A first look...

So here I am fresh from a year in Gibraltar now just arrived at my next port of call - HMS Osprey, Portland.  This is were I was to meet and marry Sue (29 years on and going strong).

Many a happy night would be spent in the Flying Fish, Osprey's club - all establishments have something similar.

On this evening I was eyeing up the local talent on bop night- Weymouth's finest would often visit.

On this  particular evening I was making a fool of myself on the dance floor with a striking blonde bit.  OK, OK! It was the Babysham girl!  And - Yes!  It was a cardboard cut out - damn it I was desperate!

Well, a charming new baby wren, who I had not noticed, seemed to have found me interesting and, I later learnt, was a bit miffed I had ignored her charming self.  Poor deluded girl!  To cut a long story short.  I treated this poor deluded girl for an ingrowing toenail.  Wooed her at a party with a hidden bottle of Bailleys.

Many years later we are still happily married.  All I can think to explain this is that she must still be very deluded indeed!

Rugby - a star is born?

HMS Osprey, Portland, 1980.

Now an LMA (Leading Medical Assistant), serving at the Royal Navy airbase that is Portland (another since closed, sadly).
I have always been a keen sportsman and have played many sports over the years - some more enthusiastically than others.  I used to be a winger in the school rugby team, being a bit nippy back then.  It was never really a game that excited me too much, seemingly a little pointless.  I, of course, also lacked any desire for communal bathing a bawdy songs with boozed up giants!
So it was, that I found myself drafted into the HMS Osprey rugby team.  Don't ask!  I have no idea how this came to pass.  Nevertheless, I found myself cast in the role of nippy winger again. Hopefully I could manage to keep broken bones to a minimum.
Sitting on top of Portland was the borstal, full of various hard cases, I think.  Now the powers that be thought it was a great idea to play rugby against the borstal guests.  So, sometime during a cold December, the Osprey rugby team of men set off to conquer a few kids residing at Her Majesty's pleasure.  Should be easy the team thought.  Yes - right!
The team of 'kids' looked like they be more comfortable in the scrubs.  No matter, us men would prevail.
I found myself, hurtling down the wing, ball in hand, heading towards the byline.  Ah, glory!  A certain try for the team and me.   20 yards to go, I'd make it - no problem.  Why, oh why, did I choose this moment to glance to my left.  A particularly bad move.  Hurtling towards me was what I can only describe as a human shaped block of granite with, murderous intent in his eyes. Always a quick thinker, I assessed the situation rapidly and took immediate action.  To my undying shame, I threw the rather ridiculous shaped ball to the granite block, thus avoiding, surely, serious injury!
Surprisingly, that was my final rugby game of a short lived career. And, yes, I can live with it!

Where the hell are we?

So here I am - at HMS Raleigh leadership school, some time during 1975, I think.

Leadership school, does what it says in the title. Creates leaders of men - right then - here we go!
14 days of manly fun, marching, running, climbing, classroom leadership lectures, assault courses - fun, fun, fun!
Oh, I forgot to mention - the outward bound bit. You've probably all seen this on the TV by now. Take a bunch of service type people, drop em in the middle of nowhere.  Their mission, if they choose to accept it (no choice here, of course!), is to yomp (in our case - meander) around Dartmoor looking for a few way points, and then to our final destination - hot meal, pat on the back, etc!
Pretty straight forward it would seem.  Well, on this particular leadership course, we were blessed with a particularly mouthy and cocksure stoker (marine engineering mechanic of MEM in navy terms). This guy new it all and wasn't given to taking much advise from his team mates.
As these things often go - this fool was designated leader for my little group.  Oh joy!  This was going to be fun.  Being the leader, he wasn't one for delegation, he would covet the compass - he was an expert in all things remember.  Pity map reading and orienteering weren't really part of his extensive skill set.
To cut a long story short, we spent many cold, wet hours going around in circles, totally lost because of the outstanding leadership of this fool.  Following a minor mutiny (swabs!) we managed to get back to camp tired, wet, hungry and very pissed off!  another glowing example of leadership in action.  This fool probably went on to be a senior officer!

Dr Death..................

My last draft before leaving the branch was to Portsmouth. The NBCD (Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Defence) School at HMS Phoenix. It was here that we instructed all branches in these cheery subjects. The clue is in the name!

I was a Petty Officer by this time and my role was that of an instructor. My subjects were light rescue, first aid and the fun one - the medical effects of NBCD agents.

These agents ranged from mustard gas (first used in Ypres, France to devastating effect in the trenches of WW1), through blood agents like cyanide to nerves agents like tabun and sarin. Some of these charming forms of warfare are thought to have been used by Saddam in Iraq against the Kurds.

When I wasn't putting poor souls through the CS gas chamber I was lecturing them on what to expect if they came into contact with the various agents already mentioned. This, of course, I delivered with a smile resulting in the nickname of 'Dr Death'. Charming, eh?

We also taught decontamination procedures in the event of nuclear or biological attack. This involved the use of fullers earth to absorb any external fluid contamination and then the careful removal of protective clothing. I'm sure you have seen the military dressed in their green hooded NBCD suits.

I came away from this particular role with the feeling that the procedures we taught were somewhat dated. In fact, in the heat of war I doubt how effective they would actually be. To this day I still think if the bombs were dropping, I would prefer to be directly heading one back - poof!!!!!!!

Mind you, my wife maintains if there was any form of disaster she would prefer to be with me, at least we'd have the skills to deal with it - possibly........

What shall we do with the drunken sailor.....?

Young sailors often get into spots of bother due to a little alcohol here and there. I, of course, am no exception to this ancient maritime law.

A couple of examples illustrate the point (I'm sure if I rummage through my memory banks I can find a few more).

The first finds me at RNAS Yeovilton (my first proper draft after training) -now a fully fledged, highly responsible medic. Hmm? Its Friday and time to have a run ashore with the lads. We head for Yeovilton, a couple of miles from the base.

A great evening is had by all. I spent the evening imbibing and fleecing the locals on the pool table. A winning streak sees me the recipient of many free pints of beer. Closing time sees me leave the pub somewhat later than my mates. Worse for wear I determine to walk back to the base. Only a couple of miles after all!

Around 10 hours later I make it. Roger Bannister - you can relax. This amazing feat of endurance and speed is probably due the the fact that I spent the walk taking one step forward and two steps back! With the occasional fall into the fields alongside the road. I'm not even sure how I managed to get through the gate without incurring the wrath of the officer of the watch. Ah well , we live and learn. Well....perhaps not.

My second example finds me on another run ashore. This time in Plymouth, another Friday night. The details are a little dim, however, the end to the night is very clear in my mind. I am slowly waking up, head pounding, cold and surrounded by noise. As my consciousness clears, I realize that I am not where I should be, that is in my bed back at the hospital quarters. I am, in fact, quite high up a fir tree in the middle of a roundabout in the centre of Plymouth. The noise is that of traffic and Saturday morning shoppers!

I casually climb down from the tree, drawing curious glances from the locals, and gingerly make my way back to the hospital to get some more kip, in my bed this time.

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..

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!

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......

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.

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.

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!

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!

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!