we were fortunate in being paid to undergo such experiences, at times for days on end -- oh what fun.

Further fun and excitement came as a result of tropical rain and mist, which caused our navigation officer to lose his bearings. For ourselves, the lower deck personnel that is, there was nothing new in that. Consequently we were completely unsympathetic. To ourselves, he was then aware of how we often felt, except for the fact that he was being paid to know where we were at. Such a state of affairs did not, however, last too long.

I well remember sitting on top of the torpedo tubes along with other moaning matelots gazing miserably at the heavy seas and grey, wet, depressing conditions, when suddenly there loomed before our eyes a very large, very inhospitable-looking wall of grey-black, sea-soaked rock face. Fortunately for all concerned, that had also been noticed by the bridge party. Thus avoiding action was taken.

It transpired that we had narrowly avoided ramming the island of Saipan, which the Americans had fought so desperately to recapture from the Japanese, and I don’t imagine they would have been best pleased if we had appeared to be re-invading. Instead, it was hallelujah! Our whereabouts were established, and we could carry on cruising.

On our 30th day at sea news came via the wireless operator that the Americans had detonated an atom bomb over Hiroshima. We all said, “Ooh,” and wondered what that meant. Two days later we heard about another bang, this time over Nagasaki, again news received in our ignorance. But the following report of Japan’s capitulation we did understand, not that our lifestyle varied any. We continued to sail round about on the then customary endless patrol. There were no celebrations.

Going on deck one morning shortly afterwards with the water flat calm, I was astounded to see that we were steaming close to the centre of the largest gathering of ships I had ever seen -- then or since. It was, if not the entire, then a large portion of the Allied Pacific Fleet, dotted all around. The family was united. Vessels of all types from aircraft carriers and battleships, cruisers, destroyers, corvettes, oil tankers, supply vessels and sea-going tugs, the lot, spread from horizon to horizon. Never did I feel more secure when afloat than on that particular day.

Eventually, after some 36 days at sea, we were ordered into port. Thus we finally dropped anchor in Tokyo Bay, off Yokohama -- or what remained of it. As a special treat, shore leave was granted in the company of an armed officer. We found that the city consisted mainly of heaps of rubble with what had been molten glass then solidified filling the gutters, all courtesy of the US Air Force’s B49s and their loads of incendiary bombs. Many of Yokohama’s citizens were living in makeshift hovels dug into the rubble heaps, with the best accommodation being reserved for the local prostitutes who were resident in a newly wired-off compound under armed guard. The guards were not there to prevent escape but to discourage entry, since invitations from the female inmates made it quite obvious that a visit from ogling mariners would be all-embracing.

We bobbed about in the bay for a while, doing apparently nothing of import since I have no recall of any such events. Indeed, the most impressive, and therefore the most memorable, sight was that of Mt. Fujiyama or Fuji San, rising in the distance, easily recognised by her near perfect conical shape and snow-covered peak. Once an active volcano belching fire and destruction to all in the path of its merciless outpourings, a scenario emulated in my time by warring powers over an entire area of the Pacific Ocean. Then came the days of peace. All outward ferocity was at an end, but as with one-time sacred Fuji’s slopes, the scars remain.

Came the time when we finally set a course for Sydney once more. The ship had completed her commission and was to sail for home and out of my life. During my time on board her the customary ship’s complement of cockroaches increased greatly. They were like water, running everywhere. My legs still bear the scars gained from their nightly visits. Well I think it was the cockroaches, but after weeks at sea whilst on short rations, one can never be certain. Fumigation of the ship was carried out at Sydney whilst I was on leave. I learned later that the dead hordes from that pestilential colony were emptied over the side by shovelfuls. Also over the side went crates of rotten eggs. Those would have been edible when we were in the islands, but for some reason they never graced our mess-deck tables. Gold-braided minds worked in mysterious ways.

I once more took up residence in the shore base Golden Hind, whilst at a later date Britain, strapped for cash, sold Wrangler to India -- plus, unbeknown to them, the Indians, all the cockroach larvae which fumigation would have missed. Still, when they hatched they would be curry-coloured, so who’d notice? Coincidently, soon afterwards India seceded from the British Empire. Wonder if there was a connection?