Naval Aviator: The Memoir of a Royal Navy Officer and Operational Westland Wasp and Lynx Pilot

By Chris Taylor

Chris Taylor has had a very successful career as a Royal Navy officer, helicopter pilot, test pilot and instructor. His first book, Test Pilot, concentrates on anecdotes and incidents from the most recent phase of his career. His second book, Experimental Test Pilot, is an account of his ten years’ service as an experimental test pilot, from 1994 until 2004, at MoD Boscombe Down, the UK’s tri-Service home of military aircraft testing and evaluation.

Written in the same humorous manner as his previous books, Naval Aviator explains why Chris wanted to become a pilot and how he achieved that through the Royal Navy and Fleet Air Arm. Following the, perhaps misleading, advice of his local careers office, Chris joined the Royal Navy on a University Cadetship which required him to serve initially as a watchkeeping and navigation officer before he could sub-specialise as a Westland Wasp and subsequently a Westland Lynx pilot. This book covers each appointment or ship that Chris served in, and provides a ‘no holds barred’ account of the many life-threatening and stressful situations he faced, not least working with, and for, some unhelpful if not outright unreasonable colleagues.

The operating environment of a small ship’s flight is graphically described, including flying in extremely poor weather conditions and high sea states in order to ‘get the job done’. His ditching of a Wasp during training and then damaging his helicopter at sea is fully documented. In addition to numerous close calls as an aviator, Chris is unusual in being involved in four major collisions at sea. For one of these collisions he was the officer responsible for conning or ‘driving’ the ship and, despite his best efforts, his ship rammed a German Frigate in thick fog in the Baltic. Serving on a Hong Kong Patrol boat he had numerous encounters with armed Chinese patrol boats and soldiers; as a Fishery Protection Officer he was attacked with an acetylene blow torch and kidnapped by a French trawler; as a Wasp pilot he almost singlehandedly had to protect the Royal Yacht from the threat of Libyan gunboats; as a Lynx pilot he won the day in numerous major international exercises around the world and served for a month on detachment to a Dutch frigate.

All of these accidents, incidents and adventures are fully described set alongside the challenges of trying to maintain a normal domestic life. Naval Aviator accurately captures the ups and downs of life as a Royal Navy Officer and Fleet Air Arm pilot of the Cold War and will be a good read for anyone interested in naval or aviation history. It is also an ideal book for aviators, aspiring aviators, service veterans and anyone who is considering such a career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen and Sword
• Release date: Nov 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781399059787

Chris Taylor

From an early age, Chris devoured romance books. After graduating University as a lawyer and working nearly fifteen years in the legal industry, her thirst for criminal intrigue was well and truly whetted. She's managed to successfully combine the two in her gritty, fast-paced Australian romantic suspense novels.Chris has authored more than thirty books and still writing! Her hugely popular Munro Family Series has been downloaded more than half a million times. She has also written the Sydney Harbour Hospital Series and the Sydney Legal Series, calling on her past experience as a nurse and lawyer.Chris is married to Linden and together with their five children live on a small farm in rural New South Wales, Australia.

Book preview

Introduction

My dad laughed. I mean he really laughed out loud. He was reading the Royal Navy recruitment brochure I had just handed him.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘What is the most important requirement for a modern Royal Navy Officer?’ he read.

‘First and foremost a love of the sea.’

‘But you don’t like the sea!’

Now this was true then and remains true now. On beach holidays I could cope with digging in the sand and building massive sandcastles, but I had no great love of entering the icy cold waters around Anglesey where we used to take our annual summer holidays. We would journey from our home near Ramsbottom, Lancashire to Aberfrau in the early hours of the morning to beat the traffic in our Austin A40, Singer Gazelle, or latterly, Sunbeam Rapier. And while these holidays confirmed my dislike for cold salty water I did enjoy sailing wooden yacht models in the various pools and more importantly loved watching the Gnat trainers, Lightning fighters and Whirlwind helicopters fly overhead on their return to the training airfield of RAF Valley. My dad shared my love of aircraft. Shortly after the Second World War broke out he visited a Royal Air Force recruiting office in the hope of becoming a pilot. He was already working as a clerk and it turns out that most of the RAF’s clerks were medically unfit for service overseas and so, reluctantly and temporarily, my dad agreed to sign on as a clerk.

My dad found himself as clerk to 222 Squadron until 1943 when he transferred to 65 Squadron. Both were fighter squadrons with illustrious pedigrees. 222 Squadron flew Spitfires throughout the war and had been home to the likes of Douglas Bader during the Battle of Britain. 65 Squadron was equipped with Mustang III and then Mustang IV aircraft and operated from dirt strips immediately behind the front line in France and Belgium once the D-Day bridgehead had been established. All of my dad’s mates were pilots, but it was he who had to write the letters back home to mothers, girlfriends and wives when they failed to return from various sorties. He almost certainly had PTSD during the war and spent a few months in hospital between postings. After the war he retained a volatile temper and had to delay marrying my mum due to being ‘too stressed’ in the days leading up to the wedding. That said, he was a very supportive father and encouraged my interest in flying. He helped me fly balsa wood aeroplanes and enjoyed my hobby of making Airfix kits. We would paint them together and he would then hang them from my bedroom ceiling with drawing pins and cotton thread.

And so it was that I had come to yearn to be a pilot when I grew up. My classroom, when I was ten years old, had a mini library which included all the books written by W.E Johns about a fictional character known as James Bigglesworth – aka Biggles. By the time I had completed my year in that form I had read them all and had determined that flying Sopwith Camels in the Royal Flying Corps would be an extremely rewarding career for a young chap like myself. At the age of sixteen I was asked about my aspirations by my careers teacher. By then I had realised the world had moved on and the RFC no longer existed and so I responded that I wanted to join the RAF as a fighter pilot. He promptly phoned them to see if there were any opportunities for me to visit an RAF station or similar but received an entirely disinterested response. By then I had started to become more aware of the activities of the Royal Navy. A few months earlier a new drama had aired on the BBC – Warship. Each week we were amazed by the adventures of HMS Hero, a state of the art Leander Class frigate which operated a Westland Wasp HAS1 helicopter – and frankly it all looked rather exciting, solving tense challenges worldwide with rapid simplistic diplomacy backed up by twin 4.5 inch guns and a missile armed helicopter. So, with this in mind, after the RAF had turned me down, I asked if the Fleet Air Arm would allow me to visit.

What a good request.

Weeks later I found myself at Royal Naval Air Station Culdrose (HMS Seahawk), near Helston in Cornwall, for ten days. Every day the Royal Navy flew me in a different kind of aircraft and, even more importantly, every evening I was entertained in the wardroom with a free bar bill and no questions asked about my age.

Now we were talking. So for the price of a few lagers the RN had my attention. I was a member of our school’s Combined Cadet Force (CCF). With hindsight I now wonder whether I might have spent my Friday afternoons better, as the alternative to square bashing was to attend a typing course at the local Technical College which was also frequented by numerous charming young ladies. Since our CCF was ‘Army’ I was allowed to apply for both an RAF and an RN Flying Scholarship. Suffice to say the RN awarded me a scholarship and the RAF didn’t. Despite being constantly rebuffed I continued to apply to the RAF which I did again in my final year at school in the hope of being awarded a University Cadetship. On completion of all the aptitude tests and team building leadership evaluations I was invited to a final debrief.

‘Well done Taylor! The RAF is going to award you a University Cadetship …’

‘Great!’

‘… as an Air Engineering Officer.’

‘What?’

‘Yes – we would like to offer you a university cadetship as you are about to start your Electrical Engineering degree course …’

‘But I applied to be a pilot?’

‘Ah, sorry, no cadetships for pilots right now … how about Navigator?’

I had been warned that I might be offered this alternative. Perhaps, not surprisingly, pilots were easier to recruit than Navigators – or weapon system operators as they became known.

‘I’m sorry sir, I desperately want to be a pilot so I’m afraid I must turn down your very kind offer.’

‘In which case you will now have to wait three years and apply for graduate entry.’

So not a good outcome. I was further thwarted when, having arrived at university, I applied to join the University Air Squadron so I could learn how to fly Bulldogs. With hindsight I was entirely to blame for my failing this particular interview by the Commanding Officer of the squadron.

‘So Taylor, I understand you want to fly RAF fast jets?’

‘Or Royal Navy helicopters,’ I replied without hesitation. Who knew there was so much rivalry between the junior and senior service?

As I will describe later, all of this led me to apply for an RN University Cadetship, which I was duly awarded, and my basic training commenced during my first summer vacation.

Although it turned out I was a square peg bashed into a round hole I was to serve twenty-two years in the RN and ironically, after leaving, finally joined the RAF Reserves in order to fly air cadets around. I rose to the dizzy rank of flight lieutenant and they awarded me my only medal.

This book is the third in a trilogy of books about my aviation career. ‘Test Pilot’ is a collection of humorous anecdotes and stories from my twenty years as a civilian test pilot. ‘Experimental Test Pilot’ is the prequel and narrates the saga of my wish to become a test pilot leading to a decade at Boscombe Down conducting some fascinating research and development flying followed by seven years as a tutor at the Empire Test Pilots’ School teaching others to be test pilots and flight test engineers. The real rationale behind writing these books is to ensure that my grandchildren will have some inkling as to what I did, if for any reason I’m not around or unable to tell them myself. My dad used to tell us some incredible stories about his time in the RAF, including being ordered to shoot down an ME109 that was strafing their temporary airfield with nothing but a Lee Enfield rifle, or driving his pilot mates into the liberated city of Brussels … only to find when they were driving home, three sheets to the wind, German soldiers standing on street corners because the place hadn’t been totally liberated yet! After his stroke, which you will read about later in the book, he was unable to speak and his stories were lost to us forever.

So this book aspires to tell my story prior to being an Experimental Test Pilot; of wanting to become a pilot … deciding to become a Navy Pilot … joining the RN … jumping through the required hoops … becoming a qualified seaman officer … becoming an operational Westland Wasp and Lynx pilot and finally convincing the RN of my passion to remain as a specialist Naval Aviator rather than diversify with a slim hope of becoming an admiral. I have written a chapter or so about each ship I served in. The book is loosely chronological, but I have occasionally grouped stories together out of sequence in order to make the book easier to read. Additionally, I have not sought to bore you, the reader, with a massive amount of detail about my formative years or the nitty gritty of basic training, which inevitably would be a similar narrative to so many other pilot memoirs. My book finishes before my other books pick up and I hope you will be interested in my story enough to read them if you haven’t already.

The reason my first book recounts my most recent chapter in my aviation career was that my memories were relatively fresh, I have lots of pictures of all the aircraft test flown in that period and invariably I had written some form of flight test report following the test flight/s which served as a good memory jogger. For ‘Experimental Test Pilot’ I had only my Flying Logbook which helped but meant much of my story is now forgotten – literally. The story in this book starts some five decades ago and I was concerned that my ageing grey matter was not up to the task. However, in addition to my logbook I have had access to my Squadron Record Books – which as a small ship flight commander I would write up diligently every month. It has been a rather strange experience re-reading my witty quips many years later. I have visited the National Archives and read the ships’ logs of all the ships I served on which proved to be helpful but remarkably frustrating. Some of my most exciting and dangerous stories get next to no mention in a book whose purpose seems to have been simply to record the course and position of the ship at any one time. Finally, I have sought out old friends and colleagues which has been a lot of fun, but the jewel in the crown has been my letters to my wife, Ally. Not only did I write letters very often from the moment we first met, but amazingly she has kept them all. Although these letters are mostly of me trying to persuade her of my amorous affections – being the sad test pilot kind of bloke I am they still contain a wealth of detail about what we were doing at the time and, more importantly, what I was feeling. It has surprised me that my recollections of situations has become somewhat ‘rose tinted’ over the years and although I am, and will always be, eternally grateful for my Fleet Air Arm roots there were clearly frequent lengthy periods when, in fact, I was actually quite distraught. However, much of my frustration was driven by the officer career structures then in place which have now changed quite dramatically and for the better.

While this book will hopefully be an interesting read and should capture much of the adventure to be had in a modern navy I have not shirked from presenting the flip side. Trying to maintain any kind of conventional life when at sea for weeks or months on end is incredibly challenging. As a bachelor I was relying on ‘snail mail’ to sort out problems with my house or my car and then later I was desperately trying to maintain the role of husband when never around. This was, and I’m sure still is, difficult … although I’m confident mobile phones, laptops and email have thankfully improved upon paper or telegrams.

The other aspect of life at sea in the services I have debated how to handle, but in the end concluded to make this account an honest comprehensive narrative of my experiences. In any occupation or walk of life our working day can be made both delightful or made miserable by those around us, especially our line managers or bosses. My final period at Boscombe Down was difficult but at least I went home to my family and a glass or two of wine every evening to blow off steam. In a Royal Navy warship this is a luxury denied the entire ship’s company. We are, for good or ill, all locked together in a small tin box 24/7. This creates a powerful emotional and professional bond between us which is a positive, but we can find ourselves in a corrosive environment where personal and collective morale can easily slump to rock bottom. I have elected to be open and candid and hopefully present a balanced view about such situations. In my previous books I have shied away from using any surnames but in this book have mostly included them where appropriate. In my experience my colleagues would tend to fall into three groups. Blokes who I can hardly remember which means we got along OK, top blokes who became mates or people I could look up to and aspire to be like, and finally the ‘knobs’. I encountered a number of knobs. In fairness I think most of us can be accused of knobish behaviour every now and again. Researching this book I have been advised that I have been guilty of such a crime. But one of the captains I encountered almost seemed to go out of his way to make my life really quite intolerable. You will not find his real name in this book – not because I wish to let him off the hook, but more in case this book is ever read by his children or grandchildren and, frankly, I would hate to damage reputations within a family whatever my personal opinions, and ultimately I am expressing only that – my personal opinions and recollections. Although I have done my best to fact check my memories this book does not pertain to be a historical record in any shape or form. It is simply a collection of my personal anecdotes and stories. I hope these will be entertaining and give just a glimpse into life at sea as a Fleet Air Arm pilot.

Finally, in this introduction, I should personally thank wholeheartedly Jerry Greenop, Joe Harper, Bob Nadin, Nick Horst, Gary Hunt, Gary Doyle, Dave Cockayne and Ralph Dodds who, somewhere along the way, drew short straws and had to fly with me. I’d like to think that I mostly did my bit in the cockpit as a ‘team-player’ which allowed us to work together to operate from a whole variety of ships, in all possible weathers, safely – but I know that at some stage or another all of them saved my bacon by pointing out a crucial piece of information that I had overlooked – quite often the low height warning on the radio altimeter. Thank you.

Photographs

Most of the photographs are from my own collection invariably taken by the Nikon camera I bought when I was in Hong Kong. There are a couple from Tony Turpin (hovercraft incident) and there are many that were taken by me or my Observer/Aircrewman which are technically MOD but no longer on their database and were scanned from personally owned prints. A few additional photos have had their copyright annotated.

Chapter 1

HMS Monkton

As my RAF VC10 aeroplane landed at Kai Tak airport, Hong Kong, after a very aggressive right turn at Chequer Board Hill, I reflected on the last twelve months which, by any account, had been crammed with life changing events.

My mum, Betty, at the age of just forty-nine finally lost out to bowel cancer, from which she had suffered for a number of years. My car tried to kill me as I drove home from the hospice as the bonnet flew up at over 70mph. I nearly failed my degree. I completed my basic training and passed out from Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth. Oh … and I had lost my virginity to an admiral’s daughter – which frankly was, without doubt, the most pleasurable event of 1979.

Unwisely with hindsight, we three Taylor menfolk had reached the conclusion that Christmas at home without mum would be unbearable. My dad had, in haste, booked us to spend Christmas at a hotel in Majorca catering almost entirely for German holiday makers. The guests were German, the food was German and the entertainment – if it could be so described – was in German. Who knew that Spanish humour translated into German was really not funny at all. The real clincher was that our happy threesome band found ourselves sharing a table for all our meals with Willy, the Messerschmitt pilot. For my dad, who had probably been trying to shoot him down with his rifle only a few years previously, this was the height of embuggerance and meals were spent with him constantly telling his numerous war stories – very loudly.

HMS Monkton.

So, as the wheels of my VC10 touched down on the tarmac of Hong Kong’s International Airport I literally breathed a sigh of relief that this last twelve months had come to an end and an entirely new chapter was beginning. Although I had joined the Royal Navy to be a pilot, I now found myself commencing my service by learning how to be an Officer of the Watch and navigation officer. In the last few weeks of my term at Dartmouth we had been advised of the ships available for us to complete our initial six months ‘fleet training’. Personally, I had no wish to delay commencement of my flying training but the system demanded I did and so I determined to make the best of it. I had spotted the option to split my time between two ships with the first couple of months in Hong Kong. I awaited the outcome of my bid with trepidation as I had no great desire to spend my whole six months on a frigate.

‘Hurrah!’

Clearly my encounter with the admiral’s daughter was not the only good luck I was to enjoy this year. My dad was enormously pleased because a former colleague and good friend of his, Tom, now lived and worked in Hong Kong and he set about writing letters to ensure I would have a warm welcome.

Bussed to HMS Tamar, the Royal Navy’s permanent base on Hong Kong Island, I was immediately blown away by the colourful, busy and vibrant city all around me. The base itself had started life as Wellington Barracks, which sat adjacent to the harbour known as Victoria Basin. Just a couple of years before my arrival a distinctive ‘state of the art’ tower block, the Prince of Wales Building, had been built by the basin and formed the accommodation block where another junior officer and I were allocated a shared ‘cabin’ overlooking the harbour. The view from that room at night took my breath away. I was able to look out across the basin and harbour with a myriad of brightly coloured lights visible as far as the eye could see. Welcome to Hong Kong – time for a Tiger Beer.

My ship, HMS Monkton, was still on patrol on my first full day so chance to do some exploring. Heading right out of the main gate, almost immediately, my eyes fell upon a bright red and yellow logo. I went to investigate this modern diner and ordered the first item on the display above scores of locals serving fast food. With hindsight I was still incredibly naïve and unaware of much of what was going on in the world. An upbringing in Lancashire by two parents who taught at junior schools, followed by three years at a recently promoted Technical College in central Birmingham, had done very little to broaden my horizons, particularly when it came to food. I now found myself staring at a ‘Big Mac’ in a polystyrene container surrounded by chips that bore no relation to the soggy greasy slices of potato that went by that name back in Lancashire. And I loved it. You would have thought my first culinary adventure in such an exotic place would have been some amazing Chinese delicacy. Instead, this still wet behind the ears northern lad was gobsmacked by a McDonald’s. In fact, I was so delighted by my discovery that it was the only place I ate lunch for the next few days.

The following day I joined HMS Monkton as it arrived in Victoria Basin from patrol. Everyone was in a great rush to chat to me. It turns out that, after a few days on patrol, most of the ship’s company would immediately head for home once the ship was secured. I was almost crushed in the rush down the gangway as I tried to make my way in the opposite direction. The Captain, Tony Chilton, seemed pleasant enough and introduced me to the wardroom. The XO (First Lieutenant, Executive Officer) seemed a bit snooty, David Barraclough, the Navigator, welcomed me warmly. He had been a Chief Petty Officer electrician and weapons expert before becoming a Special Duties List Officer. He was all of just thirty-five at the time but he immediately became a paternal go-to guy for advice. Finally, there was the ship’s young smoothie – Phil Scott. He was the ship’s CORRO or correspondence officer. Within minutes of being onboard I was aware of a good number of quiet conversations going on in the background and the wardroom were all looking at the Captain to make a decision or some form of announcement. It appears my informal interview, that I wasn’t aware I was having, had gone very well. Phil was a competent tennis player – in addition to being quite ‘a player’ (allegedly) and he had a crucial tennis tournament coming up in a couple of months. Having to go out on patrol every week to do his ‘day job’ was getting in the way of his rigorous daily training regime and he had floated the idea that I be allowed to fill in for him. Apparently already being a sub lieutenant who could latch on to ideas fairly quickly and drink copious amounts of Tiger, was all the accreditation required. And the Captain, he say YES.

This was a win-win. Tony only had four weeks left in post so was probably RDP (that is he had started losing interest in the job and was in his ‘run down period’). Phil would be out every night chatting up all the local talent BUT I would get his bunk which was located in the ship’s office all to myself. And, as I discovered as soon as we sailed, I would be treated as a complement watchkeeping officer from the first minute we departed for our first patrol. This suited me down to the ground. I was keen to get on and nail being a watchkeeper and waste no time in getting my flying training started.

It was time to get in touch with Tom Briggs and his family. A phone call later and I was heading round to their plush apartment for dinner. All the ex-pats enjoyed a relatively luxurious lifestyle it seemed to me. Reasonably well paid, with low taxes, affording ‘home-help’ was easy and frankly deemed essential – otherwise how would a family find the time to enjoy their boat or visits to the Jockey Club? Tom and Kate greeted me incredibly warmly considering I had been an infant the last time we met. We had a great supper and put the world to rights and the following day Tom elected to take a day off work and drive me around the new territories in his Morris Marina car. This was the first time one tried to kill me. We had enjoyed a great day touring around Kowloon and ended up in the new territories which were as close to being off the beaten track as Hong Kong ever allowed. We had a long downhill descent on a very warm afternoon and Tom had been gently braking for some time. His car had the same brakes as the Morris Minor (my brother owned one). They were not designed to go that fast and certainly were not designed to stop well. As we hurtled ever faster towards the main road junction that lay ahead of us Tom’s calm demeanour was replaced with, ‘Bloody Hell, the brakes have gone!’

I had geared up for a life of danger on the ocean wave but now suddenly I was a character in a black and white Hitchcock movie hurtling downhill in some sedan or other. I mean, whoever says ‘the brakes have gone’ apart from characters in movies? My very brief life, with little of note to report, flashed in front of me. Thankfully Tom hadn’t quite given up and was pumping the brake pedal for all he was worth. The brake fluid was almost certainly boiling and no longer the incompressible fluid it needed to be, but by aggressively pumping the pedal the car slowed and, with a swerve onto some rough ground before we impacted the traffic ahead, the crisis was averted. I think Tom felt pretty guilty. Nearly killing his mate’s son ensured I was in the company of a very generous host for the next two months.

The following day I enjoyed an early stroll, on a beautiful sunny morning, from the wardroom accommodation to join the other ‘commuters’ arriving at HMS Monkton. I joined the team on the bridge. I was about to become the Special Sea Duty Officer of the Watch – I was on what I would come to know as a ‘steep learning curve’ but I watched the orderly commotion around me and absorbed it all readily. Thankfully my mentor, Dave, was at my side explaining the process. First up, the Captain told the XO to prepare to depart and ‘single up’ which meant the ropes holding us in place were reduced to a single rope fore and aft or front and back. The order was given to start both engines. These engines would become quite a feature of my time in Monkton. The ship was powered by two Napier Deltic diesel engines. These engines were a marvel of the technology of the time. Built of aluminium (to keep the magnetic signature minimal to avoid triggering mines) they were constructed in a triangular form with three banks of six cylinders all working harmoniously together to produce 3,000 shaft horsepower at what seemed a dizzyingly fast 2,000rpm. The engines were sometimes reluctant to start but when they ‘lit up’ it was always with a whoosh of smoke and noise. With both engines running, the Ton Class could rattle along at 15kts but would patrol normally on a single engine to save fuel.

With the engines started we commenced our ‘slip and proceed’ with the lines all taken on board and using the two propeller screws in opposition to pivot away from the harbour wall, we could slide gracefully out of the basin directly into perhaps the busiest waterway in the world. Adjacent to HMS Tamar was the main base for the Starr Ferry company which had by then been plying its trade for over ninety years, connecting Victoria Harbour directly to Tsim Sha Tsui, on the Kowloon waterfront. It should be explained that the original territory acquired by the British Empire was Hong Kong Island which was ceded from the Qing Empire in 1841. Two decades later the Kowloon Peninsula was added to the British Empire. The RN base at HMS Tamar was on Hong Kong Island directly across the water from Kowloon. This waterway was constantly being criss-crossed by literally hundreds of junks, sampans and ferries almost continually. The ‘New Territories’ I have already mentioned were acquired on a ninety-nine year lease in 1898 which effectively forced Hong Kong in its entirety to be transferred to China in 1997 with the associated troubles we have seen on our news channels in recent years.

The assault on my senses was mind blowing. This was the Royal Navy of the Empire. We cranked up to our 15kts as scurrying traffic of all kinds moved out of our way. We were of course on the Queen’s business. The main island of Honk Kong was surrounded by numerous further islands almost too many to count, with Lantau being by far the biggest. The main mission for today was apparently to take me to the ship’s favourite island known then as South Gau … it had a good anchorage and even more importantly a good restaurant. By the end of my two months I had become very adept at running into anchorages close to shore with zero preparation, which was a far cry from my first attempt at an anchorage during my navigation training where, having incorrectly identified a navigation light, I nearly drove the frigate up a beach.

The restaurant was of course a fish restaurant. I have never been a great fan of fish and remain paranoid about getting bones stuck in my throat after suffering this fate during my stay in Hong Kong and nearly choking to death. For this particular occasion it was all about initiating the new boy into the fold and I was offered the local delicacy of whole fish eyes which seemed to stare at me as if defying me to eat them. I was told the local custom was to eat them whole. There isn’t much quite as unpleasant as trying to swallow a slightly soft marble sized eyeball. The experience was not helped when the whole of the ships’ company burst out laughing as the eyes were not normally eaten at all and I’d been a victim of a regularly practised prank.

We returned to the ship in our Gemini and Sea Rider (our two rubber boats used for boarding other ships and boats in addition to going for lunch).

The afternoon was spent doing what I would come to know as ‘Officer of the Watch Manoeuvres’. I was required to take control of the ship and then various challenges would be thrown at me including the obligatory ‘man overboard exercise’. In time I became very tired of such tasks but back then it was huge fun to wind the ship up to its full speed and exercise what was known as a Williamson Turn which allowed the ship to return on the reciprocal heading along the same track in the hope of spotting our unlucky sailor who had fallen in – usually replicated by a buoy or other floating facsimile. The aim was to manoeuvre the ship, without delay, alongside the ‘survivor’ while creating a break from the wind so that the floating body could be collected easily – often by a grappling hook for such exercises. We did these evolutions often, along with frequently meeting up with our brethren so we could organise to tow each other or pretend to engage each other with our Bofors guns. After sunset our attention turned to our primary raison d’étre. Hong Kong was a very prosperous place to live, with lots of work in the construction industry, and tower blocks were still being built on every spare scrap of available land. In China the standard of living for thousands was very poor in comparison. If such peasants could get into Hong Kong they would fairly swiftly be issued papers, find work and suddenly enjoy a much better life. Along with the Maritime Police (Marpol) it was our job to patrol the waters around Hong Kong and prevent illegal immigrants, or IIs as they were known colloquially, completing usually very dangerous waterborne journeys. So we would be allocated an area and sail on a search pattern with our 1006 radar and usually calm seas providing an ideal combination for detecting small boats. Having had two or three days at sea patrolling, with me pulling my weight fully by manning the bridge for every second or third watch, we headed back to Victoria Basin to be relieved by one of the other five patrol boats. I had enjoyed a thrilling first patrol but was glad to be getting alongside.

Me wearing a local Chinese hat with my uniform which was normal practice at the time.

When I had visited Tom and Kate previously their 16-year-old daughter, Alison, had been out for the evening. I was invited around again in order to meet her and ‘babysit’ as Tom and Kate would be going out. I confess I had expected a dull time, but Alison turned out to be mature well beyond her years, was an entertaining conversationalist … and was indecently pretty. Our conversation included movies we had seen and wanted to see and she let slip that she was mad keen to see ‘Gone with the Wind’ which was showing at the local cinema. She had no desire to go alone and I found I was unable to say no to a girl with such cute blue eyes. We had a great time and thereafter I particularly enjoyed taking her to some of the very exclusive posh grown-up hotels, clubs and bars that being a Royal Navy Officer allowed privileged access to. The notion of her being able to tell her rather snooty and unfriendly school mates where she had been out at the weekend was, I confess, a hoot.

Life on-board HMS Monkton continued apace. Next up was an Operational Readiness Inspection where we had to sail pretending to be at war. Over the next few years I would repeat this same kind of evolution scores of times in all the ships I served in, but then it was still novel. As soon as we were clear of the busy shipping of the harbour we were ‘attacked’ by HMS Scimitar. In addition to two Foden diesel engines the ‘Fast Training Craft’ was fitted with two Bristol Siddeley ‘Proteus’ gas turbine engines which propelled the boat along at an impressive 40+kts. It really was quite a sight skimming the water surrounded by white spray as we attempted to ‘engage’ with our two 40/60 Bofors guns. Unlike regular Ton Class Minesweepers with a single gun up front we were fitted with a second gun behind the funnel. So on sighting the enemy we promptly turned beam on to the ‘bad-guys’ and engaged by firing ‘break up shot’. This ammunition was effectively a blank round. Nothing emerged from the gun barrel but white powder, so was entirely harmless unless you were standing within a few yards of the gun. It made a lot of noise and created a sense of realism which got the adrenalin flowing for someone as inexperienced as me. HMS Scimitar was actually unarmed, apart from a couple of General Purpose Machine Guns (GPMGs). She was one of three such boats commissioned less than ten years earlier and sadly was to be paid off only two years later. Her primary role was to help train conventional warships in the art of defeating such very fast aggressors. HMS Scimitar was used extensively around Hong Kong where her speed and the usually calm seas allowed her to dash around the islands very efficiently.

Anyway – we had just successfully ‘sunk’ her apparently so were then able to get on with our next evolution of dealing with jammed steering, followed by assuming our captain and XO were dead.

HMS Scimitar Fast Training Craft with Tug Clare in the background.

Hurrah!

Once we had revived them with some incantation or other we all had a chance to fire our various small arms. I needed to become more proficient with the 9mm pistol that I was soon to be wearing when I was invited to board potentially hostile ships, boats and junks, so I made sure I had a chance to unload two magazines into an innocent gash (rubbish)