Open Writing

Sea-going routine could be humdrum. Yet amusement was not entirely absent. From that aspect an aircraft carrier with its capacious hangars provided for an excellent cinema. With aircraft pushed to one side, seats rigged and a screen erected, it was ‘on with the show’. Also the respective lift platform was lowered allowing for further seating around the edge of the well. I remember sitting with feet dangling over the abyss, arms draped over the guard rail which ran around the lift aperture and watching the film, which in one instance was ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey’. Since it was night time the dark sky presented no intrusion on the screen, and the breeze created by our forward movement, although warm, was still welcome.

There were also cinemas in Colombo and Trinco’, an interesting circumstance since they were on opposite sides of the island. That was where the on-board films came in handy.

The cinema in Colombo was unique in my experience since we were able to obtain drinks during the interval. These were delivered as we sat in comfort. I found it quite pleasant to lounge sipping brandy and soda whilst waiting for the house lights to dim.

Trinco’s cinema was of a more Spartan element. As Royal Navy property it was the customary concrete-floored, brick building with unpadded seats, spacious and thus acoustically reverberant. One practice its patrons regularly resorted to was that of some bright spark awaiting the screening of a poignant scene, then amidst the concentrated hush, bouncing an empty beer can along one of the aisles, thereby causing a switch from one kind of passion for another.

Then there was the time when a spell from what had become customary routine came as the ship was used as an aircraft transporter. Then, rather than the planes being scrap, they were all in one piece. Spitfires, Mark Two, stripped of all paint, their aluminium glistened in the sun when hoisted aboard for transfer to the Indian Air Force whose base was at Cochin in southwest India. We also gave passage to some Indian Air Force gentry with strange customs, we thought, since when in the bathroom showering, they did so with a towel wrapped around their waist. Now what, we asked ourselves, were they so anxious to hide, or was it that there was nothing to conceal? A mystery which remained unsolved.

Cochin was a sticky-atmosphered, sultry place which didn’t change much at night. It was situated at the mouth of a muddy-looking river that certainly did nothing by way of encouraging swimming. It might not have been mud swirling around. Fortunately we stayed one night only, and it was pleasant to get back into open water and less fetid air. Yet in these modern times Swan Hellenic, P and O Company advertise “Explore Cochin and cruise the famous Kerala backwaters. Enjoy the Kathakali dances in Cochin. Performed exclusively by men, they tell of epic battles between gods and demons and incorporate elements of yoga.” Anyone wanting my share, you’re welcome to it.

From Cochin we spent many days at sea, each one much the same as another, being controlled by pipes and bells, prisoners at ‘His Majesty’s pleasure’, or at least the Admiralty’s, since what is a warship at sea but a prison? Encased in steel, limited access to certain areas which rules specify, punishment for missing from muster or absent from one’s station. Yet we never thought of it that way. We moaned, laughed, joked and simply accepted our situation.

We were aware it couldn’t last forever, and sure enough the day arrived when, in the words of the old sea shanty, it was ‘Farewell and adieu…’ for we’d received orders to sail for old England. There were no jollifications. It was simply accepted as fact. Our lifestyle never altered. The food got neither better nor worse. Our duties remained the same as ever. But what had changed was the direction in which we sailed -- homewards. Rather than steaming in endless circles, we had a direct course to follow, one which first took us to Aden, then still a British fuelling station, as it had been since the early days of empire.

From Aden we leisurely made our way up the Red Sea, taking three days in all, which included stoppages for swimming. Then it was softly, softly through the Suez Canal, this because too great a speed creates a wash which erodes the banks, and we did not wish to have to go camel fishing in the event of some of them slipping in when the canal sides gave way.

At the northern end of the canal lies Port Said, a bustling spot in our day. And it was there that I saw again the Dominian Monarch, the ship on which I had sailed when first going out to the Far East, although when on her I had sailed westward through the Panama Canal. For ourselves, however, as the two ships passed we were sailing into the Med’ going home, whilst the Monarch was outward bound for Australia carrying war brides who were to begin new lives out there. We wished them luck amongst our shouted greetings. It was hail and farewell.

Crossing the Med’ we dropped anchor with Malta a smoky pile on the horizon and went swimming once more, a brief spell of confined freedom and exercise from our incarceration. The rescue boat was present as usual, although no one risked making a dash for it to Malta. England had the stronger pull on our sentiments.

There was one more port of call and that was Gibraltar. There we stayed long enough to paint ship, making her look smart prior to reaching England. The bows of an aircraft carrier, flared as they are, means that the customary staging slung over the side would swing clear when lowered, making contact between paintbrush and ship’s side negative. This problem was solved in my time of ship painting by slinging large wire nets from the bows and securing them so that they billowed down and created a means of gaining a foothold, thus allowing paint to be applied whilst the painters scrambled about the net like drunken monkeys.

Now there was a ruling in force at that time in the navy to the effect that anyone leaving the ship without permission would be charged with breaking out of ship, and should they return on board the charge would be that of breaking into ship. Unless, that is, one accidentally fell overboard, in which case no charge was brought against the unfortunate individual.

There is no way of telling whether it was by design or fair wear and tear that the cross-joints in the steel netting were missing in places, with the result that when trodden on the cross-wire sank under one’s weight producing a larger hole than usual.

Painting ship is a dreary business. It is when one is so employed that one comes to appreciate just how big the thing is . A four-inch paintbrush loaded with paint does not go a long way in a short time. Consequently, fed-upness sets in quickly.

We were in Gib’ harbour. The sun was hot. The job was boring. The water looked cool and inviting. It was a perfect scenario for ‘accidents’ to occur. So they did. Periodically there came feeble cries of “Help,” followed by a splash. O dear, someone has unfortunately fallen through the damaged netting and will have to swim to the gangway to re-board the ship. All perfectly legal and most refreshing. I myself suffered several such ‘mishaps’ and well remember that on one such occasion, whilst under water, swimming through a shoal of sardines. I don’t know who was most surprised, me or the fish.

With the painting completed it was through the Straits, turn right and into the Bay of Biscay. That knocked the shine off our brushwork. Still, we ploughed on, through the Western Approaches and along the Channel to fetch up in Portsmouth. Why, I’m not sure, presumably to unload someone or something, but it wasn’t me. So that when the ship sailed that night I was still on board as we made our way back down the Channel en route for Plymouth, and a memorable route it proved to be, made so by wind and water.

It was December, and the English weather was noticeably colder than that which we had experienced over the past months. Winter storms were in evidence, and the Channel was exceedingly brisk in its mobility, so much so that for one brief moment the ship was stopped dead in its tracks. That must have been some force of water we met with. Perhaps it was nature’s nudging farewell to me.

I anticipated the short voyage would be my last whilst in the Royal Navy. Days of service were then numbered. Devonport was reached, but unlike Francis Drake, there was no royal welcome awaiting my safe return with a readiness to dub me knight of the realm. No crowds cheering their adulation for a noble hero home from the sea. Rather it was, ‘Pack your bag and hammock. Your services are no longer required. We will shortly cease to pay you the six shillings per day which we, the Admiralty, in our bountiful manner have bestowed upon you over the past years.’ Shortly afterwards then I bade goodbye to the Vengeance and travelled back to my depot, Chatham Barracks.

Suddenly, it was all over. My sea-roving days were at an end. I had been lucky. For me the war and its immediate aftermath were both easy. I could then go home -- to stay.

There could never be a repeat of the odyssey I had experienced, nor have I any wish to attempt its recapture. The world has moved on, and I prefer to remember the one of my youth, even though that world had many faults. As the ancient adage has it, “No man can bathe twice in the same river.”

My global wanderings had taken me from Arctic skies which held the dancing Northern Lights to where the heavens were decorated with the Southern Cross; over seamless seas, remote countries and islands on a journey which encircled the globe, entailing some 100,000 sea miles. I had served three and a half years in Royal Navy service, half of which time had been spent at sea, with some 15 months abroad. I had seen much of this wonderful world. I had also glimpsed how it all might end. What a tragedy if a creation of such natural beauty should be wilfully destroyed.

There was nothing at the time which made such journeying unique or out of the ordinary even. I was simply one amongst thousands who, after hostilities in Europe ceased, was shipped across the globe to continue with a struggle which some in Britain considered of little consequence and tended to forget about once Europe was free from Nazi tyranny.

Nevertheless, we left many of our comrades half a world away. They are not forgotten but remain in our memories since ‘there are no roses on a sailor’s grave’.