Page 18.

And so began eighteen months or so of Royal Naval training. Typing became very big in my life, but the great thing about it was that rock and roll was played as we learned, you can't believe how great the rock beat is for learning how to type, and in no time at all I was up to 35 words a minute with 95% accuracy (I would later be timed at over 100 words a minute, with 99% accuracy - I know, big head!). We didn't type plain language either, or numbers, we typed blocks of five letters, endless blocks of five letters, which were I later discovered, what coded messages looked like when you were using one-time pads (we'll come to those later!). Click click click the room went as we practised on the old black Imperial typewriters. I even learned how to change a ribbon, the first practical thing I ever learned other than cleaning shoes and boots, laundering and ironing. Page after page of blocks of letters flew past our eyes as our speed and accuracy increased. We also learned how to march properly on the huge parade ground, we learned how to wheel, how to turn (there is a difference), we learned how to carry rifles (303's), how to present arms, from the left two-three, thrust forward. It amazed me that I could do these things when I had been so hopeless during my first two weeks in the Annex. We learned morse code, up to 15 words a minute, the Radio Signallers would learn it up to 40 words a minute, but they worked with radios and we worked with signal lights. Aldiss lights, 10 inch signalling lights, 20 inch, I million candle power, carbon-rod lights. Then came semaphore down in the woods where I would watch ants climb trees as someone waved the little flags around. I don't quite know what happened when it came to semaphore. I could read it almost without having to look. I learned the alphabet pretty quickly and I could read it at 10 words a minute almost from the beginning. Typing and semphore, they became my specialities. It was as if I had been born to do them, as if it were my destiny to become a Sailor, and a Bunting Tossing Sailor at that. I was pretty good with sending and reading lights too, and all in all things were swimming along nicely.

And that was another thing. Swimming. When I arrived at Grenville Division the glass-fronted trophy cabinet that hung in the Covered Way was empty, I'm sure it was covered in cobwebs, so long was it since it had a trophy in it. But the GANGES Way was to test everybody, that's why we did sport every afternoon. Professional training in the mornings, sport in the afternoon, schooling in the evening. And everybody had to do everything. If it was cross country, then even I had to do it. Those who couldn't swim had to learn and in the swimming pool was where I first got into trouble.

Ever since arriving at the Division I was up every morning to train in the pool. There would be at least one P.T.I. there who would work me really hard. I loved it, all that pounding up and down, it was my thing, it was what I was really good at and I was proud that I could do it and I wanted to do it better. So I never showered with the rest of the class in the mornings, I was always in the pool, and would meet them over breakfast. I got faster and faster in my chosen stroke of backstroke, and the P.T.I.'s did me proud with their training methods, which were pretty revolutionary back in '59. So the GANGES Way of seeing if you could do a sport, even be good at it, sort of passed me by because from the beginning I could swim.

Anyway, trouble.

We were in the pool one day and everyone had to swim at least one length of the 33 and a half yards, some were struggling, some had arm bands, some were scared, all were brave. I did what I could to help, I would encourage and urge. I'd swim on my back underneath those who were struggling, by their side, anywhere that helped.

That day I was stood on the poolside, shouting encouragement, trying to get everyone to do that dreaded length. Next to me was a P.T.I., all dressed in white, and with a long pole in his hands. Everytime someone who was struggling tried to swim to the side he would push them back into the centre. The P.T.I. who was next to me was a muscle-bound bully, most unlike the other P.T.I.'s, who were genuinely likeable, and who were working in the pool on that day. In my days back at school I used to get bullied, and sometimes attacked by kids from Mold who hated kids from the town up the road. But I learned patience. As we had the only swimming baths, sooner or later, everyone came for a swim, especially during the summer. That's when I, a small fat kid, became the vengeful aggressor. I could terrorise anyone in the baths, whether they were big, very big, heavy, light, and anything in between. Only the members of the swimming club could swim like me, and I got on with all of those, so I became a kind of water borne terrorist of bullies. By the time I finished with them they never came near me again because they thought I was insane, and they could, and probably were, right.

Back to the day, though, at GANGES. Classmates were struggling up and down the pool and the muscle-bound bully-boy was having a ball pushing more and more of them out into the centre. Some were distressed, some were genuinely struggling, some, I thought, were going under.

So I pushed him in.

While he stood at the edge of the pool pushing with his pole and laughing, I pushed him in then dived in and terrorised him. I discovered that he couldn't swim very well, too many muscles, so I let him up and he grabbed the poolside and hung on for all he was worth. Other P.T.I.'s had rushed round, I had guided some of my classmates to the side then pushed off for the middle where I trod water and watched. We all knew no-one was going to jump in to get me. The bully was dragged out and he sat on the poolside. A P.T.I. who had been training me in the mornings told me swim over to the far side of the pool, which I did. I climbed out and waited for him to get to me. I was unbelievably scared. I didn't know what had driven me to do what I did, other than as a way of protecting my classmates who I felt were in trouble. The P.T.I. ordered me to the changing room where in its privacy he smacked me around the head a couple of times, not hard, and told me I was a complete idiot. He told me to stay where I was until he came back and off he strode. The class started to filter into the changing rooms, swimming lessons were over. A couple of them slapped my head and my back, some said thanks, almost everyone did something. I sat in my corner, terrified at what I had done, and waited to be booted out of the Navy.

The P.T.I. who had trained me came into the changing room and indicated for me to follow him. I went with him back on to the poolside and the only people there were the P.T.I.'s including the one I'd pushed in. I was told to say I was sorry, and I could only mutter because my lips were frozen with fear. My heart pounded so much that I thought I was going to die. No hands were offered in friendship and as soon as I said I was sorry, bully-boy strode off. I was told that I would be reported to my training Chief Petty Officer, but that no further action was being taken. I muttered my thanks, went to the changing room, into the toilet, and was sick. I dressed and followed the lads back to the mess. Chief Petty Officer Coverdale already knew what had gone on and I was ordered into 8's, with boots and gators and he led me to the parade ground around which I had to double until he thought I had been punished enough.

God, but how I would learn to know every inch of that parade ground!!

Page 17.

So I had climbed The Mast. I'd conquered my fear of heights (or so I thought, but many years later when I was crossing a bridge with my two-year-old son, he broke free of my hand and I realised that he could go through the fence into the canal far, far below - I grabbed his hair and stood frozen to the spot until a lady was kind enough to take my hand and lead us off). All the class had climbed it, all the recruitment, at least I don't remember anyone being thrown out for not doing it.

Basic training was all but done, it was time to march across to the Main Camp and begin our training in our chosen careers, in my case a Tactical Signalman. I had no idea what this entailed, what kind of training I would receive, what skills I would learn, except for those told to me by the Officer who interviewed me. Typing? I thought I could probably do that. Semaphore? I could do that too, I supposed. Morse code? I would have to see. Fleetwork? I had no idea what that was. I also didn't know that, as well as doing Sailor training, we would be required to go back into the schoolroom and do further educational training. What was the point of that? I wondered. I'd left school to come here, I'd done all that. I just wanted to be a Sailor and sail the seven seas, I didn't want to study to become a Doctor or a Vet or anything like that. I couldn't stand the thought of going back into school. Anyway, the day dawned when we all marched over the the Main Camp, all our worldly goods in a kit-bag on our shoulder, our civvy suitcases carried in our left hand, our round white hats perched on top of our heads and once in the Main Camp we were broken up into groups for each Division. As I mentioned, Fergy, Nash and me were in Grenville, almost the whole way down the Long Covered Way (as compared to the Short Covered Way!), on the left hand side. We wandered down there, after saying goodbye to the ones who weren't going with us, and we entered the Mess and found a bed, where we dumped our kit-bags before unpacking them and placing all our uniform in a locker, in the neatest possible manner. We began to introduce ourselves. Murph The Surph, Chris Cullen, DeRougetel (and others I'll remember when I find the photos and do some proper research!!). Down the right side of the mess were all the new Bunting Tossers, down the left all the new Radio Signalmen. We both had our own instructor, in the Tossers case, it was Chief Petty Officer Coverdale. (I discovered in 2007 that he was still alive, found his address and spoke to him. He remembered me as the one who swam. I cried. I had not seen him, or heard of him, since leaving GANGES in 1960 - I was so moved that I wrote some lyrics for a song, and Roger Bennett of Somerset put some music to it. It's called, obviously, Chief Petty Officer Coverdale). We met our new instructors, who would be with us until the bitter end and made ourselves familiar with other classmates and our surroundings. I seemed to be living my life in total excitement, going from one new place to another, doing one new thing then doing more of them, meeting more and more people. I hadn't given home, school, Mam, Dad, little brother, Elaine, Selwyn, or even the swimming club a thought, not for one second did I feel I had made a mistake by joining up. I knew I was going to enjoy every moment of my time, I even harboured notions of signing on again when I reached twenty-seven. I could see no grey or black in the skies ahead or above me, all I saw was unbroken blue.

Sign on again!! I must have been nuts!

Page 16.

The same week as the swimming contest we were all gathered in the galley to take some kind of test (I honestly thought that when I left school I would never have to take another exam or test in my life - instead I am still taking them now). We were sat at tables where there lay a large sheet of paper with hundreds of letters upon it, and next to it one of those kids games where you have to put a square peg in an appropriate hole. I looked at them in bemusement. What were they all about, I wondered? I soon found out. A Petty Officer stepped to the front of the room and gave a short talk. From the large speaker above us, from where rock and roll normally came, certain sounds would emit and when we heard a bell ring we had to find the letter 'e' on the paper in front of us and circle it. When we heard a whistle we had to put a peg in a hole. Off we went, ring-ring, find an 'e', tootle-tootle, find a hole. The whole exercise lasted about half-an-hour and then it was over and we went back to polishing shoes or some such rubbish. In the meantime I had discovered a good game which was turning quite a profit. We had a tuck shop between the laundry room and the galley where you could buy anything, including cigarettes (it wouldn't be allowed today, of course), and with the two-shillings-and-sixpence we received each week I bought a whole load of cigarettes and, as I didn't smoke, sold them for thruppence each. I doubled and sometimes trebled my two-shillings-and-six-pence, which meant there was much more money for sweets and chocolate. I hadn't done any more swimming, but we were doing a lot of marching which meant I didn't get much fatter than I already was. Things, in general, were getting better, though. On the next mess inspection my kit was neither stepped on nor kicked all over the place, but that was mainly because I asked Fergy for help in laying it all out. He was some kind of Naval genius that Fergy.

A couple of days after the test we all had to attend an interview with an Officer and he told me, during my interview, that my test results had been so good that I could choose any branch of the Navy I wanted to go into. I had to tell him that I didn't know any branches of the Navy to choose from. He laughed aloud and asked me why I had joined. I told him about Selwyn and he laughed some more. Eventually he told me some of the choices I had. Gunner? I didn't think so. Loud bangs made me nervous, I'd lived a very quiet life so far. Ordinary Seaman? What did they do? I asked. They cleaned and painted the ship, sometimes aided Gunners, involved themselves with ropes and stuff, in general kept a ship running. I didn't think I would like that, I had never painted anything and certainly had never cleaned. Radar? Nope. Stoker? I didn't like the sound of that at all. Communications? What was that all about? I asked. Well, the Officer said, you learn all about morse code, fleetwork (? - meant nothing), typing, all about flags and semaphore and codes. Now this sounded more like it. Yes, I said, I rather like the sound of that. Do you like fresh air? the Officer asked. I do, I answered. He scribbled on a piece of paper in front of him. "You will be perfect as a Tactical Signalman," he announced, with a grin. And that's how I got to become a Bunting Tosser.

The fourth week began, the last of our basic training and I could march, dress right, salute, iron, launder, sell cigarettes and all kinds of things that I couldn't do before I left home. I was so proud of myself and couldn't wait to start my course as a Tactical Signalman, as compared to a Radio Signalman (presumably because they didn't like fresh air). My teeth were done, I had boxed with honour and had made a name for myself as a swimmer (I didn't know that there had been a bit of a bidding war behind my back as to what Division I would go to - I was eventually told that I would be going to Grenville Division). In fact the whole recruitment were told which Divisions they were going to and we began to realise that we would all be broken up. Amazingly, though, Fergy was also going to Grenville Division, as was Nash from Chester, who I hadn't seen much of since we'd arrived, and it turned out that we would all be in the same class. Already I knew people! Things were going so well that I thought they could only get better, but something happened that put a stop to all that.

Our Petty Officer told us that tomorrow we would be up especially early...because it was our turn to climb the mast. Climb The Mast!!! I couldn't believe it. I got giddy crossing a bridge over water, and I didn't mind water. We had seen The Mast on our trips to the main camp, you couldn't miss it. In fact, you couldn't miss it if you were twenty miles away. It was huge. Someone asked how far up it we would have to climb. To the half-moon he was told. That was all right then. It was only about a hundred-and-thirty feet in the air!! The Petty Officer told us that it was compulsory, that we had to do it, there would be no exceptions, we climbed it or failed our basic training. All that we had done so far would count for nothing. This was it. Climb the bloody mast or be kicked out.

I never ate a thing after being told this, and I wasn't the only one. The night before I couldn't sleep, tossing and turning in my bed, and early morning whispered conversations began with others who couldn't sleep. Fergy, the rat, slept the sleep of the dead.

Eventually, grey light indicated the start of another day. The Petty Officer appeared and roused us all from our beds. A quick wash, a clean of the teeth, dress in Number 8's, boots and gators, and out in the chilly mist of late September to march over to the main camp and stand with our hearts in our mouths in front of the monstrosity that loomed in front of us. We were lined up, two deep, the Petty Officer gave whispered instructions. We were to go round the Crow's Nest, not through it, and be careful, boys, he added, when your feet are hanging in space. Keep a good grip. He needed to tell us that?!! Then up the rigging to the half moon, he pointed grey skywards and somewhere up there was a white half-moon. Over it and down the other side. Easy. No need to worry there is a great big safety net. And yes, there was, but the squares between each four sides of rope were big enough for a fully grown adult to fall through, never mind little fat boys like me. He finished talking, stepped back and said, "In your own time, boys. In your own time, and don't let me down."

There was a collective sound of hearts sinking, of stomachs flipping, of minds flying and another feeling of being glued to the ground. I took a deep breath and stepped forward one long stride. It broke the line, everyone rushed for the mast, including me, we grabbed rigging and began to climb, feet to head, side by side, up we went. The first part, up to the Crow's Nest was pretty easy, as long as you didn't look down, which I didn't, but then there was the heart stopping moment of going round the elbow, reaching up as far as possible before feet dangled in the air. We pulled ourselves up and round, breathless, panting, mumbling amongst ourselves, swearing (and I didn't swear much in those days, oh, how things have changed!), and still we climbed, fear digging in, the chill mist reaching into us, hand over hand, foot over foot. The ones in front reached the half-moon, slithered over it and began their descent. Others reached it, then me. I was absolutely petrified, almost rigid with fear, but others drove me on, the ones coming behind wanted it over and done with as much as I did. I scrambled over the half-moon, reached out, grabbed rigging and I was on my way down. Before I could catch my breath I had negotiated the elbow on the down side and was on the ground, a trembling heap of fifteen-year old boy, hugging those who had already made it. And so they came, one after the other, hand shakes, hugs, no tears, none that I saw, anyway. Lots of trembling and an overwhelming sense of relief.

We had done it. We had climbed the GANGES mast.

It would be the only time I would go as high as the half-moon.

I would never forget that day.

Page 15.

The whole of 25 recruitment marched over to the main camp, through the impressive gates, past the huge mast that stood with great menace looking down on the surrounding countryside (rumours continued to sweep through the Annex messes that we would be required to climb it - but I knew this couldn't be true because it was just so damned high). We marched across the parade ground that I would become all to familiar with in the coming months, past the Chief and Petty Officers quarters, past Benbow Division, to the swimming pool, there we were allowed to break off and enter. I immediately went to the changing rooms and along with some other swimmers changed into my swimwear, except mine were jet black and fitted like a glove, if a glove could fit the lower reaches of a body. I felt good, I hadn't been near water for almost three weeks and it was calling me, I couldn't wait to get in it. We were herded out of the changing rooms on to the poolside, about ten of us, the boys on the balcony were cheering. I looked up and saw Fergy who was waving like a lunatic, with a huge smile on his face. Now was the moment of reckoning. The P.T.I. announced that we would be doing a series of swims, one length, two and the full hundred and we would be doing front crawl and backstroke because that's what the boys taking part had said they could swim. Front crawl wasn't my best stroke, but I could do it. P.T.I's stood all around the pool, some of them with stopwatches and the first six were line up, ready, steady, go and off they went. I watched with some amusement. None of them would make it into the swimming club back home. They struggled along one length, then it was the turn of the remaining four, including me and the boy who had stood up and told everyone that he could beat the times on the board. I walked to the side of the pool, down, ready, go, and I was off like a shot, my dive low and hard and a bit show-offy. I hit the water like a bullet and raced down the single length. When I got there and turned to look, the rest of them weren't even half way down. I looked up at Fergy who had his arms above his head and was cheering like mad. And front crawl wasn't even my stroke. The other distances for front crawl were cancelled and we moved straight on to the one length backstroke. I didn't often do just one length, so when it was time to go I went full pelt. By the time I finished and looked, all I saw were distant splashes and some pretty feeble attempts at the stroke. All around P.T.I.'s were staring at me and looking at stopwatches. All the rest of the races were cancelled. The kid who thought he was good, wasn't, and the little fat kid who had to be dragged to his feet, was. The senior P.T.I. announced that although there were to be no races, they were going to put me through a one hundred backstroke on the clock, just to see. The other boys were cheering, I had five minutes rest and got in the water, took up my position for a backstroke start, go, and boy did I go. I swam the fastest I had ever swum, I gave it Hell, I kicked and pulled as if there was no tomorrow, banging the turns with perfection, which was a bit of miracle, but I held my stroke and beat the time for the hundred backstroke that was on the board. (Every time I swam in a race throughout all my time at GANGES, I would set a new record, until I set one that wouldn't be broken for years!). I was better than I thought. I was no good at breaststroke or butterfly (though a boy, Wally, would eventually turn up who would be brilliant at them), so it was time to get dressed and return to the Annex. I was unbelievably proud of myself and I got loads of pats on the back from other boys. It wasn't something I was used to. Mam nor Dad came to see me swim in races and when I returned to say I had won, Mam would just say, "Very good, get your supper, time for bed," and Dad would smile. They did sneak into Llandudno when I won there, with Auntie Ada, who was staying with us, but they left straight after the race and didn't say a thing about it when I eventually arrived home with a huge cup. It was only years later I learned that they had been present. So hero worship was a bit strange to me. It was soon done with, of course, when I went back the Annex and yet another appointment with the dentist.

This was the week, too, when the Royal Navy should have realised that I was not a suitable candidate for a Sailor. I provided them with all the proof they required on the day of the cross-country run. It was to be three miles along the foreshore and back again and the whole recruitment had to go. We lined up in our shorts, shirts, plimsoles, socks and off we were sent. I jogged a bit at first, until I was out of sight of any P.T.I.'s or Petty Officers, none of whom were running with us, then when I got down the hill on the foreshore, it was such a beautiful day, the river in front of me, Felixstowe opposite me (H.M.S. GANGES was in Shotley, in Suffolk, with water all around - a fantastic place for boys) that I just stopped and took it all in. The rest of the recruitment disappeared ahead of me while I walked and gazed and felt wonderful. I continued the whole three miles in a similar vein, even picking some wild flowers on the way round. By the time I got back to the Annex they were about to launch a search party for me, half a dozen boys all fully uniformed up, gators and boots, the lot. I tried to explain that I didn't like running, that I was a swimmer, but no-one felt inclined to listen. I just got shouted at a lot, told I was an idiot a lot and was then made to jog around the parade ground for an hour.

How much of a clue did the Royal Navy want? I'd been struggling with all the discipline since I'd arrived, couldn't see the sense behind a lot of orders, even questioned some, which got some severe head knucklings. I loved everything about the Royal Navy except all those annoying orders. I didn't think I was ever going to get any better and the Navy should have chucked me out, sent me on my way, on that day of the cross-country race, or non-race as it was for me. Instead they kept me on so they are at least half to blame for everything that happened.

Page 14.

So I marched into the third week with better teeth and more skill. I now knew how to do eyes right, easy really, you just turn your head to the right whilst still marching. Mind you, I had to have a few goes at it, which earned more abuse from the Petty Officer, but you know, I was beginning to pick a lot of this military stuff up. Marching, saluting, ironing, washing, eating with a knife and fork and keeping your mouth shut whilst you did it, something a lot of other Sailors couldn't do. The one thing I had done successfully yet was lay my kit out for inspection. I didn't get walked all over on the second occassion, I just every article kicked all over the mess. Not only me, though, a few others had it happen too. I thought the Petty Officer probably came from a very unhappy family, all this banging Sailors on top of their heads and kicking their kit all over. He was a bit of state, was the Petty Officer, needed some hugging, but I wasn't going to volunteer for that. Anyway, the day arrived for a meeting with the Physical Training Instructors, the P.T.I's, the only men who dressed only in white and were the only branch of the Navy who were allowed to march with straight fingers. I haven't mentioned that, of course, but when you march you have to keep your arms straight and your fingers curled with your thumb straight. I could do that. Now. After a bit of practice. But P.T.I's didn't have to learn how to do it, they could march straight fingered. We all crowded onto chairs, I was in the front row next to Fergy, and in front of us was a vision of white, four P.T.I's who had come to advise us as to our physical betterment. We listened patiently for a while, then it got interesting. The subject of swimming came up (we had had a visit to the main camp, a walk around so-to-speak, we were Trogs to all the other Sailors in the camp, after Troglodyte, a low form of human life - I would of course arise above this title, I would become a Sailor, the lowest form of sea-life!), and on this visit we had visited the swimming pool, 33 and one third yards long, three lengths to the hundred yards. It was a terrific swimming pool, one of the best I had ever seen, and I'd seen a few. Twelve feet deep at the deep end, with a five-metre fixed diving board and a one-metre springboard. Tiled throught, and with a huge balcony that could hold hundreds of people. On the far wall there was a board with every different stroke and distance and the best time ever recorded for each. Fergy said to me, "See any times you could beat, Taff?" I nodded, "Yeah, Fergy, a couple." He nodded sagely.

We were in the room with the P.T.I's when they asked the question. Had we seen the times on the board? We all nodded. Was there anyone in the room who could beat any of them? A kid on the opposite side of the room jumped up, arm in the air. "I can," he exclaimed. "I can beat a few of them." Fergy turned to me. I sat frozen in my seat. I'd only recently got over complete shyness and had never before leapt to my feet to proclaim my greatness (it wouldn't last). Fergy nudged me. Still I sat. In the end Fergy jumped to his feet. "You can beat some of the times on the board?" the P.T.I. asked. "Nae," Fergy stated. "But he can!", and he swung his hand around to point at me. All four P.T.I.'s jumped to their feet. "We have a contest, boys!" one of them shouted. "We have two great swimmers. We will gather this afternoon and discover who is the best amongst them." A cheer went up. Fergy grinned at me and dragged me to my feet. "You can swim, I presume?" a P.T.I. asked me. "Oh, yes, Sir, I can swim," I replied. The race was on.

Page 13.

As the first week ended, I began to learn how to march in a group with the rest of the class. I said 'Sir' a lot, got the top of my head knuckled a lot, saluted an enormous amount of people and I became quite proficient in doing that. My shoes and boots shone like mirrors, my gators were whiter than the heart of a virgin, my name was sewn into every item of clothing, creases in shirts and trousers could slice meat, my hair, though never long, was now cut in the pudding cut that would become only to familiar to me, I was shaving even though I didn't yet have a hair on my face (this may amaze those sailors with whom I served who only remember me for my full beards), my hatband was perfectly bowed even though I didn't bow it and all in all, things were going swimmingly, so to speak. I even began to understand how to make a bed and how to wash clothes without them forever coming back as unwashed.

The second week started with much the same. More marching, more saluting, more washing, ironing, mostly doing what we were ordered to do. Then I had to go to the dentist. I had only ever been to the dentist once in my life, in Mold, and I had gas and was incredibly ill afterwards. Mam said I didn't have to go again. But now the Navy said I did have to go. I went and discovered a very enlightened dentist. In the corner of his room of torture was a huge tape recorder and on the tapes, rock and roll. Chuck, Jerry, Elvis, Gary 'US' Bonds, the greats of our music, and it played all the time and took your mind off what he was actually doing in your mouth. In my case this was a good job, because when he looked in my mouth I swear he screamed. "What has been going on in that mouth?" he asked. I explained to him that because my Dad was killed in the war Mam had allowed me to go to bed every night with a sweety, right up until the day I joined up. These sweets, of course, had rotted my teeth. So began my almost daily visits to the dentist who tried to repair the damage. Today, when I visit any dentist, especially for the first time, they always comment on the number of fillings I have then they ask when I was in the forces, because those fillings I had in '59 are, mostly, still in my mouth.

There was a bizarre incident that involved the dentist. As part of our initial training it had been decided to hold a series of boxing matches involving all the boys of our recruitment, 25 recruitment actually, but instead of matching everyone up by height, they matched us up by weight, which meant little fat boys like me were put in the ring with what I considered to be giants. There were a series of elimination fights, and you have no idea how much I hated, and hate, boxing in all its forms, but I got through all my early fights by dint of the fact that all my opponents were more cowardly than me. They all fell flat on their backs the moment I landed the lightest of touches. I wish I had thought of it first. Bang, down they went as if they had been shot. So I found myself in the semi-final against a kid who was about six feet five inches tall, he may have been shorter, but it still meant that I spent a lot of time staring up his nose. Anyway, at the time of the fight I had a dentist appointment. Bloody Hell, but I was clever. No way I could fight and go to the dentist. I had just had the injection, I was getting used to the needle now after so many visits, my face was going nicely numb, when there was a knock on the door and a messenger entered to inform the dentist that I was required in the boxing ring. I knew, of course, that the dentist being a medical man that he wouldn't let me go. How wrong I was. He turned to me and blasted me for not telling him that I was expected in the ring, told me to get out of the chair and return when the match was over for my treatment. I tried to explain that my face was numb but only slobbered all over the place. Five minutes later I was in the corner with boxing gloves, shorts, shirt, plimsoles and socks on with my face becoming more numb by the second. Ding. The bell goes, I step out against this kid who is a giant and he hits me in the face. Never felt a thing! He hit me again, still never felt a thing! How good was this? He could hit me all he wanted and he would never hurt me. I was so elated that I swung at him. My fist missed him by at least six feet but he still crashed to the canvas as if I had connected with a piledriver to his chin. I stared down at the cowardly bastard and hated him with all my heart. I was in the final. As the final was later, I stayed and when it started I went down as if I had been hit by a piledriver, except in my case, I had. The kid I was fighting came out of his corner at about ninety miles per hour, throwing punches in an almost invisible whirl, one caught me at the side of my head and down I went. At least I had the sense to stay down for the whole ten count. After that it was back to the dentists. He congratulated me on reaching the final and let me listen to rock and roll while he drilled.

Page 12.

It was my first full day as a Sailor, and I stood in my brown trousers, brown shoes, white shirt and V-necked jumper Mam had knitted for me and I stared down at all my new uniform laid out on the bed below me.

"Right," the Petty Officer bellowed, "out of your civvies, stow them away, take them home with you and never bring them back, and into your Number 8's."

I stared at Fergy and he nodded towards the blue denim. Number 8's. I must remember that.

"Your rough serge is your Number 2 uniform, and the finer serge is your Number 1's, your Sunday best, the one you will the greatest care of."

I pulled on my Number 8's shirt and noticed that my surname and initial were stamped above the pocket on the left side. In fact, everything was stamped with my name; trousers, socks, underpants, shirts, white-fronts, everything. I pulled on my pants, tucked in my shirt and slid on and buckled the belt. I looked a bloody mess. I looked scruffy and untidy, like a sack of spuds tied in the middle, and I realised almost immediately that uniforms just didn't suit me (the Navy took about ten years to catch up). I turned to look at Fergy, who looked absolutely immaculate, but when he looked at me he began to titter. I pulled on black socks and black shoes, as did everyone, then we all stood by our beds as the Petty Officer strolled up one side and down the other inspecting us. When he got to me he said, "You look a bloody mess."

"Yes, Sir," I replied.

He moved on without comment, but shook his head sadly as if he had discovered a new kind of virus lurking in the corner.

At the bottom end of the mess he wheeled round and said, "Right, we are going to learn how to clean shoes and boots."

Well, I thought, I know how to do that. If you want shoes or boots cleaned you give them to your Mam. Ha! No Mam. I had never cleaned a pair of shoes or boots in my life, just like I had never made a bed until last night. We picked up our boots, as we were wearing our shoes, and went outside where we sat in the warm autumn sun and with our boot cleaning equipment supplied by stores, shoe polish, brushes, cloths, we polished our boots. I looked around to see how everyone else was doing it. Some spat on their boots, some rubbed coins, polishing and vigorously rubbing with brushes. I tried to do the same, but while all around almost every boot shone good enough to shave in (if I did shave), mine took on a kind of dull glimmer. I began to panic. I brushed and spat and rubbed coins and polished like a sort of demented idiot until, at last, mine began to glow just like everyone else's. It had just taken me twice as long that was all. Then it was shoes off to polish those. This time I kept up with everyone, and soon my shoes were shining. Back on with the shoes, back into the mess carrying the boots. Down boots, down shoes, sit on beds, start sewing. Hey! Sewing? I had never sewed in my life, though I had done a bit of knitting, but pretty soon I had my needle threaded with the red silk and I was sewing over my printed name on every article of uniform. Everything. Shirts, trousers, socks, underpants, silks, everything that could be stamped had been and we had to sew in a kind of looping movement to copy our names.

"Needle in, needle out," the idiot Petty Officer chanted, over and over again. "Needle in, needle out."

We sewed for days. If you spoke too loudly or laughed at anything, the Petty Office would swoop and crack you on the top of your head with his knuckles, lean forward and scream at you, "Needle in, needle out. Be quiet!" He cracked me on the head so many times I thought the top of my head would cave in. Even in those early days I began to fester with thoughts of revolution, of disobedience, almost overwhelmed with the desire to answer back. I had no idea where these kinds of thoughts came from, because I had never answered anyone back in my life. I was a cowardly child, servile, easily led, I had been unbelievably shy prior to learning to swim and learning to win. It was those experiences that had moved what I had of a personality along. (When I was fourteen, a girl I fancied once said that I had all the personality of a dead slug - I'm hoping it's improved a bit since then).

Sewing and polishing shoes and boots, that's what took up the first few days of my Naval career, then it was washing clothes and ironing. Of course, I had never washed my own clothes, though I had been allowed by Mam to iron a few hankies in my time. Washing clothes by hand in the wash house, in huge basins, all us boys bollocky buff, water as hot as the hands could stand, and in the centre of the room a huge bath of cold water for rinsing, or for dunking boys in. I got dunked a lot, mainly because every item washed had to be presented to the Petty Officer for his inspection and he was always shouting at me, "Clean! You call that clean? Wash it properly, boy." So it went on, hands raw from washing clothes over and over again, it was a wonder there was any material left, then once cleared by the Petty Officer into the bath of cold for a rinse. Every week we did that, then the clothes went into drying racks, and once dry they were ironed. It took me an age to learn how to iron. Everything had to have creases, of course, down the arms, across the back, down the trousers, Number 8's, but with the serge, seven creases down the length of the leg, one for each sea or so I was told. Every crease had to sharp enough to shave with (I had started shaving on my second day when the Petty Officer told me to. I told him I didn't shave, I was only fifteen, but he told me I did, so I did. He also told me I was a trouble maker for answering him back). The first week passed in a haze of red silk, shoe polish, washing powder and ironing boards. At the end of it, we had to have a mess inspection. All the beds were pulled into the middle of the room and we organised ourselves into teams to polish the wooden block floor. First were the ones who put the polish on, then the ones who took it off with brushes, then the polishers following up with cloths. Never mind about being able to shave from your reflection in shoes and boots, we could do it in the floor of the mess. Then the beds went back and the centre of the room was done. All the beds, of course, were made up, not for sleeping in, but rolled back, mattress bent double, pillow, blanket and sheet piled up neatly. Then all kit had to laid out on a towel, all laid out in a particular order, each section secured by white tape that had to lined up to give order to everything. As I stood by my bed, stiffly to attention, hands at me sides, the Petty Officer made his way up and down. When he got to Fergy he said, "Very good, boy. Very good indeed". When he got to mine he didn't say anything at all, he just walked all over my kit and told me go and wash it again. I stood all alone in the wash-house, naked, with tears streaming down my face as I washed my kit all over again. I was never going to make it as a Sailor, I thought, but not for a second did I consider going home to Mam. I didn't even consider it on the second inspection when he walked all over my clothes again, but by the third time I was expecting it and he didn't bloody do it.

Towards the end of the first week, the Petty Officer began teaching us how to march in a group. That was okay except I didn't know how to march on my own. I knew how to walk, but marching was a completely different kettle of fish. You had to swing your arms in a particular way, right arm left leg, left arm right leg, arms up to level with your shoulder. Needless to say, this small talent was beyond me. I marched with my right arm and right leg at the same time, left arm left leg. I didn't so much look like a member of an Armed Force but a drunken penguin. I wobbled and rocked, as I threw my arms up with my face screwed in concentration, but still I couldn't get it right. In my head I was thinking right arm left leg, left arm right leg, but once I moved it was just right right and left left. The Petty Office screamed at me, called me all kinds of idiot, gave me extra marching practice, which barely helped, grabbed my hands, kicked my legs, yelled until he was purple. Then, all of a sudden, without thinking about it, I bloody got it. Legs and arms in the proper order. The rest of the class cheered and laughed, and I smiled at the relief of it all. I could march.

I couldn't salute, though. Which was the next skill I discovered I didn't have. When asked to salute I ripped one off in a manner learned from all the war films I'd watched, mostly American. I kind of waved my hand around close to the side of my head, then nearly got that head blown off from the blast from the Petty Officer. He went bonkers. This time I was hundreds of kinds of idiot and moron, and and unmentionable underclass of subhuman who I hoped only existed in his own mind. A full-length mirror was produced and I had to stand it front of it until I learned to salute in a proper Naval fashion. Fingers of the right hand together and straight. From arm by the side take a long half circle up to the right eyebrow, the hand turned slightly inwards, then snap the arm down to the side. Long way up, short way down. That was the way to do it. And after a couple of hours stood in front of a mirror, that's how I did it, too.

The first week ended and I had learned millions of different skills, though I was quiet sure that none of them made me more or less of a Sailor. I certainly knew how to iron (and I would iron in that same fashion all my life; no child, wife, girlfriend or parent ever asked me to iron anything for them twice - no matter what the article, you got creases to shave with - and you still do!).

On Sunday we were allowed to walk down to the foreshore.

It was all too wonderful.