Tich: The Life of a Rogue Naval Steward

By Peter L. Hamilton

A comprehensive tale of one mans journey as a Steward in the Royal New Zealand Navy. Peter Hamilton shares his exploits and exciting tales in detail as he attempts to escape his role as a servant to the Naval Officers. While a man of integrity and honour, Peter explored every avenue to end his time as a Steward. Whether legitimate or not. From one extreme to the other, Peters eight years in the Royal New Zealand Navy is nothing short of the greatest adventure of them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Mar 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493106547

Peter L. Hamilton

The Author was born in South Taranaki at a place called Hawera, on the 13th May 1939. He lived in Manaia, ten miles from Hawera, with his parents Doris and Laurie Hamilton. He went to Manaia Public School, then to Hawera Technical High School. After leaving school he took a job at the Manaia telephone exchange, until joining the Royal NZ Navy on the 20th May 1957 for eight years. These eight years were in a branch he didn’t like and he spent the next eight years trying to get out of, so he took up volunteering for anything, but a steward. He did service in Operation Grapple, Malaya, Borneo, Thai Malay border, Indonesian confrontation and Antarctic 60 south. After leaving the Navy in 1965 he took a job at the Tasman Hotel where he met Barbara, his wife to be. They were married in February 1967 but were unable to have children owing to the fact of radiation. They adopted two lovely children, a boy Russell, and a girl Chantelle He retired from the Inglewood factory and went into partnership with his son, then at the retiring age, took up writing his first book.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Joining the Navy Training at HMNZS ‘Tamaki’

Hi, my name is Peter Hamilton. I joined the Royal New Zealand Navy at the age of eighteen, on the 22nd of May 1957, for eight years.

I met Reece on the platform at Hawera Station on the 21st May 1957—he was from Hawera and I was from Manaia, and although I hadn’t met Reece before, the thing that we had in common was that we were both going to join the Navy. I had travelled from Manaia, which was ten miles away, to get to Hawera to catch the train as there was no railway station in Manaia. We boarded the train at 1030 that morning heading for Auckland, and the start of an uncharted venturesome life. We arrived into Auckland at about 0645 in the morning—neither of us had ever been to Auckland, in fact we’d never even been to New Plymouth, the city of Taranaki, so we didn’t know what to expect. This sure was an experience I can tell you; there were so many platforms one didn’t know where to go to get out of this place. We came across a Petty Officer who looked rather lost and we said to him,

We’ve come to join the Navy . . . .

His reply was, Oh my God.

We weren’t sure if that meant that he was pleased to see us, or if he was concerned about what we were likely to do to the Navy.

They transported us down to a wharf called ‘Admiralty Steps’ and onto a thing they called a boat—well I don’t know about that—it looked more like a barge with a hood to me.

Reece asked, Is this the Navy? If it is, I can’t see us sailing too far in this, can you? I’d hate to go overseas in it.

I don’t think so. Surely they must have bigger boats than this. Well I hope they do, but you never know, do you?

We rocked and rolled over the harbour to a place called Devonport and the Naval Base which was called HMNZS ‘Philomel’. We dragged our luggage up some steps, and sort of marched into the base and halted, forming three lines in front of a great hall. We were met by a bloke they called ‘Chief’ and he walked along the line until he came to me and said, What do we have here? You’d better go to see the sea cadets, they’re down the road.

But… but I’ve come to join the Navy, Sir. I spluttered.

Hell, we’ll be safe now, won’t we? Then he yelled, Alright, into the hall—all of you!

This is where we were told what the Navy was all about, and the officer who was taking us spoke so quickly that some of us didn’t catch what he was telling us. We went away still not really knowing what the Navy was all about. We were sent to the other end of the hall where it was partitioned off by a huge screen, and I was getting a bit worried at this stage, not knowing what was going on behind it. I entered and was shocked to discover doctors and wondered, what’s the Navy going to do to us now?

We were ordered to stay in line and wait, and very shortly we found out why. The doctors examined us from head to toe, and just when we thought they had finished they told us to bend over and cough. I was thinking to myself, What the hell have I got myself into?

From there I moved along further to a tiny cubicle that looked like a polling booth. This is where the eye testing was being done and I had to watch a little ball chasing along the screen, then tell the examiner which was a red light and which was a green light, to see which way it moved. When I came away my eyes were still searching for that little ball, seeing red and green, and it took a while for my eyes to focus.

I waited for what seemed forever to see if I’d passed my medical to enter the Navy. Finally a Naval Officer came in and asked three of the guys to stay behind, and the rest of us were gathered back to the other end of the hall to get ready to take the Oath of Allegiance to Queen and country. We were each issued with a small Bible which we held in our left hand, while placing our right hand over our heart. I could feel my poor old heart pounding away. All I could think about was getting this over as quickly as possible, in case the doctors wanted to come back for another go.

The Chief Petty Officer called a GI yelled,

Now you belong to the Navy, you can forget all about your Mother and Father because I am now your Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Auntie, Uncle and Granny!

He mustered us outside and made us form into three lines, marching us off to alongside the Chapel, where we were given our official numbers—mine being NZ16170. This would remain with me for life.

We then marched to the stores department, where we were issued with our kit. This comprised a kit bag into which they shoved all our uniforms, together with other clothing and boots. When they finished stuffing everything into the kit bag it was nearly as big as I was. I was also issued with a hammock and bedding and had to attempt to carry all this down to the jetty to wait for our boat, a motor launch referred to in the Navy as an ML. Once boarded we sorted ourselves out and Reece said, They do have bigger boats.

I told you they would have, so you won’t have to go overseas in that other boat we came from town in.

We headed out to sea to a place called Motuihe Island. On the Island was a Naval Base called HMNZS ‘Tamaki’. ‘Tamaki’ would be our home for the next three months, from May to August. This was the training base where we would be changed from very unfit boys to very fit men, or die doing it. The launch arrived at the jetty and we looked up at this great cliff with a small track winding up to the top. We all looked at one another, and I think everyone was thinking the same as I was: They forgot to give us ropes and crampons in our kit.

The PO with us said, Don’t look so damn worried, you don’t have to climb it, we have a road going up to the top.

We all felt much happier now and started to organize ourselves. Our first job was to get the kits up to the top of the cliff, and half a dozen of us were detailed off to do this. We found out that there was a carriage, which looked like a small railway wagon on lines, and we were able use this.

The PO said, You needn’t worry, we won’t make you carry all the kits by hand this time. So off we went, taking about six trips up and down the hill to get all the kits to the top.

We placed the kits in a large drill hall where everyone had mustered. This was where we were going to find out which dormitory we would be put into. Each dormitory in the barracks was named after a famous British Admiral, or something. The dormitory the ‘Miscellaneous Personnel’ were put into was called ‘Drake’. Now the ‘Miscellaneous Personnel’, which I was part of, were ratings that were going to be cooks, stewards, stores, sick berth attendants, and writers, if we made it through the next three months. That night we had to learn to put our hammocks together so we had somewhere to sleep.

The PO said, If you don’t get them up tonight, I’ll be putting you on a charge, I’m not staying up all night.

So learn we did, and it seemed simple enough. The small rope they called nettles was threaded through the holes at the end of the hammock, and tied in a half hitch. Then the rope at the end of the nettles, called a lanyard, was put over a bar which was attached to either end of the dormitory, and tied around and through the ping of the nettles with a knot called a sheet bend. Well, it sounded easy enough, but this was where the fun started. A lot of these trainees couldn’t tie a shoelace let alone tie a rope, and so off we go to sling our hammocks. We finally got them up, that is until we had to climb into them. To get into your hammock you had to swing from the bar and manoeuvre your body into the hammock. Well there were more blokes on the floor than in the hammocks, and when some finally got in, the rope that they thought they’d tied slipped and down they came. There was pandemonium with the PO yelling his head off and guys frantically trying to get their hammocks up again. The ones that got it right helped the others so we all could get to bed. The poor PO had a good crop of hair when we first met him, but by the time we all got to bed he was near bald.

When morning came all hell let loose because at 0530 there was this bloody racket outside the door with someone trying to blow a bugle. I got such a fright I almost messed myself, and fell out of the hammock onto the floor while trying to get out of it. Next minute the duty PO comes in yelling, Out you get. You lot have only 10 minutes to get to the bathrooms and back again or you’ll be doubling around the parade ground!

We hadn’t seen the parade ground yet, let alone doubled around it, so we took off. God, it was damn cold on the Island that time of the morning. We froze going there and froze coming back again. When we got back we were ordered to get into No8’s. I thought to myself: What the hell are these? The PO grabbed my shirt and trousers and shoved them in my face and yelled, These are No8’s, now move it!

Needless to say, we got changed in record time. The next thing was breakfast, where we had to queue up outside the dining room in the freezing cold and wait until we were ordered to go in, after which we double-marched back to our dormitory.

The second day we were taught how to splice the end of our lanyards on the hammock, and fortunately for us we all got the hang of this quite quickly, which was just as well because our PO had lost most of his hair. God knows what he would lose next. Once we got this, the next task was to learn to sew our names above the pocket of our No8 shirt with red cotton in a stitch called a sailor’s tack. One or two got stuck and we all helped one another. While we were doing the sewing I struck up a friendship with a couple of blokes called Shorty Manford and Garry Harrs. We became great mates right through our training at ‘Tamaki’. When we had finished with all the sewing and splicing and sorting out our kit, we were ready for proper training, which fell on the third day.

This was when we had to have our boots shining like a mirror so you could see your face in them, our webbing gleaming white and sharp creases in our trousers. If you didn’t the PO would be most upset, and we would be put to whatever punishment they had thought up for the day. This was the first day of divisions, and this is where we had to march and we were inspected every day for the whole three months that we would be here on this Island. We had to learn to march as good and if not better than the Queen’s Guards. If this was the case, I thought, We’re going to have to do a hell of a lot of marching to get to that stage.

Next we had to learn rifle drill and for this we had World War 1 .303s. Now, being vertically challenged, I had to struggle with a rifle that was as tall as I was. To complete this task I had to try and manoeuvre the rifle around my head onto my shoulder without hitting anybody else or dropping it. This took quite some doing and considerable practice until the rifle and I became one.

We learnt the hard way that if we didn’t do this fast enough for the PO, we were given a punishment of doubling around the parade ground 8 to 10 times with this huge rifle above your head. If we lowered it, we did it all again, so we had to develop a way to get this right. Shorty, Garry, Reece, and I used to stand near to one another and quietly call the numbers when doing the drill.

One day we got caught out, and the four of us then had to double around the parade ground with a four-inch shell above our heads for an hour for not keeping quiet in the ranks—man, was I stuffed after that! We still kept up the call, only in a whisper.

Our next adventure was to learn bayonet drill and this was a mission of its own. Our GI instructor was a chief PO called Hamilton (No relation, I’m not that evil), who was to teach us this. We were going well until the day we were practicing in the drill hall. The instructor was taking us for our usual rifle and bayonet drill, and if anyone was not doing the drill right he was the type of bloke that would grab the rifle, hit you on the head with it and shout loudly, You see—if you don’t do it properly, the rifle will bloody well hit you!

It was while we were doing bayonet drill that the incident happened. He was yelling at us to fix bayonets as fast as we could. If we were not fast enough he would make us do it all over again and again.

As I drew my bayonet out of my scabbard it whipped out of my hand and stuck in GI Hamilton’s boot, pinning him to the floor—there was silence. He had stopped yelling, and turned white as a sheet.

All I could think of to say was, Oops.

I yanked the bayonet out from his boot and proceeded to stick it back on the end of my rifle. This is when I found out what the ‘Mary Ann Squad’ was all about. He had me put on this for three days, and this entailed getting two steel buckets and doubling two miles down to the beach, filling them with wet sand and doubling back the two miles to the rugby field then tipping them out.

I had to do this until I had a very large pile of wet sand on the field, then the GI would yell, Why the hell did you put that there for? then yell, Take that bloody stuff back where you found it!

I would have to do this after I finished training for the day, which was quite often late, or on our ‘make and mend’ time, which is our day off. Well, although I got quite fit doing this, it didn’t seem to make me any bigger.

Every morning at 0530 we had to double down the two miles to the beach and push out a huge Cutter—which is a rowing boat on steroids. The Cutter sat on large round logs that you had to push until a log rolled out from under the stern, and then you would grab this log and struggle to the brow, placing it again so as this enormous great boat could run onto it.

We kept this up until we got the Cutter to the water, then the PO instructor would yell, Jump in! Now since I was only one inch away off being a dwarf, I couldn’t reach the top of the boat, let alone bloody well get in. I would be holding onto the edge while trying to get my leg over the side of the boat with it starting to move out to sea. Then the PO would grab me by the scruff of the neck and haul me in. Boy, I sure learnt fast from then on.

The first morning trying to row this beast was a disaster. We would catch a crab—this is when the oar misses the water and you go flying back off your seat, then with a scream from the PO in the stern you leap back onto your seat and get back into your stroke again.

After a couple of attempts we got quite good and would turn around and come back. This was when the shit hit the fan, because we had to row to the jetty and set anchor. The trouble was that the anchor was not attached to the rope, and the idea was that we had to attach it before we came alongside. We were however not told this for bureaucratic reasons. So someone grabbed the anchor and tossed it, not realizing that it wasn’t attached to the rope and the boat was still drifting. All we had left was the bloody rope and someone had to get the anchor back so we could stop the boat.

The PO yelled, Who can swim?

Like a clot I answered, I can.

So over the side I go and try to find the anchor, taking the end of the rope with me. It seemed to take forever, but I found the anchor and attached the rope to it, then they pulled it up. By the time I came up I was blue all over and gasping for breath. It’s a good feeling when everything comes together, and strange as it seemed to the others I really looked forward to this every morning. They already thought I was a bit odd, because I really liked all the marching as well.

By now the time was getting close for us to pass out of here and we had to be examined on all the things we had been taught from the time we first arrived in May. This included divisions and all the different ways to march.

The last thing we had to do was to go to the rifle range.

It was early August, after completing all the knot ties and divisions etc, and it was our turn to go to the rifle range today. This was right up my alley because I used to do a lot of shooting at home in Manaia and considered myself a good shot. My old uncle had told me I was a natural with a .303 rifle, so when we got to the rifle range and I found we were using .303s I thought I had it made. We also had to shoot with the Bren gun, but the .303 was my favourite. When it came to my turn I took the measly six rounds that I was given and placed them all in my magazine—apparently we were supposed to take one round at a time and put it in the breech (which is the top part of the rifle by the bolt).

The Chief GI yelled, What do you think you’re doing, lad?

I’m filling the magazine, Chief.

With that I then took aim and hit the bull’s eye with all six shots.

The GI made me do it again because he couldn’t believe that anyone from Miscellaneous Personnel could shoot.

It must have been a fluke, he said, incredulously. Stewards aren’t supposed to be able to shoot.

I placed more shells in the magazine, took aim and hit six bulls again.

A few days later I was told by the Gunnery Officer I was to go for the ‘Marksman Badge.’

While everyone else was having a rest after the passing out exams, I was up at the rifle range completing the marksman course. I passed the course, and was to be presented with the marksman badge at the passing out parade. This would help me in my naval career, although I wouldn’t know this until later on. After being presented with the marksman badge at the passing out parade, Chief GI Hamilton came up and congratulated us all.

Now we were heading for HMNZS ‘Philomel’.

CHAPTER TWO

HMNZS ‘Philomel’

We left HMNZS ‘Tamaki’ on 16th August 1957, the same way we arrived—via ‘ML’—and headed towards Devonport. As we came up the channel we saw once again the Naval Base called ‘Philomel’, only this time we have a uniform and get yelled at a lot more, as they own us now!

We came alongside the jetty but this time we didn’t have to climb those damn steps, we had to carry our kit ourselves into the main building and mustered outside the Master-at-Arms office.

I suppose this being that if we did upset anyone here, they wouldn’t have far to come and send us back on the Mary Anne Squad again, or whatever they have here. Although I think they seem to be more civilized here, I suppose first impressions could be false, you never know, do you? After a short time an Officer of some sort came and we were sorted out to where we were supposed to go.

Garry Harrs, who I had trained with at ‘Tamaki’, was going to be a Chef and was heading off to the cooking school area, so we shouted out, We’ll see you later, hopefully.

A few others and I, who were going to train as stewards, were sent to the wardroom which was for Officers. Before I came to join the Navy, some bloke who was in the Navy during the 2nd World War told me to join as a steward, because being a steward was a cushy job in the Navy. I didn’t really know what a steward in the Navy was because where I came from the only stewards I’d heard of were the ones on a race course. When they told us to go to the wardroom, I started thinking to myself, There’s no horses up there surely, because that’s where they keep the Officers. Still this was where we were told to go—so we went. The wardroom was located on top of a very big hill which we got to via a steep tarsealed drive.

Shorty said, I thought we’d left these bloody hills behind in ‘Tamaki’, but this place has just as many damn hills, and if I have to go up and down this all the bloody time, I’m going to be buggered.

This is probably the one we have to carry buckets of sand up if we do something wrong, I chuckled: Come to think of it, he’s probably right.

We picked up our kitbags and hammocks and staggered up the hill to the wardroom. When we arrived we found our instructor, a PO steward, waiting for us. Once he made sure we were all here and that no one had done a runner (mind you I felt like it), he showed us where we would be bedding down for the next three months or so.

We were billeted on the top floor, just like in the Edwardian days where the house staff resided, as far away as possible from the Master.

The PO told us he would show us around the place before we started the training. First he took us down to the dining room where there were males and wrens in white coats running around. I thought I was at a funny farm for a minute, but they were just getting ready to serve lunch to all the Officers, and there seemed to be hundreds of these people in these white coats.

The PO instructor said with a smile, This is what you will be doing some day when you have finished your training, so we had better get started so you can join them.

I thought to myself: Not bloody likely if I can help it, not if this is what a steward has to do.

So it was then I made a pact with myself that I would do anything to get out of being a steward and having to do this shit.

I said to the PO, I’m not doing this, I want a branch change.

The PO responded rather coolly, At this stage, you are unable to change your chosen branch.

I decided I’d never go for advancement if I had to stay as a steward, as I had no intention of being like this bloke, because whether you’re a leading hand or a PO you still have to chase around after Officers wiping their bums. I made a resolve that when we start training I’m not going to try very hard—I’d do the bare minimum, and if I did pass and become a steward I’d do the same.

The only good thing about being up here in the wardroom was that we slept in bunks and didn’t have to sling our hammocks up for the three months that we would be here—but I still wasn’t happy.

Shorty said to me, It looks as if we won’t have to do any divisions like we did at ‘Tamaki’.

When I thought about that I got depressed, because I used to like all that marching and I wouldn’t have to be in this hellhole of a place all the time.

The next day our training began, and the PO steward took us all into the training room and told us where to sit. We had to find our manuals on stewarding, which was a mission in itself, as we had papers and books all over the place. Some had forgotten them altogether and had to go away to get them, so this caused major delays on the first day.

I thought to myself: Why didn’t I think of that?

The PO was getting a bit ratty by this time. When the guys got back the PO began working through the book with us. It started off with why stewards are needed, something about the Officers were entitled to stewards because of their rank etc, etc, and the PO steward thought that this was the best job in the Navy. I suppose it was for him, as he never went on drafts and could go home every night. After we’d finished this session he took us up to the table that was in the training room and showed us the layout of a table, as he referred to it.

Have a good look at the layout, because when you get back, you will have to relay it.

While we were away having our morning tea the instructor removed everything off the table, and on our return he told us, Now you can set it again.

This was when the fun started, because no one could remember how the table had been set when we left. We started setting and had knives and forks from one end of the damn table to the other and none were in the right place. I thought it was funny because it looked as though I wasn’t the only one not wanting to be a steward.

The PO was not amused and he yelled a few times, Don’t you people listen? I told you to look at the table before you left.

Which part? I asked. Well, he bloody near exploded!

Shorty added, It sounds like ‘Tamaki’.

I think he was home sick for ‘Tamaki’.

We sorted all the knives and forks out and started again with the instructor showing us how to lay a table with all the fancy knives, forks and spoons. There were three forks, three knives, two spoons and God knows what else.

I asked Shorty, How many bloody arms do these buggers have?

Poor old Shorty cracked up and got into trouble once again, then we found out what they were all for. We set the table and we unset the table, we set the bugger again and again until we didn’t forget anything, or where it went.

The next day we were shown how to fold napkins. I could remember how to fold them for a baby because I used to help my Mum with my little sister—but this sure was new to me. There were fans, mitres, roses, etc, etc.

I thought: These wouldn’t fit a baby, but one thing will come of this, the Officers will have a hell of a job getting these undone by the time we’ve finished with them. We repeated this exercise all day until we got it right.

The next day we did bookwork on how to do the menus, etc, and also accounts. Later we were taught which wines went with which food and so on. The only trouble with this was we never got to try the wines, and the course would have been a bit more bearable, even enjoyable, if we were allowed a wine or three.

Every Thursday and Friday we had divisions and I looked forward to this. On Sundays we had church parade, and once a month we had to do colour guard, where we had to stand guard while the flag was hoisted. I encountered a bit of trouble with this monthly task, as on the bottom left sleeve of my uniform I had the badge of crossed rifles for marksman. When the Chief GI came along and inspected the guard he asked, What’s that on your lower sleeve, lad?

It’s a marksman’s badge, Chief.

You are not entitled to wear this, are you? he yelled, almost accusingly.

Then our Divisional Officer appeared and asked, What is the trouble Chief?

This man is not entitled to wear this badge.

The DO replied, Yes he is Chief, and if you can shoot as well as him, you can have one as well.

The GI’s face dropped, and he muttered to himself as he walked away, A bloody steward, a marksman—it’s unheard of.

So this confirmed my thinking that a steward was the lowest of the low, and no matter what he did it wouldn’t mean a bloody thing. From now on I would try to prove that I can do anything other branches can do, and even better!

We would be doing these divisions until the end of our training and this I enjoyed. But the bloody wardroom training buggered this up. We were to finish training at the end of November, if I could last that long. I thought of praying if it would help.

In the meanwhile we headed back to the wardroom. We were into the last two days of August. I had managed to stay sane for fourteen days so far. On our return to the wardroom there was a lot of rushing around by the stewards up here, so I asked the PO what all the commotion was about. He informed me that the ‘Rotoiti’ was due back and a replacement was needed for one of the stewards who had taken sick. I thought: I wonder if I could wangle my way on her? If this was true, of course.

At the beginning of September HMNZS ‘Rotoiti’ came back from its tour of duty, and on board was a steward called McNae who was seriously ill, so a replacement was needed. When the draft came out, you should have seen these ones up here in the wardroom scatter, having all the excuses under the sun you could think of to avoid being drafted. They came up with the idea that if one of us would volunteer to take the draft to the ‘Rotoiti’, the volunteer would be able to do the rest of his training on board the ‘Rotoiti’.

I thought: Anything would be better than this bloody place, so I volunteered. I was told that this would be only a temporary draft to ‘Rotoiti’, but I didn’t care, I was still over the moon.

Shorty said, You lucky bastard, getting a draft so soon and out of here.

Yes, it’s great and I wouldn’t come back here even if they offered me a million pounds or my life depended on it. I was out of here.

CHAPTER THREE

The First Ship, HMNZS ‘Rotoiti’

Christmas Island Bomb Test 1957

Here I was, about to go on my first sea draft, packing my kit bag and lashing up my hammock after it had been stowed away. Soon I was ready for the adventure ahead. At least it can’t be any worse than this, I thought, and I was sure looking forward to it. After saying my goodbyes to everyone I headed off.

The best of luck mate, we’ll see you around some time, ok? Shorty yelled.

You can bet on that. I hope you get a draft out of this place as well soon.

I was off, staggering under my load, and thought I should have been damn fit by this time after all the training I had done at ‘Tamaki’ and now at ‘Philomel’. I was finding it hard to manage the kit bag and hammock at the same time, and as I got down to the bottom of the hill heading to the dockyard, I wondered what lay in wait for me as I got nearer to my destination.

As I arrived at the quarterdeck of ‘Philomel’ I began to worry, thinking I’d better do things right just in case my favorite GI was looking to run me in. I did ‘eyes left’ because I couldn’t salute the flag while holding onto my kit bag on one shoulder and the hammock on the other. If someone saw me doing this I should be ok.

Just then a terrible thought came over me that I would have to stay here in ‘Philomel’ and have to go back to the wardroom. I made it across the quarterdeck and headed over towards the dry dock. I had to stop for a breather, and was wondering how far the ship was from here. This bloody kit bag and hammock are getting heavier every minute. Move on fast, I thought, I’m not out of the claws of ‘Philomel’ just yet.

I carried on looking around as I went and came across these big green sheds I used to see from that place on the hill. I’d always wondered what they were used for and thought, Now’s my chance to see, so I peered into one. Not as exciting as I thought it would be, it was full of engineering equipment and dockyard personnel. I had another wee rest, thinking: What time am I supposed to be on the ship? I had a bit of a panic turn just then because I didn’t want to be sent back, and decided I’d better get my arse into gear. As I was about to pick up my kit bag and hammock, another matelot came along and asked, Going on draft are you?

Yes I am, it’s my first sea draft.

What ship?

Rotoiti, I said, with my chest (for want of a better word) stuck out.

I’m on her too, he said. Here, give me your kit. By the looks of it I doubt if you’ll make it to the ship.

Thanks, it’s bloody heavy and my knees seem to be buckling under it. And off we go heading for my first ship.

She’s in bit of a mess at the moment. What branch are you in?

Steward. I replied very softly, hoping he didn’t hear me.

Oh yeah, he said. You’ll be alright on this ship, everyone is treated the same.

Well now, I thought, this theory of mine that stewards have to prove themselves to everyone, might be up the shit—that’s if he’s right.

He told me that they were heading back to ‘Operation Grapple’, and that the ship was in getting ready for this.

You’ll find it a bit different on board a ship than in the barracks, he offered. There’s always something to do, not like on shore draft where you have to keep out of the Officers’ or the Chief GI’s way.

I haven’t finished my training and I’m certainly glad to get out of that place, that’s for sure.

They must have a lot of faith in you because usually they make you do time on shore before you’re allowed to go to sea.

This was a crash draft, I explained, To take over for the one that came off sick. Otherwise I might not have got this draft.

Oh—are you taking over from McNae?

That’s right, I think that’s his name.

He was very crook, so I hear. he said.

As we got nearer the ship I could see what he meant when he said that the ship was in a bit of a mess, but she still looked good to me. When I arrived at the bottom of the brow, I saw an Officer at the top of the gangway who seemed to be looking down at me, so I said, Permission to come aboard, Sir? trying to make out that I knew everything about ships and procedures and that I had been on lots of ships.

He looked impressed and replied, Granted.

I then climbed up the gangway and onto my first sea draft. Although it may be temporary, I’m here and it’s a sea draft.

I stood to attention and saluted, then said in a loud voice, trying to make out I was six feet tall, Steward Hamilton reporting for duty, Sir!

Good, you must be our relief steward, carry on. He turned to the PO who was standing on the brow and said, See Hamilton is shown to the stewards’ mess, will you PO?

The PO stood and looked at me for a minute and said to the Officer, I thought he was a sea scout coming to look at the ship, Sir. Are you sure he’s for us?

The Officer gave a bit of a grin and said, Carry on PO.

The PO ordered one of the guys on deck to show me where I was to go, and just as I was leaving the PO shouted back, Are you sure you’re not a sea scout, Tich? You can own up now, you’ve been on a ship.

I replied rather indignantly, No, PO, I’m a real sailor.

The seaman said to me, Come on Tich, I’ll show you the way. The PO is only jealous he’s not small.

Now I had a nickname that would be with me for the rest of my life, so I suppose it’s a start of proper navy life. I don’t care what they call me as long as they don’t call me back to that bloody wardroom in ‘Philomel’. Having a nickname made me feel like one of the crew. That bloke that helped me with my kit was right—they do treat everyone the same on this ship.

We headed through the screen door to go down the hatch that took me to the wardroom pantry, and on through another screen door into the stewards’ mess. There were a couple of guys sitting in the mess, so I introduced myself.

One of them was the LSBA, (meaning the leading sick berth attendant) who said, My name’s Doc Barns. He was a Yorkshireman and a bit hard to understand, although I felt sure I’d come to understand him in time. Doc showed me which locker was going to be mine and which hook I was to hang my hammock on. The other person in the mess was the leading cook named Harry.

When did you finish your training? he asked.

I’ve only done fourteen days so far. I replied.

After stowing my kit away in my locker and placing my hammock in the hammock bin, the leading steward came in. I was greeted with Darling, you must be the one relieving Colin McNae. My name is Patricia.

I thought: Shit, what the bloody hell have I struck here? Having never heard such a high-pitched voice on a man before (or was it a man for that matter?)

He said, I’m the leading steward here. Pat for short, but you can call me Mother.

My name is Peter Hamilton, Tich for short, I replied.

Oh yes ducky, you are a small one, aren’t you?

I thought: I only hope they’re not all like this here—or are they?

Then another steward came in and said in a normal voice, You must be the new steward.

With relief I said, Yes, I’m the one. Tich is the name.

Good, I’m Slinger Wood.

He was a cockney from somewhere in London and I was finding it hard to understand him, just like Doc, but I dare say I will get to understand him in time. If not I can always use sign language. He seemed to be a bit of a hard case, so I knew I would get on well with him. The other steward came in and said, Yeah, gidday, you the new bloke? I’m Aussie Dawson, pleased to meet you.

I’m Tich Hamilton. I replied.

This one was normal as well, so we have three stewards and Mother, one L/SBA, one L/Cook, two other cooks and a writer in our little mess. It was quite full and we had to call the leading steward Mother, to keep him happy—so we did just that. There were eight Officers on board plus the Captain.

The leading steward looked after the Captain—the Captain could have him for all I cared; the rest of us looked after the wardroom and the cabins. My job was looking after the top cabins at this time, but according to Mother I could get a job change later. With this in mind I just carried on with these cabins for now.

We would be heading to the British megaton trials, so I was informed by Aussie. This was going to take place in about October, so this gave me time to do the rest of my training. Mother just stuck me in a watch, and this was the way I learnt, so by the time we came around to set sail I was fully qualified. This was going to be my first trip to the megaton trials, the others had been before. I had heard something about this, apparently they drop an atomic bomb from a plane onto an Island called Christmas Island. I thought: With my luck they’ll drop it on our ship, and bang goes