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.