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...