The Sailor Who Never Went to Sea

By Brian Byrne Simmons

A few of my experiences and exploits are not recounted. This is not through lack of interest but because some part of the incident has eluded me. For example, four of us sailed a whaler into St Brides Bay one very hot summer's day. What wind there had been died and we were becalmed. To our horror, we found there were onl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maple Publishers
• Release date: Dec 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915796493

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The Sailor Who Never Went to Sea

Author: Brian Byrne Simmons

Copyright © Brian Byrne Simmons (2023)

The right of Brian Byrne Simmons to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First Published in 2023

ISBN 978-1-915796-48-6 (Paperback)

978-1-915796-49-3 (E-Book)

Book cover design and Book layout by:

Maple Publishers

www.maplepublishers.com

Published by:

Maple Publishers

Fairbourne Drive, Atterbury,

Milton Keynes,

MK10 9RG, UK

www.maplepublishers.com

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or translated by any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PREFACE 5

AT THE START 8

FROM BIRTH TO CONSCRIPTION 11

CALL-UP HMS ROYAL ARTHUR 26

HAWTHORN 56

HMS HARRIER 62

MET COURSE 71

SCRAPBOOK OF THE MIND 76

THE TRIP 95

CRICKET 105

FANTASY IMPROMPTU 108

HMS DAEDALUS 113

HMS BLACKCAP 124

A LESSON IN LIFE 142

THE POWER OF MUSIC 151

RETURN TO KETE 158

ALL SORTS OF DIFFERENT GAMES 174

VISITING ELEANOR’S HOME 216

A TRAGIC INCIDENT 250

HMS SANDERLING 258

POSTSCRIPT 272

DAEDALUS DEMOB 275

THOUGHTS ON BEING A NAVAL NATIONAL

SERVICEMAN 283

PREFACE

The Second World War ended in September 1945. National Service followed on January 1, 1949. The reason there was National Service then and not now is too long a subject to delve into except to say that our politicians in their wisdom arranged for the country to be involved in wars such as the ones in Malaya and Korea, both of which were on the go while I was serving King and country. This is not to say I was involved in either of these blood baths, I wasn’t, but many of my contemporaries were.

Memory is a difficult taskmaster but I should hasten to point out that everything in these pages did happen at one time or another in one way or another but there could be sins of omission and any amount of argument could be created from what I have written. Nevertheless, over the years since I was called up to the Royal Navy, I made many notes either at the time or from memory about my service. Why? Simply because my service changed my life for ever and for the better. I thought it necessary to make a brief record of my life before call-up. There was one exception to my love of the Royal Navy: the masters-at-arms (also known as jaunties and jossmen). You will discover as you read on they were a bane of my life from time to time. No doubt their mums loved them but I reserve judgement.

I talk only about myself and one other rating (Mike Cook) as being National Service during our Part Two training and yet I know very well there were three. The problem was that after the first few months, our colleague disappeared from view and I never came across him again, not even on demob. Some names have been changed. I could say the reason for this change is to protect the innocent but it’s more likely to protect me from criticism as some of the incidents may be misrepresented. I tried desperately not to compare the mores of then with now. Inevitably I lost. It seemed as though it was predestined that I should compare myself at 18 with someone of that age in today’s world. Equally, it also seemed that I should look at the culture then and compare it with now. I tried to keep this business of comparing and contrasting to a minimum but maybe there is some of it in what follows.

More than anything else I look at my innocence – ignorance might be a better word – in those years as I approached 18. I wonder at the knowledge and experience of the youth of today in contrast to my lack of experience. If any youngsters, now in the 21st millennium, do happen to read this story they might be forgiven for thinking I, and many others like me, were wet behind the ears. It was a long time ago and the culture in the late 1940s and early 1950s was considerably different in many respects from that of now. It wasn’t such an open society for one thing and we weren’t prepared to let it all hang out, as our American cousins would have us do. Psychologists and psychoanalysts had hardly been invented and counsellors were senior officers in the diplomatic service.

A few of my experiences and exploits are not recounted. This is not through lack of interest but because some part of the incident has eluded me. For example, four of us sailed a whaler into St Brides Bay one very hot summer’s day. What wind there had been died and we were becalmed. To our horror, we found there were only three oars in the whaler. Trying to row something as big as a whaler with three oars is like trying to dig a 10-acre field with three gardens spades. It took us 12 hours to return to camp whereupon we were all put on charges for being absent without leave, misappropriating a Royal Naval vessel and being sunburned. In the case of the latter, the Navy’s argument is that sunburn is a self-inflicted wound and is therefore an offence. We were all badly sunburned. When the first lieutenant saw us, he laughed – quite hurtfully, I considered – and dismissed the charges. The reason why the story isn’t included is because, for the life of me, I can’t remember where we obtained the whaler nor where we set off from or returned to. Apart from that, the voyage actually took place and should be recorded as the only time I ever went to sea. In other words, I have the distinction of being a sailor who never went to sea in a ship.



AT THE START

National Service as a peacetime conscription was formulated by the National Service Act 1948. From January 1, 1949, healthy males aged 18 to 21 were expected to serve in the armed forces for 18 months and remain on the reserve list for four years. At the advent of the Korean War, this was extended to two years plus four years on the reserve. As the Proclamation’s starting date for National Service was January 1, 1949 and as I was 18 on January 8, 1949, I squeaked in by a whisker.

Without doubt National Service changed my life for the better. I’ve had a long time to mull over my first 20 years against the next 72 (so far) of my life. The first 20 years of anyone’s life can be critical in mapping out what happens next. Women of similar ages were not subjected to the Government’s military policies then. However, there was professional female arm to the Royal Navy, often known as Wrens (Women’s Royal Naval Service). Several Wrens are included in my story. I believe most men regarded National Service as a hindrance to their lives and careers which is understandable. I was one of the exceptions. In my service I encountered only two other National Service men. What I would like to show are the factors which contributed to this metamorphosis in my life.

National Service was an important occurrence which did happen to me as it did to nearly all 18-year-olds until 1963. Eighteen-year-olds of the present generation don’t have this burden to face, if it is a burden. But my guess is most of them have probably never heard of National Service anyway, or if they have would dismiss it peremptorily as something the politicians dreamed up in the dim and distant past.

A grandson celebrating his 18th birthday also led me to ponder on my own similar event. To start with, the fashion of having some sort of jollification at 18 has only occurred in relatively recent years. The same jollification was at 21 in my day. Presumably youths of today are seen to be more mature at 18 than we were at that age and they also have the vote which we didn’t. This then begs the question why were we sent off to wars if we were too immature to vote. In any case I would argue that no one should be sent to wars no matter at what age, but that is an entirely different topic and fraught with argument. The fact of the matter is that I was conscripted, and drafted not long after my 18th birthday to go on HMS Kenya which later was involved in the Korean war (in June 1950) which, by chance I missed by the skin of my teeth.

As far as I’m aware other young men of my generation were required to attend for medical examination a couple of months or so after their 18th birthdays. I looked forward to what was in store with both trepidation and anticipation. Two things I knew for certain were that very few were selected for the Royal Navy, only 36 from a monthly intake of 12,000, so it was no use opting for the Senior Service although that would have been my choice. Secondly, I was desperate to leave home, to get away from my mother and to see something of the world. Living in the back of nowhere, as I did, there was very little opportunity to travel. It was a quiet, slumberous existence infrequently awakened by the ravishes of Second World War but frequently by the ravishes of an erratic home life.

The first part of my story summarises the 18 years of my home life before conscription. This is in order to compare and contrast with the two years that follow. As always in the human experience there were some moments of pleasure and some of despair but there was far more pleasure in my conscription years than ever there was in my home life. Many of the tales I gathered together and the incidents which I experienced emphasise the frailties of not only of being, but also of love and hate, life and death: that is, the experience of every individual’s passage through life to a greater or lesser extent. Each individual’s account is unique to him or herself.



FROM BIRTH TO CONSCRIPTION

January 1, 1931 to May 2, 1949

I was born on January 8, 1931 in Chorltom-cum-Hardy, Lancashire, the middle child of three: my brother Alan three years older and my sister Christine nearly eight years younger. Christine was born on September 30, 1938, the day Chamberlin returned from France after his meeting with Adolf Hitler, waving a bit of paper and assuring of us of peace in our time. Chamberlin was wrong. War was declared a year later on September 3, 1939. Hopefully the piece of paper is now in someone’s museum.

In the midst of all this Father and Mother parted company in 1941 at the height of the war. Theirs had not been a happy marriage and I was not to see him again until just before I was called up. He was 50 years old and was dying of cancer. That he left us with only 18 shillings (90p) when he deserted us created a major problem. A second problem was me. I was a sickly child, having been in and out of hospital up to this time and beyond with one thing or another but mainly a dog bite which turned septic and cost me a year of education. It was also a torrid time for my brother and sister not only because of our impecunious state but also because of Mother’s unpredictable temper. In spite of all that we three children went to the same grammar school and did well scholastically.

My 18th birthday also heralded another event: conscription. Only a short time after a sinus operation I had a letter requesting my presence for a medical examination prior to conscription. The medical was three weeks hence, March 10, 1949 at the local medical board. Although the communication was polite enough, I had the feeling if I replied equally politely along the lines of: No thank you, not today, I’ve not got the time something nasty might happen. After carefully considering the alternatives I decided in the interests of maintaining national security I would attend. There was also the other criterion of being a well-nurtured coward which told me if I didn’t show up I could be in serious trouble. Thus, I went for the medical. There was nothing to it except some slight embarrassment in the form of the doctor touching parts of my body which are not usually shown to the public. It didn’t matter because throughout my 18 years countless numbers of the medical profession have wanted to examine me in all sorts of strange postures, positions and circumstances by helping themselves without so much as a by your leave. The outcome was I passed the examination. I was A1, the top of the medical ratings, which I must admit took me by surprise, pleasantly but definitely surprised.

Was Mother surprised? Yes, but not pleasantly. In fact, a long way from pleasantly. She expressed her opinion in her usual manner: Those doctors must be damned idiots. They don’t know what they’re doing, she said. You’ve just had a nasty operation. Pause. You’re not fit. I agreed with the nasty operation but I felt fit enough except for a sore face but even the soreness was diminishing at a fairly rapid rate.

What am I going to do without you? I can’t run this house by myself. The second half of that statement was as far away from the truth as she could possibly get. In any case Alan wasn’t going anywhere so he was a candidate to help and our sister had already been shanghaied into the labour market. Mother was livid and not fit to live with for the following week or more. She was going to move heaven and earth to stop my entry into any of the services. She said she would write to everyone she could think of including the Salvation Army given half a chance.

From the medical examination to deciding which armed force I was to be allotted was quicker than it might have been. I still have the brown, official looking postcard inviting me to attend at the address shown. There were precise instructions how to get there and at what time. Included in the instructions were threats of what would happen if one failed to attend. I was a good boy and followed the instructions. In next to no time I was in the assembly hall of a late Victorian school. The hall included carefully placed tables and chairs. Each table had sitting behind it a representative of one armed force or another. Like many old scholastic buildings an aroma of over-boiled cabbage hung in the air; it added nothing to the excitement of the day. The hall was large with innumerable tables, making it difficult to take in the whole scene at a glance. However, it appeared that not very much was going on. There was, perhaps, a sense of a secret society or a strange religious meeting being conducted in the dark depths of the building. Or was it just my imagination?

While standing there trying to take it all in a loud booming voice from behind suddenly startled me: Can I help you, lad? I nearly jumped out of my skin. After quickly controlling my blood pressure I turned to find an army sergeant. He had a row of medals pinned to his uniform. His eyes seemed as though they were controlled by something akin to radar in the way they bored into me. What was also not stable at this first glance was his massive pigeon chest. He said something like: Have you come for an interview? Well if you have you’ve come through the wrong door. The door you want is over there. He pointed to a door over there. You didn’t read your instructions properly, did you, sonny? Well if I were you, I’d hurry along before they sell out. He spoke in the sort of voice a polar bear might use to a passing Arctic explorer, an easy meat voice. I was the easy meat; he was the polar bear.

Hurrying along to the door the sergeant had indicated I found it opened into another, smaller room where there were rows of desks and chairs, most of which were occupied by young men about my age. An army corporal saw me and pointed to an empty chair. Quietly with head bowed, like a native American stalking an enemy I silently sidled over to the chair and sat down feeling far from brave. Here, I awaited the next instalment of this gripping introduction into the ways of the military. It was not long in coming as almost at once the corporal was alongside handing me several pieces of paper. I noticed that, by now, all the other young men had received theirs. I was the last. Would it count against me?

Looking at my watch which said 9.57am, I made a deduction of which Sexton Blake would have been proud. At 10am we were going to have a test, I deduced. Almost before I could make any further brilliant assumptions the corporal said in a military voice: All right, look at the first paper. We all bent our heads obediently. The corporal continued. At the top you will find instructions. Follow the instructions page by page. There are seven pages. Attempt all the questions. He paused: Anything you can’t understand now’s the time to ask. There were no queries. Our interlocutor continued: "You’ve got an hour to finish. Be certain to write your name where it says name on the top of the first page and alongside it the official number which is on the back of your postcard. I’ll start this

stopwatch.... Before he could finish a male, roughly clothed from a bankrupt pawn broker said loudly: How about me then? I can’t read or write."

Okay, I’ll deal with you in a minute. Just wait over there by the door and keep quiet. He turned to the rest of us. Read the instructions at the top of the first sheet, make certain you understand them and then do the test. I’ll commence the stopwatch now. You have an hour to complete the test. He started the stopwatch and we all proceeded into the unknown. In the meanwhile, the corporal turned to Loudmouth while the rest of us continued with the test.

The word ‘test’ is probably a misnomer of what the corporal called it. Some of the questions were more appropriate to a kindergarten for backward children. For a moment or two I thought some of the questions were really cryptic and I wasted time trying to figure out the code or cipher or whatever had been used. Soon I decided there were no tricks. or anything of that sort. For instance, one piece of paper had eight boxes. Within each box was a single drawing of a common object. We were asked to name each object. One was a spanner, another a tea cup and so on. Five-year-olds could have named most if not all the objects. Another instruction was a simple one, write a letter to a friend telling him where you were the day before and what you were doing. I’d finished the lot well within the hour. Looking round I noticed that many of my fellow conscripts were in the same position. I held up my hand. The corporal came over. He said very quietly: If you’ve done give me your answers and then walk to the petty officer over there he’ll sort you out.

I walked to the petty officer over there awaiting me while hunched over his desk rather like a lion closing in on its prey. The petty officer said, Now, Sonny, hurry along or you’ll miss the boat. He didn’t laugh at his puerile joke while pointing to a chair. I sat down.

Now, he said, what’s it to be?

I thought for a moment. RAF, please, I said in a squeaky voice. I was already intimidated by this gruff warrior.

Wrong, he said while his entire grizzled face broke into something approaching the look of lion as it leaps on its prey. Try again, Sonny.

I felt like saying to him: Stop calling me Sonny, but in order to maintain a civil relationship I refrained. The Army, then, I said.

Wrong again. We’re not having a good morning are we, Sonny. You’ve just one more go. Try and get it right this time;

Royal Navy, I said wondering why we had to play this pathetic game.

Correct, he said while laughing at me and pointing his fat sausage-like finger at a desk across the room: See that nice kind chief petty officer over there? Well he wants to see you. NOW.

Perhaps mother should have been a sergeant major; she would have scared the living daylights out of Hitler.

I arrived at the nice kind chief petty officer’s desk in good time considering I had to cross an entire diagonal of the hall, not an immodest distance. I handed him the paper from the sergeant and was greeted by a deep, gruff seaman’s voice whose larynx must have survived many an Atlantic gale. He said: Who are you?

I quickly began to realise at this juncture service personnel don’t waste time with the niceties of life, they just get on with things. There are no ‘good mornings’ or ‘how are we today?’ or was the journey reasonable?. To show no malice I gave him all the particulars I thought he required. Naturally, it goes without saying I was often in the wrong.

Now I want to take down your particulars. He laughed uproariously. This naval joke was first cracked when King Alfred invented the Royal Navy in 870 AD or thereabouts. First of all I need your next of kin just in case.... He left the sentence unfinished then continued: Who is it? Your dad I suppose.

There was a silence. I expect I went red in the face as I did when anyone asked about my father; he was an embarrassment of which I was ashamed. No one except me had a father who didn’t live with his family. I kept quiet. The chief petty officer’s voice took on an ameliorating tone. Ah, sorry son. Died in the war, did he?

No sir, I meekly replied.

Well, what is it? His voice had hardened again. What did he do? Run away with the parson’s wife?

No sir, I mumbled the words but eventually, to my chagrin, he winkled the truth out of me. That wasn’t difficult, was it? He said without any change of expression. Let’s move on. What we need to do now is to decide what you want to be in the navy. Any ideas but if you say admiral or any other smart remarks you might not live long enough to join His Majesty’s Royal Navy. You understand me? What’s it to be?

By now I’d regained some composure. I took a deep breath; I’d become used to taking deep breaths, and said: I wouldn’t mind being captain of HMS Implacable. HMS Implacable was one of the largest aircraft carriers at the time.

Instead of being angry as I expected, he said: "Oh, we’ve got a bit of spirit, have we. Well, you’re going to be unlucky, lad, the job’s already filled. I think you’ll find his name is Captain Charles Hughes-Hallett so better luck next time. But for now, I can give you a choice of other jobs. He looked at a piece of paper in front of him. Right, he said. There’s a choice of three. You can be either a cook or an officer’s steward or a stoker. Think about it but don’t be long."

I thought about it but I didn’t want to be any of those three. Cook seemed to be the most useful job but I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea as I’d already been chief cook and bottle washer at home. After I was demobbed, it could be useful in civvy street. At the same time, it might please Mother to have some different menus to look forward to. After consideration I said, I’d like to be a cook, thank you, Sir.

Wrong, he said. Try again.

I thought a bit more. I didn’t actually know what an officer’s steward was so I said stoker.

Don’t have anything to do with them, lad, they’re not nice. They do things you might not like while you’ve got your back turned, he advised while tut-tutting through his teeth.

It wasn’t until I was actually in the navy, I learned what ‘not nice’ meant. It was the only thing I agreed with, so far. Ultimately, he said: You’re going to be an officer’s steward.

What’s an officer’s steward? I asked,

Oh, he’s the Jolly Jack Tar who cleans the officer’s shoes, tucks him in to bed at night, brings him a nice hot cup of pusser’s ki, does his dhobi-ing and other menial tasks. You’ll get on well with that, doing menial tasks. Then after a pause he asked: Any questions?

All I could think of was: What’s pusser’s ki sir?

You’ll find out soon enough. Now is that all?

Will I be called up soon, sir?

They won’t be long, son. A few weeks. The Navy’s looking for smart lads like you. You’ll have a good time, get to know a few Wrens and say sir when you’re spoken to. You’ll be home again in next to no time. How long are you in for? – 18 months? no time at all. As he stood up so did I. He looked me straight in the eye. He said: Good luck, son. He’d called me son several times during the interview. I remember it better than anything else on that strange day. I could easily have been his son. He was the dad I was looking for. He had a wonderful