Boys will be boys...!

Sometime in 1984

I am still serving on HMS Yarmouth. We are now acting as guard ship in the West Indies.

So what is a guard ship? Basically the ship's duties are to patrol the islands and to respond to any requests for help, particularly in disaster areas. For example if an island was struck by a hurricane or tsunami we would provide search and rescue assistance, medical support and disaster relief.

Of course, during such a deployment there is usually plenty of opportunity for shore time to explore the islands. This is one of the better locations!

Now, let me explain a little about 'Jolly Jack' to you. He is away from home and tends to adopt the attitude that 'what they don't know, won't hurt them!" So, presented with the opportunity for, let's say, some female company, he usually doesn't try too hard to resist.

We are alongside in Antigua. This is one of the larger islands that is at once beautiful but of stark contrasts. On the one hand, there are beautiful beaches and expensive homes, on the other, there are many people living near the poverty line.

I am enticed ashore by a couple of my mess mates and we head out to find a suitable watering hole. This doesn't prove too hard and we settle down for a few beers! I haven't led a sheltered life but it takes me awhile to notice my surroundings fully.

While I sit at the bar I notice that there are quite a few of my ship mates here also. They regularly disappear upstairs and appear a little later. I casually mention this to my mates. They aren't concerned, after all we are sitting at the bar of a fairly large brothel! My ship mates are getting acquainted with the locals!

A few days later, we are back on patrol and my sick bay is pretty busy. I have about 25 cases of STD's (sexually transmitted diseases). This to Jack, is an accepted hazard of his life style! Around 15 of these new cases appear to have got their little problem from the same girl - yep, you guessed it - this group paid a visit to the brothel in Antigua.

So, many smears and painful injections later, all of the new cases are treated. The worrying thing, for me, is that it is during this period that the world is beginning to wake up to the threat of Aids. One of my roles is to lecture the crew on health & hygiene. But Jack, I think, always adopts the attitude to jump first and ask questions later!

Of course, as part of my stores I carry a good supply of contraceptives. I don't think there was a single occasion during my time on the ship that I was ever asked for any of these!

Emergency dash...!

RNAS Yeovilton 1975

After the army cadets I was 'properly' drafted to my first shore establishment. Again, oddly, it was an airbase. Yes the Royal Navy does have them. This one was at Yeovilton in Somerset.

This was my first experience of working in a sick bay serving the medical needs of the base. Duties could range from mundane administration, treating the sick and dashes to the airfield for emergency or precautionary landings of aircraft. All in all an interesting place to work.

Again, I volunteered to work over the Xmas period. As I have said, this is usually a pretty good time on a naval base. Paddy was my colleague who would be working over the festive period with me.

The days were passing fairly slowly and quietly with not much happening. This was to change on Xmas eve.

Paddy and I, together with a nurse were watching a bit of telly to while away the hours, when we received a call. One of the duty drivers had taken a turn and didn't look to good. Paddy and I dashed around in the ambulance.

When we got there, the driver had, indeed, taken a turn for the worst - a major heart attack. He was collapsed in his chair - no pulse or respiration. Paddy and I went into auto. We rapidly got him into the ambulance and sped of towards Yeovil hospital which was 7 miles away.

We now had to keep this guy alive until we got there! Let me explain; hurtling along at 70 miles an hour in the back of a range rover ambulance is no fun. The thing rocks and rolls alarmingly. Now, normally, one of us would have been giving mouth to mouth, the other cardiac massage. In this case, this was proving to be impossible.

Paddy and I quickly worked this out. I basically, held on tight to Paddy to stabilize him while he worked on the patient. We got to the hospital in double quick time. Happily, the patient survived this episode and made a good recovery.

Back to the telly then!

Trained and ready for action....!

Sometime in 1975

So here I am, fully trained. I am now an MA (Medical Assistant) ready to take up medical duties wherever I may be drafted. So, will it be a ship, abroad or a shore establishment? Any of these would be exciting for me.

My first draft? The army cadets, of course! I will be going to spent 2 weeks based at Tidworth army barracks looking after around 300 army cadets on their summer camp. Oh well, how hard can it be?

I pack my medical kit, a grand term this. It is, actually, a fairly large canvas bag packed with some medical kit including a few choice drugs. Should suffice; I wouldn't expect more than a few cuts and bruises - nothing too challenging. Only a bunch of kids after all!

First thing to note is army food. Although we camped out in the surrounding area, remote from the base the food deserved a mention. Navy food is pretty good but, the army have got it taped when catering in the field. The food was superb. However, I digress. Back to the cadets.

Expecting no more than a few minor injuries I was presented with a little more than that. These kids had fits, hysteria, broken limbs, lacerations, beri beri, trenchfoot, swamp fever, the list goes on! OK the last three were a slight exaggeration!

Blimey! Fresh out of training and these youngsters were certainly presenting me with enough problems to keep me busy. The 2 weeks passed rapidly. Great fun and a great experience, in fact.

Over the years I was to work with the RAF and the Army again. More of that later..

New arrivals....

RNH Stonehouse 1974

Every month or so, can't remember exactly, there would be a new class of nurses arrive for training. This was quite an event for most of the male staff at the hospital - probably a slightly scary one for the new nurses!

The hospital, of course, had it's own bar called the Geneva club. It was here that ratings would gather in the evenings for a few beers, a disco or as a prelude to a run ashore. This was also a place of ordeal for a new class of 'baby' nurses.

I remember these nights very clearly. Once the new nurses had settled into their new surrounding the would pay their first visit to the Geneva club. It must have seemed like a cattle market to them. Male staff members would be in attendance to 'welcome them' and eye up the new talent! I'm sure that this first visit to the club must have been an uncomfortable experience.

Of course, these freshly pressed nurses would soon become extremely comfortable in their new surroundings. Stonehouse was a great place to live and work.

However, I always felt some sympathy on these nights and, would often introduce myself to help them feel welcome. I knew many, many nurses during my time at Stonehouse, purely as friends. There was many a good night at the Geneva club!

Xmas - ho ho ho....

If you are single, Xmas in the Navy can be good fun, even when you are working.

Here's an example....

It's Xmas 1974, I am working on the officers ward at RNH Stonehouse in Plymouth. I have reached the heady heights of PMA (Probationary Medical Assistant). I am working the day shift over the Xmas period.

Xmas eve sees a pretty good 'thrash' going on in the Geneva club - the hospital bar. There is much alcohol and frivolity - a good evening is being had by all!

Note to self - in future try to keep alcohol consumption down to sensible levels when I have to work the following morning. On this occasion I fail to do this and get well into the fun! Frivolity and alcohol consumption goes on late into Xmas eve - no surprises there then!

The next morning sees me waking up not feeling quite as cheerful as the evening before. I have the mother of hangovers - take it like a man! I report for duty on the officers ward - smartly dressed in pristine ward whites, oh.. and 6 foot of tinsel wrapped around my neck. seemed like a good idea at the time - Xmas morning after all!

The sister in charge, takes one look at my sorry face (I must have looked terrible) and sends me to lie down in an empty room. This I do with gratitude and promptly fall asleep. Remember, I am supposed to be on duty.

Sometime later I am woken with a gentle shake. Let me explain something - it is a tradition for the senior officers of the hospital to do rounds on Xmas morning to spread some good cheer. I try to focus, still feeling bloody awful from the night before, this proves to be difficult. I am dazzled by the amount of gold braid that appears before my eyes!

It is, of course, rounds! There in front of me is a Rear Admiral, the Executive Officer, Matron and assorted others. Bloody hell! I must be deep in the mire. The Admiral wishes me a very merry Xmas, which I return. He about turns with the rest of the party and exits the room.

I promptly roll over and go back to sleep. To this day - I have no idea how I got away with it! I do remember that the Admiral in question was Rear Admiral Binns, he had come through the ranks - a fairly rare thing to achieve his rank (hell he was even rumoured to have tattoos!). Maybe, he remembered what it was like to be working on the wards at Xmas!

Promotion..........

Promotion in the Royal Navy is, like civvie street, dependent on other people's views.

The Navy operates within a divisional system with a divisional officer looking after a group of lower ranks ( a division ). Within this division will be a number of officers, non-commissioned officers(nco) and junior ratings. A chain of command exists within this setup and is, actually, a reasonable way of doing things.

You do remain, however, dependent on the view of your divisional officer when it comes to promotion. It was this fact that, ultimately, decided my future for me.

Promotion through the ranks comes from passing the right exams and courses, combined with a six monthly assessment of character and efficiency. The latter is crucial, from this assessment a number of points are awarded - these points determine when you get promoted. So, pretty important then.

When assessing character and efficiency an individual is usually compared to other people of the same rank and job - so an MA will be compared to other MAs within a division. So far, so good. But - what happens when you are the only one with your rank and job?

On joining the Leeds Castle in 82 I was the only medic on board so could not be compared to other medics of my rank. The approach from my divisional officer on board, the first lieutenant (jimmy), was to evaluate my performance as a medic - the only way to do it, really. A medics role is totally different to say a seaman or a mechanic on board a ship.

By the time I joined the Leeds Castle I was an officer candidate; in fact, this is what got me the gig in the first place. On leaving the ship, after the conflict, my conduct was VG (Very good) and my performance Superior, with a glowing report from the first lieutenant - this is good, meaning that high points would be awarded towards promotion to Petty Officer.

This level of assessment continued until I joined HMS Yarmouth. Still an officer candidate my DO dropped my assessment to Satisfactory - this was, of course, enough to put back my promotion a good six months. He, apparently, thought it appropriate to compare my to seamen on board who spent the day painting and doing seamen type things. Of course, my responsibility was too ensure the health and welfare of the ship's company was maintained.

So, one individual affected my promotion prospects because he failed to understand the role of a medic on board a frigate. This, ultimately, made up my mind to withdraw as an officer candidate and to leave the RN prematurely after 14 years of service.

Mind you, there are plenty of ineffectual and frankly poor managers littering civilian companies - so no surprises there then!

Make my day - punk.....!

16th June 1982.

We are acting as the guard ship at Ascension Island.

This is particularly boring although the sun shines constantly.

A party of us go ashore for a tour of the defence stations on the island and a shoot in the afternoon. Yes - the fools allow me to fire a weapon - bloody crazy if you ask me!

Let me explain - a naval medic gets to carry a weapon, in this case a 9mm browning pistol, in a combat situation. The objective, of course, is to protect any casualty you have in your care. Yeah - right! I agree with this in theory but reality bites. If I see any enemy approaching me, regardless of casualties or not, I will definitely have a pop!

The shoot in the afternoon goes well. I am, in fact, a pretty good shot. That is providing, the target is no more threatening than a stationary oil drum. God knows what would happen if presented with a moving target.

So, there you have it, fear not, Leeds Castle's very own 'Dirty Harry' is on hand. Blimey!

Anyone for a dip.......?

11th July 1982

We are again in the TEZ and spend the day transferring stores to RFA Fort Grange. This was to prove quite an eventful day.

The weather was very cold and the seas a little choppy, but not too bad. The flight deck is covered with a thick sheet of ice, making moving stores extremely difficult - however, we press on.

The stores are being transferred via the ship's sea riders and with the aid of a Sea King helicopter from the Fort Grange. Quite an impressive site seeing this large aircraft landing and taking of from our flight deck!

The crew works hard getting the stores shifted and all proceeds well until mid afternoon when the Sea King has a mishap. It had just taken off from our flight deck and had moved away some 30 yards, or so. It obviously had developed some sort of engine problem because it just dropped from the sky! Fortunately, not from a great height - if it had done, the outcome may have been different.

The aircraft's flotation bags deployed as it hit the water and then it just sat there for a while bobbing in the water. Our sea rider responded rapidly and recovered the crew with minimum fuss. A good job - well done. The aircraft's crew were all fine with no injuries. They had not been immersed, so no problems with hypothermia or water ingestion. In fact, they were drier than the sea rider crew that picked them up!

There was a further bit of drama when the Fort Grange's sea rider capsized while trying to attach a line to tow the ditched aircraft back to their ship. This crew were then rescued by our sea rider crew. Again, no injuries.

I can't quite remember the fate of the Sea King - I suspect it sunk.

So, another eventful day demonstrating the skills of the well trained men of the Royal Navy!

Is it a bird, is it a plane....?

1982 in the TEZ, South Atlantic.

Well, I'm back were I started these ramblings - I'm in the crows nest again - taking the middle watch duty (midnight to 0400).

Again I'm up here keeping lookout for signs of enemy aircraft. A pretty boring, but necessary job. I continually scan the horizon looking for tell tale signs of aircraft above. We are particularly concerned about Hercules bombers who have already bombed a tanker; these planes have a range of 1800 miles so are an obvious threat.

I've been up here for a couple of hours and am feeling pretty tired. It's difficult to keep awake and concentrate but I manage it.

The ship is rolling gently as we make our passage. Wait a minute! Is that a light? As the ship rolls a light high in the black sky comes into view and then fades again. As the ship rolls I see this light a couple of more times. Bloody hell! Could that be the light from a high flying plane - does anyone else see it?

I phone the bridge and talk to the officer of the watch to report what I see. A couple of minutes pass before he gets back to me. Well, I feel a bit of a pillock.

The light in the sky that comes into view when the ship rolls is, in fact, the moon! Amazing what tricks fatigue can play on the senses.

Mind you, the officer of the watch thought that it was better to be safe than sorry!

Leaning......

Well, here we are, steaming from ascension to the TEZ with more supplies to deliver throughout the fleet.

The Leeds Castle from the superstructure to aft is all flight deck - this probably accounts for half of the length of the ship. Pretty big for a ship of this size.

On this particular foray South, we are stuffed to the gunnels with stores - it seems that every nook and cranny has found a home for something. This means that stores have been stacked and secured on the flight deck.

These supplies take up a significant area of the flight deck and are stacked 12-15 feet high or more. No problem while the seas remain relatively benign.

As we get further South the conditions deteriorate with increasingly stronger winds and heavy swells. During this weather things take a dramatic turn.

It is early in the morning, maybe 5 or 6 am - it's still pretty dark outside. The seas are heavy and the winds strong. I am awoken with a start. 'All hands to the flight deck' is piped over the tannoy. As I struggle to get aft, I can't help but notice that the ship is listing severely to starboard - we are, in fact, at a crazy angle!

As I reach the flight deck it is now obvious what the problem is - the stores have slid across the flight deck and now lie starboard. The only thing keeping them from Davey Jone's locker appear to be the guardrails. The crew is turned to and gets rapidly to work.

We spend the next few hours shifting the stores back to a centre position on the flight deck. We then make sure they are firmly strapped down - panic over.

Mind you - it was a little hairy for a while. Being no seaman, I have no idea how severe a ship can list before it capsizes - I sure as hell didn't want to find out. I'm no Gene Hackman!

It could have been me..........

HMS Antelope took part in the Falklands War. On May 23, 1982, while Antelope was on air defence duty at the entrance to San Carlos Water, protecting a beachhead established two days earlier, she came under attack by Argentine A-4 Skyhawk jets. Not long after the ship exploded while bomb disposal worked onboard.

This was a particularly sobering experience for me. Let me explain...

Back in 1980, I think, my mate Andy Till and I were serving at the naval airbase - HMS Osprey in Portland. Now, both of us had not yet had a draft to a ship - this is 7 years after joining the Navy. This was not particularly unusual, there were a lot of medics and not too many ships. Nevertheless, both Andy and I were keen to serve on board a seagoing warship - after all, that's what we had joined and trained for.

The Navy attempts to send you on draft (new posting) to the ships or establishments you asked for. Often this is not possible. Andy and I both put down Antelope as a choice for our next draft.

At the time, I had been dating my girlfriend, Sue, for a month or so - nothing too serious at this stage (she is now my wife of 26 years and counting). Whilst having a beer or two at HMS Osprey's club, the Flying Fish, I happened to mention to Sue that I had put in for the Antelope. Well! She rushes out of the club in tears. Now, what the hell had I done? Women, eh!

It was obvious that our relationship was a little more serious than I had thought. So, I withdrew my request for the Antelope. Subsequently, Andy got the Antelope as his next draft. So there you have it, my best mate sailed to the Falklands in 1982 on the Antelope and the rest is history. Fortunately, Andy survived the fate of the Antelope, at least physically. I saw him a few years later - he wasn't the same happy go lucky guy I used to know.

There are no guarantees that I would have got the Antelope if I had left my request in place - there is a good probability that I might have. I do know, that Sue, inadvertently, stopped me making what could have been a fatal mistake....

Footnote. The Antelope had been in the TEZ for one day before it was crippled.

First Aid.......

Steaming towards Ascension Island from the UK.

We have now settled into the routine. There are constant exercises - obviously, very necessary. An effective crew is one that has been well drilled. The aim is to practice for all eventualities - attack, fires, damage control, men overboard, aircraft ditches etc. As you can see, an awful lot can occur on board a Royal Navy ship.

So, although repetitive exercises can seem a drag it is clear that they are vitally important. You never know when you might be called upon to put into action all that practice.

One of my duties is to train the first aid teams. These sessions would usually be undertaken on the flight deck (when not in use for other things). Remember, the average age of the crew is around 19-20 years old. Sometimes it is difficult to get the first aid teams to take the training to seriously - their minds are often on their normal duties and I don't think that they really believe that they'll need first aid skills.

The light hearted approach to first aid training was to change quite dramatically. I always believed that it was highly likely we would suffer losses; the Argentinian forces weren't up to much, really. But, the law of averages were against us.

May 4th saw an event that changed the attitudes of my first aid teams to training and one that concentrated the minds of the whole crew. This was the day that HMS Sheffield was hit by Exocet and sunk with the loss of 20 crew. It was now, obvious to all, that this was a bloody serious situation that we approached.

To their credit, my first aid team members, paid serious attention to my lectures and training. Although not called upon to perform under fire, I have no doubt they would have performed admirably.

Grytviken..............

23rd July 1982

We came alongside the jetty at Grytviken yesterday and spent the day shifting stores - that's what we do! Of course, Grytviken and Leith is where this conflict kicked off. It was on the 26th April that South Georgia was retaken with the help of the Plymouth and Antrim - the Argentinians didn't like their fire power at all.

The day before the Argentinian submarine - Sante Fe was bombed by the Brilliant's 2 Lynx helicopter - it then limped into Grytviken bay and there it still lies. As you enter the bay you can see the turrets breaking above the water line.

South Georgia is an amazing place. Beautiful and unspoilt. It is a place of striking contrast. One moment you can be in bright sunshine gazing at the snow covered mountains and then the next you can find yourself in a blizzard. A truly spectacular place.

Grytviken, itself, is an old whaling station abandoned many years ago. This is truly an eerie place. As you walk up the old slipway, used for dragging whales out of the sea before processing, you are struck by the quiet of the place - a bit like a ghost town, I'd guess.

As you walk through the station you realise things are 'preserved' by the climate conditions here. It's almost as though the whalers were here just yesterday - old equipment looks like it would still work. There a large containers full of bits and pieces of equipment still in relatively good shape. You come across gloves just left behind, still in good condition. This is a really spooky place, almost like stepping back in time.

I will revisit this place in 1984 with the Yarmouth. Until then, I will leave you with this image. A little ways behind the whaling station is an old football pitch. As I looked across this expanse a small herd of reindeer, yes - reindeer, hove into view. They ran across the pitch in front of me and disappeared into the hills. A quite amazing site - I cursed myself that I was not armed with a camera!

South Georgia is blessed with some amazing wildlife - more of that when we come back to South Georgia with the Yarmouth.

Home from home....

26th April 1982

We left Rosyth today en route to Portland via Portsmouth then on to the Falklands. Time to properly take in my home for the foreseeable future.

This ship is not what I was expecting. Leeds Castle was commissioned in 1980 so is pretty new. It is extremely well appointed - the crew's cabins are actually carpeted! They have comfortable bunks and are not over crowded - no more than, from memory, around 6 in the cabin (compare this to around 30 on the Yarmouth).

The sick bay appears brand new - has certainly seen very little use - reasonably well equipped with a couple bunks.

The crew consists of 50 souls - average age around 18-19 years. The Leeds Castle is a fishery protection ship - it has a large flight deck and very little armament. This consisted of one 30 mm BMARC cannon and 4 L7 General Purpose Machine Guns - not really going to frighten the opposition. Although our skipper was a little gung ho - I think he would have loved to have screamed down bomb alley in the Falklands - giving them hell. Yeah, right - one good hit and that would have been it for us.

Our main task was to ferry supplies around the fleet - mundane but necessary. I have spent most of my time over the past few days helping to store the ship and to ties things down securely. We have bits of kit everywhere.

The crew is, I'm sure, not used to having a medic on board so, it will take a little time for them to get used to me. Most of my shipmates of similar rate to me are extremely busy with their work so I concentrate on making sure the ship is in good shape medically. I get involved in other areas where I can be of help. You just muck in when needed - you are a member of a team and you get stuck in (something civilian businesses could learn from).

Over the next few weeks we will exercise, exercise and exercise again. More later......

Hands to bathe....?

Now here's a strange thing - "Hands to bathe".

I witnessed this phenomenon whilst on the Yarmouth in 1984. We were somewhere in the Mediterranean at the time with no land in site.

Now I love the sea, don't get me wrong, but I also respect it. It's a mysterious place. At once benign and calm then a raging cauldron. Over time we learn more about the sea and it's denizens.

I do enjoy a dip in the sea from time to time. However, I choose these times carefully; particularly the location. The depths of the oceans are still a relatively undiscovered place- we don't really know all of the secrets it holds.

So, let me tell you about 'Hands to bathe'. The ship comes to a stop in the middle of some ocean or other - on this occasion the Med. It's a warm sunny day, so why not give the crew a little relaxation in the form of a refreshing dip? Drape a couple of climbing nets over the side and away you go!

'Hands to bathe!" is piped over the ship's tannoy. Then, to my amazement, large numbers of the crew throw themselves over the side into the water - for a swim! I think this is some form of madness - surely. Here we are in the ocean in the middle of nowhere and the troops think it a great idea to have a dip.

To my mind, this seems a particularly bad idea. We have no idea what is swimming below us in the murky depths - a great white, perhaps, or a killer whale - I could go on. Am I the only one to have seen Jaws!

Of course, we know now, from the countless wildlife documentaries, that the seas hunters often mistake bathers for their lunch! I can think of nothing that would convince me to leap over the side for a refreshing dip!

Never fear, though. The crew are well protected. There are a couple of crew members at either end of the ship with SLRs (the Navy's standard rifle) keeping watch for unwanted visitors! Well, that's alright then. I'd hate to see what happens if a school of sharks pays a visit for a mid morning snack. I think there would be pandemonium - 2 riflemen not sure whether to fire or not and 40 odd seamen trying to scramble up a climbing net!

'Hands to bathe' - I don't bloody think so!

A warm, fuzzy feeling........

24th May 1982

We've just taken up position with the task force in the Total Exclusion Zone (TEZ) in the South Atlantic.

There she is - HMS Hermes, the task force's flagship. Sort of gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling knowing she's close and that you are now part of the ring of ship's around her.

Perhaps, we shouldn't feel so comfortable - why is the Hermes in the middle? Well, it becomes quite obvious on May 25th. This is the day that the Atlantic Conveyor and the Coventry are attacked.

The Atlantic Conveyor is closed up with the task force and is in it's position in the ring of ships surrounding the Hermes.

Here's something to consider - the Exocet - this missile caused untold damage to our ships. It was an Exocet that sunk the Sheffield - our first casualty of the conflict. Now, this missile is very difficult to counter - it can be launched by a Super Etendard at a distance of 47 miles away. It then skims 6 foot above the surface of the sea as it homes, rapidly, in on it's target.

Of course, one possible defence, if you are the flagship, is to surround yourself with other ships. I'm not sure whether this was the intention but it was certainly the effect. The Exocet, as it skims above the water, tends to hit the nearest lump of metal in it's way.

So, the Atlantic Conveyor took the full destructive power of an Exocet - it had no chance. I learned, later, from the Skippers diary that Leeds Castle had been directly between the Atlantic Conveyer and the aircraft while it was on the radar screen - hairy!

That warm, fuzzy feeling has long departed - never to return.

Near miss.....!

29th June 1982

We escorted HMS Plymouth and HMS Glasgow to Ascension island today. The Plymouth looks a right state - not surprising given the hammering they have been through.

My counterpart on the Plymouth is George Peddie - a real salty old sea dog if ever there was one! George invites me on board to take a look around. What a mess!

Plymouth had been attacked on June 8th whilst in San Carlos harbour and had been hit by four bombs. It is hard to imagine what that must have been like. As an aside, I was disgusted to find out that our 'allies' the Americans had refused to help us with AWACS - these could have saved many lives by helping us spot the Argentinian planes before they got to close. That was Reagan at the time but I don't think thing have changed to much since then. So much for our 'friends!'

Sorry, I digress. Back to the Plymouth. Remember Bob on the Ardent? Well, George had a pretty hairy story to tell. We were sitting in George's sick bay having a brew and a chat. I noticed a couple of holes - one on the inner wall of the sick bay and one on the ships' side; they were, pretty much, opposite each other. I, idly, commented on them.

George told me the story of the holes. He had been sitting at his desk when a missile punched through the wall just behind him. It couldn't have been more than a foot, or so, behind his head. The missile then punched it's way through the ships' side before exiting the ship.

Bloody hell! I figure George is a very lucky man. I wonder what odds you could have got against that bomb not exploding!

To all you little old ladies........

One of my duties on the Leeds Castle was to look after the forward hold.

This was used for storing all manner of supplies to be distributed around the task force. You may wonder why this mundane fact is worth a mention - let me enlighten you!

Here we are in the inhospitable waters of the South Atlantic, part of a military task force sent to do a job. This task force consists of many ships, crewed by men aged 17 and upwards. Imagine, you're 17 and at war, but, technically, you are to young to drink!

This task force is 7000 miles away from home, family and loved ones. The conditions can be severe, coupled with the threat of attack. These men are constantly keeping defence watches, this means wearing anti flash and carrying respirators, just in case. You are either on watch or of - usually sleeping. So it can be a pretty miserable existence, if you let it.

Now, the average military guy tends not to let things get him down. There's often a movie to watch, a game of crib to play, a game of Uckers ( a navy version of Ludo) or any number of things to pass the time whilst not on duty. Nevertheless, it's still great to know that people at home are thinking about you. That's where the forward hold comes in.

Alongside bits of equipment and essential supplies - the hold was often packed full of goodies. These goodies ranged from crates of beer to warm clothing. Pretty boring? Well, no, far from it.

In actual fact quite of lot of these items came from the public back home. People had taken the time to send 'stuff' to the troops. I myself, a small perk of the job, benefited from a particularly warm balaclava and a pair of woolly fingerless gloves (these gloves got many years service).

None of this is special - right? Well, when you know that these items were being knitted by, I think, mostly little old ladies and then sent South, your viewpoint changes. Quite often, these little parcels contained letters of support from these little old ladies. I for one, as did many others, find this uplifting - proof really, that beside our loved ones - there were people we didn't know thinking of us. A great feeling that - believe me.

So, to all you little old, and not so old, ladies who thought of us and did their bit to raise our spirits - THANK YOU!

Do dogs get seasick........?

By dogs, of course, I mean salty sea dogs. Surely, they can't get seasick - well, they can!

Certainly, when I joined the Leeds Castle for my 'jolly' to the Falklands it took me a little time to get my sea legs. It's a physiological thing - your body has to adapt to the new motion it finds itself subjected to. After a couple of days, generally feeling queasy, I soon settled down and was fine with my 'new sea legs'.

You soon get used to living with perpetual motion. In fact, for most of the time, when you are not working it can be quite relaxing. It becomes an automatic reflex to lift a mug of coffee or tip the side of your dinner plate to compensate for the pitch of the ship. You only need to lose you food once to get the idea! So there we are! I've now got my sea legs so no further problems. Wrong.

The oceans can be crystal clear with a smooth surface or they can be a raging cauldron. Certain circumstances will effect all but the most 'salty' of sea dogs. when the ship is rolling from side and rising and falling with the waves, even if they are particularly rough, most sailors cope admirably. Me included.

There is a third motion that when added to the pitching and rolling has very unpleasant effects. Occasionally, a ship will be buffeted quite violently. Now I'm not really a sailor, I'm a medic - a different thing entirely. But as far as I understand, this buffeting is caused when the ship is heading sort of sideways into the waves.

So now the ship is pitching, rolling and shuddering violently. Guaranteed to bring sickness a calling. Sea sick tablets don't seem to have to much effect in these conditions - those that are effected, either go to their pits and sweat it out or, if on duty - tough it out!

On a number of occasions I found my self wedged into my bunk - with a couple pillows jammed against my back to prevent me from moving to much. Really, just lying there hoping to die! What a wimp! Mind you, at least, I was not alone in my misery.

So do dogs get seasick -- damn right they do!

Man overboard...........!

23rd May 1982 - South Atlantic, fifty miles of the Falklands. It is late in the evening and dark. The seas, surprise, surprise, are rough. Difficult conditions to be transferring stores from ship to ship. Of course, that is precisely what we are doing.

We are doing this by sending our Sea-Rider ( a semi rigid small boat) loaded with stores between ships. we are offloading stores to an RFA ship.

This is particularly hazardous for a number of reasons; it is dark, the seas are very rough and to make matters worse, the RFA won't switch on his lights. He is scared that he could be bombed from above.

So, we launch the Sea-rider with a couple seamen on board with the stores. They make the trip across OK and offload to the RFA. It is during the trip back that things go pear shaped.

The Sea-rider is now alongside, we attach lines to enable us to winch the the boat and crew back on board. I am on one of the lines. In a moment, a large wave rolls over the boat and takes with it one of the seamen manning it. In seconds, he is swept aft into the stormy darkness.

Dressed correctly he might have some chance of survival. Unfortunately he is not wearing an immersion suit but, instead, he has on arctic clothing - basically a pair of padded trousers and a padded jacket, plus his life jacket. Keeps you fairly warm but is useless for surviving at sea. Dressed like he is, he should not survive for more that a few short minutes due to the temperature of the seas, combined with the distinct risk of drowning in the heavy swell.

I don't recall who was on duty on the bridge, but their response was immediate. The ship was brought around sharply, no mean feat in itself given the conditions. The seaman was captured and kept visible by a spotlight - again, pretty amazing. Within 15 minutes we had him back on board. That seems like a long time, but because of the conditions this was outstanding. Now, he could be in a bad state.

We got him, quickly, down to the sick bay to check him over. In these conditions, hypothermia can kill pretty rapidly. Amazingly, he was a little cold but not severely hypothermic as I had feared. He was re-heated, gently in a warm shower. He hadn't ingested too much sea water - so no problems there. The Skipper gave him a tot of rum, not a particularly good move, but it wouldn't harm him. Then he was back to duty - no harm done.

I asked him what went through his mind while he was in the water. He replied "Well, I just thought that I would either be picked up or I wouldn't". There's fatalism for you!

Age of this seaman - 17 years!

Heard the one about the glaswegian and the scouser at Xmas....?

Xmas a time of good cheer and copious quantities of alcohol! Well that's how 'Jolly Jack' does it.

It's New years eve 1984 - on board HMS Yarmouth on patrol in the South Atlantic. It's rough weather and the ship is rocking and rolling. No matter! It's Xmas - down to the mess for a few tinnies.

Now, I usually did not drink whilst on board - any medical problems and it was down to me. But, it was New Year's eve so I relented a little (for once we had a medical Officer on board - so he could take the weight a little).

A good few tinnies later (quite a few, actually) - I staggered back to the sick bay to get some shut eye. I only staggered, you understand, because of the rough weather!

I get woken on New Year's morning at around 0200 - there's been a bit of a rumble in the aft seaman's mess. Apparently, a Glaswegian and a Scouser, both the worse for alcohol, have had a bit of a falling out. I would point out that the Scouser is significantly bigger than the Glaswegian. Net result? Glaswegian is floored - he falls back and strikes his head on a hatch combing (this is the raised edge of a hatchway).

I, being a little under the weather myself, send for the Medical Officer. No chance, he's had a very good night in the wardroom - he can't even be woken from his slumbers! So, down to me then.

I get the patient onto my treatment table. Blood everywhere - quite a nasty gash - almost ear to ear. Obviously stitches required. This is easier said than done.

Picture it - very heavy seas, the ship is rolling all over the place, a very drunk Glaswegian on the table and, a not to sober, medic preparing to stitch his scalp back together. Not to inspiring is it?

I have one of his mess mates help me out with keeping the patient still and relatively quiet. First of all, local anaesthetic? No. He's so drunk, he won't feel a thing!

I get to work - a simple matter of closing the wound with sutures and then dressing it. Well, no. It proves very difficult, indeed. A number of factors conspire against me. First, a very drunk patient, a quite drunk medic and a treatment room that is moving around like a bucking bronco!

The job takes a good couple of hours - mainly because each time I thread the needle in to the wound the bloody ship lurches and I pull it straight back out again! Nevertheless, I finally get finished - a bloody good job under the circumstances.

Of course, that's not the end of it for me. The Glaswegian has sustained a serious blow to the head so, I spend the rest of the night, kept awake by copious coffee, keeping watch over the patient with regular head injuries observations. Happy, bloody, New Year!

It's now New Years morning, the ship's company has turned to. The Medical Officer pops his head around the door - "Quiet night?". Answer - "of course - no problems, Sir!"

I get the last laugh - the Glaswegian gets to clean my sick bay from top to bottom. Sailors, eh!

Easter break 1982...........!

So, it's been a busy few months. Time for some leave - it's the 23rd April 1982, I'm serving at HMS Cochrane, Rosyth.

My wife, Sue - a serving Wren, and I decide before traveling South that we should get a bit of shopping in. We return a little later to our married quarter to find a note pinned to the front doors. It tells me to report to the sick bay. This can only mean one thing. So should I ignore it and travel South anyway - no-one would be the wiser. A nanosecond later I'm on the way to HMS Cochrane's sick bay. Duty - it can be a bugger!

I present myself to my Divisional Officer (DO) and am informed that I'd be joining HMS Leeds Castle, a fishery protection ship deploying for the Falklands conflict. This is what I trained for and is my duty - so no complaints. I did baulk, a little, at the reasoning behind my DO's decision to send me. Another had been identified to go; my boss cancelled this and got me the gig instead. "This would be good experience for you Wright" he opined. Bloody easy for him - there was little chance of him becoming involved and maybe developing a few extra holes in his body. Well, that's what you get for being an officer candidate!

0900 24th April sees me join the Leeds Castle. Not bad - 24 hours notice to go to war. I, of course, had given up hopes of going to sea after 9 years in the medical branch. well, you better be careful what you wish for. My first ship and it was of to war. Blimey! This first morning is spent with a dental team doing a complete check of the ship's company. Toothache 7000 miles from home is no laughing matter!

I store the ship with medical supplies from HMS Cochrane sick bay on 25th April. This would take all day. The Leeds Castle is ill equipped to take all of the medical supplies required. After all it is a fishery protection ship, not a bloody frigate. So after much thought and discussion with supplies every available nook and cranny is crammed with medical supplies.

Pop back home at 1700 for a somewhat burnt Sunday dinner. Back to the ship at 1830 with Sue, my wife, in tow. Say my goodbyes, all very stoic. However, over the coming months I will worry more about my wife and my colleagues than myself.

1000 26th April we sail from Roysth for Portmouth. It begins.......

A fine tradition.........?

The Royal Navy is built on a foundation of proud tradition - the Medical Branch is no different.

It saddens me the number of ships and establishments that have been closed or decommissioned in recent years. Our Royal Navy is greatly diminished by the decisions of our politicians, and, I doubt if we could mount a successful expedition as we did during the Falklands War.

The picture shows three of the Royal Naval hospitals - Haslar, Stonehouse and Gibraltar. Steeped in history, these hospitals served civilians and servicemen and women alike. Unlike, many current civilian hospitals, they were medical facilities that were spotless and efficiently run.

I and many of my medical branch colleagues are saddened by the erosion of the Royal Naval Medical Service. The closure of these hospitals is just a stark example of this.

Stonehouse has long since closed, Haslar and Gibraltar are soon to follow suit. These hospitals, I served in all three, are a source of pride and many happy memories - they will be sadly missed.

Heroes.....?

So, what makes a hero?

Is it a member of the public who takes on a bank robber, a man who saves a child from a burning house or a soldier who storms a machine gun nest? Who knows - I'm sure we all have our views.
The Falklands war saw men hailed as heroes - some were, some were not. I'd like to tell you about a man who was.

Heroism can take many forms; from the person who finds himself in an extraordinary situation and responds with gut instinct, to the military figure who is expected to do his duty. These people don't view themselves as heroes. They were there at a moment in time and just did what they thought was right.

I try not to name people in this blog, but Bob Young deserves mention. I first met Bob in 1973, we joined up at HMS Ganges as naval medics and were in the same class. He is a decent sort, from the west country, down to earth taking pretty much everything as it come with a matter of fact approach.

We move forward to 1982, a time when servicemen were to find themselves thrust into extraordinary circumstance. When we joined up in 1973, I am sure that none of us actually considered that there was the remotest possibility of going to war. We were wrong.

Bob was serving on HMS Ardent at the time and found himself in the heat of the conflict. On May 21, 1982 the Ardent was sunk with the loss of 22 lives. Fortunately I was too meet Bob again, soon after this tragic event.

The Leeds Castle was tasked with transferring troops from the QE2 to the Canberra in preparation for their return home. I was amazed and relieved to meet Bob on board - he had survived relatively unscathed physically, emotionally was probably a different matter. This is what he told me.

Whilst under attack from Argentine planes Bob found himself at one of the Seacat launchers tending to a severely injured officer, unfortunately this man was fatally injured. Bob stayed with his patient, trying to make him as comfortable as possible by administering morphine.

While doing this, Bob described to me, witnessing the incoming Argentine aircraft dropping their bombs - he watched the bombs fall on the flight deck below him. The ships helicopter and the crew attending it disappeared before his eyes. He still remained with his casualty.

I asked him what was going through his mind during this attack. He just said, he had to concentrate on his job. It struck me that he retold this harrowing tale in a calm, matter of fact manner. No histrionics or drama. He was just doing his job.

To my mind, that is true heroism. I for one, salute you Bob.

A case of mistaken identity...

Whilst working on the wards in Plymouth in 1975 I became very adept at "laying out" the deceased. No idea why - just didn't seem to bother me that much. I was often called upon to help on other wards when I was on night duty.

One Saturday night I was called upon to help on one of the surgical wards. So of I trot to do my stuff. In this case the patient had died from gas gangrene and had unpleasant, bubbling lesions along his spine - yuk!

Now this meant taking precautions. So my colleague and I gowned up, complete with masks and theatre hats - all in white. We prepared the body and then placed it in the bier (a metal box on wheels - used to transport the patient to the morgue).

I set off - just me and the body to the morgue. It was around 0100 on a dark night. The morgue was behind the hospital, close to the officers ward block and near to the staff quarters.

As I rounded a corner, pushing the body ahead of me I saw three staff members, obviously returning from a good night out at the other end of the hospital block, hove into view. I was some distance away but managed to have quite an effect on these 'drunken sailors'. They yelled as one and ran as fast as their boozy legs would take them to the staff quarters and disappeared from view. Hells teeth! What rattled their cages?

Ah!! Of course!. Picture the scene. You are returning from a good Saturday night filled with beer, you round the corner of a building and what do you see in the distance? A shadowy all white figure alone in the dark. The dark of an old military hospital reputed to have a good few un-departed souls. Well, you don't believe in this sort of rubbish, but, there it is, right in front of your eyes! Your first ghost! Of course, you run as fast as you, bloody well can!

Probably, the first and last time I will ever have such a 'spirited' effect on people!

Tea and toast....!

Now, at HMS Osprey, Portland - a naval airbase. I am now an LMA (Leading Medical Assistant) - so, am experienced and responsible.

It was here that I was to have, a somewhat ludicrous, run in with a particularly jumped up young Surgeon Lieutenant (a doctor). I was on duty, one morning, in reception. Booking in patients and getting them seen by the doctors. I recall that it was pretty busy and I had a waiting room full of ratings and officers.

The Surgeon Lieutenant called me into his consulting room. "Tea and toast!" he barked at me. Oh dear, not a good move on his part. I had got to be an LMA through study and hard work. The medical red cross on a medics arm is one of the few badges that has to be earnt before being allowed to wear it. With this comes pride in your chosen career - not too be trifled with.

I stood before the Lieutenant - looking at him. "Pardon Sir" I respectfully replied. "Tea and toast" again. No, no, no - this wouldn't do at all! I pointed to the hook on my left arm and asked "what is this Sir?". Then I pointed to red cross on my right arm" and asked "and this Sir?". He being a Lieutenant, and quite bright, answered correctly on both counts. This instantly brought the response from me - "Yep, your right, that means I am LMA and not a bloody steward (no disrespect intended)! Get your own tea and toast!" I smartly about turned and returned to reception, leaving the Lieutenant doing a smoking goldfish impression.

Having resumed my seat, I get a call from the Lieutenant informing me that he would not see any more patients until he got his tea and toast. Oh dear! I let the waiting patients know of the the Lieutenant's decision. Of course, this didn't go down too well with the Commander waiting to see him - in he went and issued a bollocking to the Lieutenant. Service resumed as normal.

Later, I was called into the Fleet Chief's office (he was the most senior non commissioned officer and my boss - to be feared, much more than the jumped up Lieutenant) to explain myself. He issued me with a suitable verbal reprimand but, could not help smiling as I left his office. I think I now what he was thinking.

Court Martial......

Whilst working in RNH Plymouth on the ENT/Orthopaedic ward, C2, I think - I was to experience my first real contact with naval 'justice'. This was some time in late 74 or early 75.

I was working the night shift, 14 nights straight, then 14 days off. This was standard for many years in Naval hospitals - used to screw up your sleep patterns no end.

C2 was an ENT and an orthopaedic remedial ward. I remember, the CPO Nurse was a very good guy - I learned a lot from him.

During this particular spell of night duty, I was the only MA on duty at night - this was quite unusual; more often, there would be two staff.

I remember, we had a CPO Nurse tutor as a patient, suffering from osteomylitis - a particularly, unpleasant and painful inflammation of bone; in this case - one of his legs. This guy needed peace and quiet and a chance to recuperate and recover.

Naval hospitals also cared for civilians and, during this period of night duty we had a holiday maker admitted who had slipped down the cliffs a little way and damaged his back. He was admitted and put on traction. This consisted of strapping a canvas belt around the waist, connecting it to weights hung over a pulley at the end of the bed. the idea was to seperate the spines discs to allow cartilage to ease back into place - thus, curing the problem.

Now, this patient turned out to be obnoxious, foul mouthed and loud. He would makes demands of me all night - I would continually turn him to prevent bed sores. If any of the nurses from the ward above or below me popped in for a cuppa he would hurl abuse at them.

Finally, I had enough of this guy, so I put screens around his bed so that my other patients, at least, didn't have to look at him. Eventually, this individual was discharged and returned from whence he came - from, up North, I think. To this day I am convinced he was swinging the lead; a thing very difficult to determine when someone is complaining of low back pain. I thought no more about it.

Imagine my surprise, some weeks later, when on another stint of night duty, I am summoned to appear at a Court Martial! It seems that my northern 'friend' is suing the Navy for ill treatment whilst in hospital. The Navy were putting the nurse in charge - the CPO through the ordeal of a court martial. Obviously, the ex patient was simply trying to screw some money out of the forces - this could be at the expense of the career of the CPO. Un - bloody - believable!

So, one week into nights, tired and a little crotchety I found myself in front of the Commodore at HMS Drake, a witness against the CPO in the court martial. I was only 17 but felt that the CPO was being dealt from a loaded deck of cards. I was furious. Now, no longer the shy individual who had joined the service I was not prepared to be part of such an injustice.

I was called in front of the Commodore, to give my 'evidence'. One week into night duty, dressed in my best uniform, mid-morning, tired and extremely pissed of. I let rip.

I removed my cap, disrespectful in itself and, told the Commodore what I thought of Naval justice and extolled the virtues of the CPO who I had the utmost respect for. The Commodore, looking a little bemused, thanked me for my 'views' and dismissed me. Blimey! I could have really been in the mire. I think the only thing that saved me was my youth and that I was, obviously, tired.

The CPO was exonerated by the court martial; I don't think my testimony had anything to do with it; I just think that the Commodore decided that there was no case to answer. However, the CPO wasn't quite the same after that. He left the service not too long afterwards.

This was not to be my last run in with Naval discipline. More of that, later.

Spooked - Ganges ghosts?....

Back to Ganges. I'd now been in the RN for the sum total of 4 weeks.

We had, a few days previously, been to Harwich for a night out. I now found myself lying in a bed in the sick bay feeling bloody awful and generally sorry for myself.

How had I got here - well, the visit to Harwich had involved swapping some spit with a local girl. Unfortunately, she also managed to pass on a good dose of glandular fever to me at the same time. This would mean a stay in the sick bay of 2 weeks followed by 6 weeks sick leave. Not bad! Six weeks on and six weeks off.

Actually, this was disaster as far as I was concerned. This meant being back classed and my fellow trainees moving on without me. All for the sake of a snog!

So, here I was, feverish and feeling bad. The Ganges sick bay was rumoured to have been sited near or on a mass grave, dating back, apparently to WWI. Whether this is true or not, I cannot really say. It was, however, a pretty gloomy place.

The ward was long with beds along the two walls. At the end of the rows of beds was a TV area complete with a few standard navy chairs.

One evening, at dusk, I glanced out of the window opposite me and thought I saw a vague shape flit past the window. It was hard to tell in the gloom, so I thought no more of it.

Later, that same night, well past midnight, something roused me from my feverish slumber. I listened intently - from the TV end of the room I could hear an odd scraping noise. It sounded as though someone was moving the chairs. Then a few footsteps began to make their way up the ward towards me - then stopped. I glanced down the ward - there was nothing.

Frightened, I sunk down below the bed covers, and didn't surface until the morning. Was anyone else disturbed during the night. No. It appeared to be just me. Was it a practical joke, my fevered imagination or something else. Who knows.

I do now that over the coming years working in naval hospitals, I would experience a few other weird occurrences, some of which I will tell of later.

Reliant robin...!

Seen here with one of my best mates - Andy (Beanie - for obvious reasons!). This was taken sometime in 1979/80 while serving at HMS Osprey in Portland. Both, now fully qualified LMAs (Leading Medical Assistants). Now we could be relied upon to be responsible at all times - yeah - right!

I wouldn't say that we went out that often - but, when we did we tended not to hold back. Here is a very short tale of a particularly silly evening!

Andy and I were serving at Royal Navy Hospital, Plymouth in 1977 and had had a couple of beers in the hospital club early one Saturday evening. we now thought it was time to go 'ashore' for some fun. First port of call - the nurses quarters, seemed a good start to us. No takers here, unfortunately. Perhaps reputation went before us? No matter! We would go ashore anyway.

Andy insisted on driving the short distance into the town. We could easily have walked it. No matter. So of we went in Andy's pride and joy - a hotrod to be proud of. His car - a bright orange reliant robin! This was way before Derek Trotter! We parked up in a side street just of the main street in Plymouth - not a good idea in my humble opinion! This being a little bit rough to say the least.

We found ourselves in a favourite nightclub - I think it might have been the Spiders Web or something like that. We thought it would be a good idea to have ago at working our way through the optics. I think we made a pretty good job of it! Some hours later we made our way back to our transport - obviously somewhat worse for wear. Not a sensible move at all.

We were outraged to find that the 'Robin' had been broken into, evidenced by the broken window and the wires hanging from the dash were the radio used to be. Outrage! We would report this to the Police immediately.

Some time later we entered the Police station, a little unsteadily and presented ourselves to the desk sergeant and regaled him of the unsavoury and, frankly, outrageous incident.

'Right' he said, having taken down our particulars, he then asked us how had we got to the station. We replied 'we drove here in the Reliant Robin, of course!'

The sergeant, politely suggested that we get in a taxi to go back to the hospital and to turn in for the night. Why weren't we locked up. Fortunately, the hospital and the Police had an excellent relationship. This, however is probably the most stupid thing I have ever done!

Neptune lives..!

Contrary to popular opinion - Neptune is alive and well.

You can see him in the picture - he's the one with the trident!

It's may 1982 - I am on the Leeds Castle steaming towards the South Atlantic and the Falklands conflict. This is my first ship so I am learning as I go.

Imagine my surprise when I am told that Neptune will be visiting the ship! Not only that, but I have been co-opted to his court. I will be acting as his 'doctor of the court'. My task will be to administer foul tasting tablets to the victims of the 'court' (these tablets are concocted by one of the chefs - I shudder to imagine what was in them). Still with me?

Well, this is another Royal Navy tradition that happens when the a ship crosses the equator for the first time during a deployment. the idea is to thank 'Neptune' for allowing safe passage on his seas. This is charmingly known as 'the crossing the line ceremony'.

Most of the crew dress up in suitably silly costumes and round up those crew members who are 'crossing the line' for the first time (that includes me). A canvas swimming pool is erected on the flight deck. It is here that Neptune holds court.

One by one the first timers are given the foul tablets by me, and overseen by Neptune and his cronies they are throughly dunked in the pool. Great fun is had by all. I thought I might be spared, given my lofty position as court doctor. Not a bit of it. Neptune's men seemed to take great pleasure in giving me a thorough dunking!

So there you go - Neptune is alive and well. Ask anyone who has 'crossed the line' on a royal Navy ship!

Underwater escape training - oh yes..!

Yep - the RN can come up with some exceedingly fun things to do. In the unlikely event you are still alive after your helicopter hits the water - the RN, bless em, will have trained you in what do in this inconvenient scenario.

The first helicopter crash I had some knowledge about was when I was serving at the Royal Naval Airbase at Portland - HMS Osprey. A bunch of journalists were up in a Sea King, I think, when it plummeted into the sea off Portland. No survivors, tragically. The wreckage basically consisted of a crushed fuselage. It must be said that if you survive the impact - it is highly likely you will drown. Not much too look forward to then!

I recall that before I joined HMS Leeds Castle, in 1982 to go to the Falklands, I received no training - at 24 hours notice there was no time. I would have to wing it then. I would witness a helicopter ditching in the South Atlantic during the conflict. Oh by the way, this was my first time at sea. Not bad, eh - 9 years to get drafted to a ship. And then it was to go to war. Anyway, more of that at another time.

In 1983 I was drafted to serve on the frigate, HMS Yarmouth - a veteran of the Falklands conflict, known as the 'Crazy Y'. This time, there was time to do some appropriate training.

So, it was off to HMS Sultan - the RN's Safety Equipment & Survival School for some underwater escape training. Yep, I did say underwater!

I was with a small group who were to be trained in how to escape from a sinking helicopter. HMS Sultan, near Portsmouth, has a swimming pool with a helicopter fuselage complete with seats and harnesses. A bit like a high tech modern day witches dunking stool.

The objective would be to escape from different seating positions whilst the fuselage is lowered into to pool and then flipped upside down. Sounds huge fun doesn't. Oh, by the way, holding my breathe is not one of my strong suits.

We are kitted out in overalls, life jacket and flying helmets. We will be 'dunked' 3 times each. Once in a front seat facing forward, once in a back seat facing backwards and once with the helmets visor blacked out, simulating total darkness.

There will be a couple of divers in the pool, just in case anyone panics - as if! I am strapped into the front seat, the fuselage is slowly lowered, turning upside down as it does so. We strain away from the water to allow us to take a final breath at the latest possible moment before we are fully submerged.

I keep my hand near to door opening to keep my orientation. We have to wait until the fuselage settles on the bottom of the pool. As soon as it does - I release my harness and pull myself out easily and get to the surface with no problem. The guys in the back seat have a slightly more challenging task - they have to wait until the front seat passengers escape. Not a time for anyone to panic. They all exit OK.

Right, I'm now in the back seat - facing backwards. Hopefully my breathe will hold out this time. Still with an arm stretched backwards to locate the exit - we are 'dunked' again. This time it is not so straightforward. One of the front seat guys struggles a little to get out - he's helped by a diver. I unbuckle and get out over the seat OK - if feeling slightly panicky that my breathe would give out. I didn't want to look a wimp in the present company.

Last run, I'm now strapped in, facing backwards with my visor blacked out. This isn't much fun - you are disoriented - in darkness, upside down and under water. Again, I, obviously, manage to get out. Surviving a watery end - this time.

It crosses my mind, however, just how terrifying the real experience could be. Say, in a force 6 wind, heavy swell, at night in the freezing waters of the South Atlantic. Not something to look forward to. Fortunately, I never had to do it for real!

Murder Ball...!

It's a lovely view from the sea wall, isn't it? Well no, not really. Particularly when you are running alongside it in mid-winter, at dawn, dressed only in shorts and vest freezing your bits of.

Yes, we are still at Haslar in early February 1974 undergoing part 2 training. We have a particularly sadistic, or so it seemed at the time, Chief Petty Officer as our instructor. He believed a fit trainee is a happy and alert trainee. Alright as far as it goes.

So back to the sea wall. It is 06.00 in the morning - my class is up and dressed in shorts, vest and plimsolls. This is our standard exercise gear. We are in the freezing cold winter air running alongside the sea wall. We do this most mornings in the week. After a couple of miles we reach a grassy clearing. This is were we get to play a fairly unique game for the RN - I'm sure that the other services have something similar.

We now partake in 15 minutes of Murder ball. Murder ball? Yep - Murder ball. A simple game with no rules. We a split into two teams. The objective is to score touchdowns - you can kick, throw and run with the ball. The Chief blows the whistle and bedlam ensues. Bodies everywhere!

Oh, I failed to mention the main strategy when playing Murder ball - get rid of the ball as soon as you get it! If you fail to do this you will find yourself underneath a pile of bodies intent on crushing you, seemingly, to death. After 10 minutes or so the 'game' comes to an end. Who knows who won? I just know some of us have a few more bumps and bruises.

Right, back to the school. No, not quite yet. We run back along the sea wall. Now, just to make sure we are wide awake we all plunge into the icy cold Solent. Bloody hell, it's freezing! My testicles panic and try to get as deep into my abdomen as rapidly as possible.

Now soaking and frozen we run, pretty rapidly, back to the school, shit, shower, shave and have breakfast. Then it's into the classroom for the day's lessons.

Funnily enough, nobody ever seemed to doze during these lessons!

You want me to stick it where....?

So here I am, at Royal Naval Hospital Haslar in Gosport, its February 1974. I've learnt how to row a whaler, how to march, shoot, tie knots and a host of other nautical stuff - not forgeting, the importance of spitting on shoes! Now it's time for my part 2 training - the medical stuff!

I will revisit Haslar on a few occasions. My first tale concerns my first visit to a ward and my first 'procedure'.

Around two to three weeks into part 2 it's time to meet a real patient. Theory is great, of course, but it takes on a whole new perspective when applied it to a living, breathing subject.

I now have proudly displayed on my arm, a red cross, signifying I am a member of the medical branch of the Royal Navy. It's OK to wear it at Haslar because it is obvious that I am a lowly trainee. In fact, I revel in the 'rank' of Junior Medical Assistant 2 (JMA2) - can't get any lower than this in the pecking order.

Anyway, back to the task in hand. What fascinating thing will I be doing this morning? This thought runs through my eager mind as I enter one of the general surgery wards. Here, my tutor lets me know that I will be performing a high-colonic lavage (popular in some parts of the community, today) on a poor, unsuspecting patient.

Trust me, this is not the procedure to start your medical career with! I will spare you all the gory details - suffice to say it involved shoving a tube up the patient's rear end, pouring many pints of warm water down the tube and, cleaning the lower intestine as well as possible. This is in preparation for surgery.

So, a smelly, thoroughly unpleasant hour later - I leave the surgical ward having, well and truly, been introduced to the reality of my job. Welcome to my world!

The mast....

So what is it with male bravado? See a mountain we have to climb it. Something dangerous - we'll give it a go!

Ganges had a permanent affront to this male condition. There sat on the parade ground a ship's mast - not sure of the actual height but it was about 200 feet. Bloody high, in my opinion.

It was common for trainees, at night, when there was less chance of being spotted, to climb this mast, just to show their 'bravery'. This failed to appeal to me. I already new that I could climb like a monkey - many happy hours spent scaling trees in Somerset, often jumping out of them into piles of hay - kindly provided by the farmers who owned the fields I was leaping into. often suffered gentle mickey taking for my lack of desire on this matter.

After about two weeks we got our first shore leave. A strange term this because we were serving at a shore establishment. Surely, we were already ashore. Not according to the RN. When leaving a naval establishment, be it a ship or a building, you always were said to be going ashore.

So, of a group of us went, to experience the heady pleasures of Harwich.

A few hours later, in darkness, we staggered back to Ganges all a little worse for wear. The result of young boys trying to drink like men! We managed to pull ourselves together to get past the guards on the gate. Drunkenness was frowned upon - particularly drunken trainees!

So, here we were, drunken trainees, still up for a bit of a lark. It was now that I had a rush of alcohol to the brain - I would climb the bloody mast. Not a clever decision given my state.

My classmates, of course, encouraged me. So up I went, past the lower netting up to the third level. Now this was high. It seemed to me in my alcohol driven state that it was a damn site higher than it looked from below.

It was a windy night and the mast was swaying alarmingly. I hadn't finished yet - the last 10 or 12 feet was just a pole that led to the button. The button was the top of the mast with a metal spike - this spike was for the button boy to lock his knees together on whilst standing, yes standing, to attention during ceremonies. Below him would be other trainees - dressing the mast.

So, I shimmied up the pole - touched the spike and climbed down again to my classmates who were now suitably impressed. Of course, a slight slip and I wouldn't be here to tell the tale. One of quite a few stupid things done in my early years - all put down to that very male of afflictions - bravado.

Too short for damage control...

On of the early 'fun' things the RN likes you too get a handle on is 'damage control". This is something, that at the time, you never really think you'll need.

Well, fast forward to 1982 and the Falklands conflict - you are now thanking your lucky stars that you have been trained for shoring up holes that are gushing water into your ship and, you can put out raging fires caused by an Exocet paying you a visit.

However, it's November 1973 - you've been in the Navy for less than a month. Now is the time to do some serious damage control training. Great! This will utilize the freezing cold water from the River Orwell.

So, can't wait. Here is a small group of us, about 4 or 5 - wearing just overalls, standing outside the training unit clutching our mallets, bits of wood, metal boxes to stop water getting in.

Sounds all perfectly straightforward, doesn't it? Well the clue is in the title. One our group is an Irishman, nicknamed Paddy of course, who is around 5ft 3" tall. This will have consequences for poor Paddy.

So, in we go, armed with everything you need to save the day! Overalls and bits of wood! The hatch closes behind us. All hell breaks loose!

Water starts flooding into the compartment at great force - it's hitting us from above, below and through the bulkheads (walls for you landlubbers!).

We are all drenched and frozen with alarming speed - we all desperately start to plug the holes - with our bits of wood. Oh, did I fail to mention that the compartment is dimly lit and is tilting just to help simulate the real thing.

Well, we're doing quite well, scrabbling around in the gloom, shaking with cold, but managing to patch up some of the holes. Unfortunately, there is now a lot of water in the compartment, some of us are up to our chests in it.

Not good news for Paddy - he is now panicking and calling for his mother - I also failed to mention that Paddy is not a particularly strong swimmer. One of our team comes to the rescue - Andy (a passing resemblance to John Cleese) - he manages to get Paddy up to a safe height. Andy is tall.

The exercise ends and we all get out alive. Paddy, however, does not last much longer in the service and eventually returns home. Damage control - not for the faint hearted!

Footnote

Andy went on to serve on HMS Antelope during the Falklands crisis - Antelope was one of the ships that was sunk. Andy survived this, physically. But, I think, he wasn't quite the same guy afterwards.

what is it with spit......?

What is is with spit? Some of us have it and some don't. I, unfortunately am a 'don't'. What am I rambling about? Well, the services, including the RN, are big on spit and polish. This is a charming technique of spitting on your boots and then applying polish.

The objective is to create a shine good enough to see your ugly mug in.

No matter how hard I tried or how long - my feeble spit was just not up to it. At best my boots and shoes would look clean, definitely not sparkling. Oh, I usually got by inspections (these were very regular) OK. But, somehow, when looking around me at some of the top spitters, I felt a little inadequate in this crucial kit area.

However, all was not lost! I did possess a valuable talent. I was a damned good wielder of an iron. So when shiney shoes were critical - I could trade ironing for some super spit.

It did seem that during the first week or so at Ganges, we spent most of our time marching, ironing, cleaning, sewing and polishing and spitting!. So much for the jolly jack tar's lot.

Day one...

Mmmm! Home from home. From sharing a bedroom with my younger brother, I could now look forward to sharing with 20 others.

I had arrived at Ipswich station having traveled across London (this, in itself a first). There were others like me milling around on the station clasping their single suitcases no doubt filled with the same regulation kit as myself.

3 pairs pants, 3 vests, 3 pairs of socks, shaving and washing kit in a bag and a few other sundry items.

As I stood in the cold in this unfamiliar place I wondered with a mixture of trepidation and excitement what this adventure would bring.

We were all gathered and marched, sort of, to a bus and taken to our new home for the next 6 weeks. This was HMS Ganges at Shotley Gate - the training establishment for new recruits. Here we would learn our basic sailors skills and have imprinted on our young minds the concept of teamwork, leadership and discipline. Things sadly lacking in today's world.

In swift succession we were shorn of our trendy shoulder length hair, issued with basic uniforms including the ubiquitous No8's - these were the day to day work clothes of the non commissioned ranks.

Everyone seemed to be issued with badges to signify their chosen branches of the Navy - all except the medics. Before we could wear ours we would have to earn them - it seems that a red cross does not come easily.

The beginning...

My journey to the Falklands war started way back in 1973.

Glam rock, flaired trousers and flared collars. T.Rex, Gary Glitter, David Bowie, Slade were all in their pomp, strutting their stuff high in the charts.

This was the year that I came to the end of my secondary education. I had done well academically at my secondary modern school. I was reasonably bright in the top form throughout this period.

Unfortunately, I was an all round sportsman and in most of the school's teams. This meant I took my eye of the 'academic ball' in the last minutes of the game - end result - a couple of O levels, instead of 5 to 6 that I should have achieved.

So much for sporting prowess.

Here I was, now what to do?

I lived in Taunton - not exactly a thriving hub at the time. Careers advisors thought it was great to work in the local factories. I disagreed. I didn't have a clue what to do (as the Sweet once said).

By chance I found myself outside of the Royal Navy careers office - not a natural place for me, given my dislike of authority. I had managed to last around 20 minutes in the army cadets - who the hell did they think they were? Giving me orders!

So, it is still a mystery to me how, half an hour later I left the Royal Navy careers office having signed on for 9 years service as a Naval Medic (or, medical assistant as they were called).

Why naval medicine - who knows? I liked biology so it seemed a good idea to me.

Oh! I would be seeing the world as well! Bring it on!

How did I get here...?

Well, here I was.

It's the middle of the night - the year is 1982 in mid May. It's bloody cold! Not surprising, really.
I am sitting in the crow's nest, yes they still exist, of HMS Leedscastle - a minesweeper based in Rosyth, Scotland. Why so cold? Well we are in the middle of the total exclusion zone in the South Atlantic - smack in the middle of the Falklands war.
And, why am I, a medic, sitting in the crow's nest in the middle of the night. Well, obvious really, I am scanning the skies looking for signs of enemy aircraft - I will be doing this for the next four hours of my watch. What's more, I volunteered to do this so that I didn't get bored. Madness!
So, how did a boy who lasted just 20 minutes in the army cadets whilst at school end up here?
Well, I'll tell you...