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.