Approach of the storm - Chapter 24

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Thomas Arthur Russell and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Approach of the storm Chapter 24
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

The Barracks was getting on my nerves, and being newly wed, I suppose had much to do with it.

I pestered the D.F.D Office and asked for a draft to a ship. “B***** off, you’ll get one soon enough and don’t keep bothering us,” was the reply. Then one day, I got what I had been hoping for. After dinner I looked among the chits of paper on the big circular mess table along with my mates, all of them keen to go. “Here Russ, one for you,” and lo and behold, there it was: Report to D.F.D.O.

“Well lads, you must listen for the loudhailer, be ready to pack your bag and hammock anytime. No shore leave for now.”

So that was it, no name of a ship or anything. They were giving nothing away.

Evening came, we had our tea and were sat talking. It was mid-November, and got dark early, when suddenly, “Hear there, hear there,” the number of our draft came over the loudhailer and we were ordered to report at 8 o’ clock a.m., outside the D.F.D.O next morning.

From the D.F.D.O., we went for a TAB injection, typhoid and anti-bacteria, then we were told that next morning we had to muster again at 8 a.m. with all our gear outside the D.F.D.O. We were going up to Newcastle by rail.

Rumour and speculation were rife. Why Newcastle, why not a ship? What we didn’t know till we clambered aboard the lorry the next morning, was that we were going to a ship, only a handful of us, as advance party to a brand new destroyer, HMS Quail.

She wasn’t out of dockyard hands yet, and we were to go as lodgers into private digs, our board being paid by the government.

When we heard this news and I saw barracks falling rapidly astern of the long tailboards, I said to my oppo, J. McCormack, “Well, we really are bloody lucky, aren’t we Jack?” Him living at Blythe meant regular weekends at home with his wife and kid. It meant plenty of the blue label down the hatch as well, and all those Geordie birds Jack said took a special shine to the Navy. I’d have to guard against it, as I couldn’t afford to upset my wife by playing fast and loose with them.

As soon as we arrived at Plymouth’s North Road station, we unloaded our gear and piled it ready to load aboard the guard’s van. Our personal cases were kept apart.

We fraternised with a few others and one of them, a chief E.R.A., was in charge of the little party, and had a meal voucher and a railway warrant for all of us. The meal voucher covered us for one meal at Bristol - Temple Meads Station, for we had about an hour and a half to kill there.

The train came and we carefully stowed our gear. Jack and I picked a compartment on our own. We were lucky to miss the weekend rush of ratings, going on weekend leave. We chatted and napped and the stations came up, the familiar names, Dawlish, Torquay, Exeter, we had seen so many times before, then as the train came to a stop once more, we saw the sign Bristol Temple Meads.

The usual sounds of steam, whistles and shouts, interspersed with calls over the loudspeaker, and the red caps keeping a vigilant eye on the soldiers who always seemed to be staggering about with slung rifles and kitbags on shoulders. We felt sorry for the poor old “Ponges”. He seemed to take all of the hammer. The soldier always referred to the Army’s red caps as b*******, and I think they would have helped to promote riots, left and centre in today’s police force. They never bothered us though, although it was their right to inspect our documents. We had our own version of Navy police, and maintained an R.T.O. with a Chief Petty Officer in charge for information and police duties in the largest main line stations. We preferred to keep well clear of both though. We had got our kit from the train and commandeered one of the large trolleys with the swivel handle, and on it we piled all but our cases; these we never let out of our sight.

Our Chief E.R.A. handed in our meal chit, and we settled for egg, sausage and mash and steaming mugs of tea. A huge plateful of bread was placed in front of us and we cleared the lot. Afterwards, Jack and I wandered off and we were warned not to get too far away. Of course it was dark, and we were thankful of the big navy issue overcoat because it was quite chilly. We had our cases with us, and as we walked along more of the platforms, I spotted a white basket, very much like a white wicker clothes basket. It was parked on one of the trolleys and in the dark of the station I heard small clacking noises. Curiosity aroused, we went nearer. Having a quick glance round, I said, “Keep an eye open Jack, I’ll see what’s in here.”

Moving closer, I saw of all things a basket full of live crabs, claws were moving about and it was that which was responsible for the queer noise we’d heard. I loved crab, and it was some time since I’d had any, and I wondered if I could put one in my case to boil at the digs we were going to. Cautioning my mate, I tried to get one, but every time my hand ducked down, several pairs of claws rose up to meet it, and I gave it up as a bad job.

A bit further along the platform, we came across a box of rabbits and Jack said, “Yorkie, what about a rabbit?” I bent down first, undid the fasteners on my case and made as much room as I could to receive it, then swiftly, I grabbed a pair, jerked them apart, for they were tied up in pairs by the back legs, put one back, and put one in the case. It still had its fur on, but it had been gutted. I managed to squeeze the case shut and we made our way back again.

Time for our connection was rapidly approaching, and we strolled up and down near the piled gear. We had put our cases down close together where we could keep our eye on them. Two figures approached and we saw the familiar knee breaches and stockings of Women’s Land Army. The brown and khaki clad girls had the healthy glow of the outdoors on their faces. Asking us if we were waiting for the train north, we said, “Yes, why, are you?” The reply was, “Yes”! We arranged for them to get a pair of seats for us by putting their belongings on them as a reserve ticket. We chatted and joked awhile till the train came. It stopped and we pulled and pushed our load of gear into the guard’s van, saw it safely stowed and picked our cases up. A head leaned out of a window. “Quick, here, we have saved two seats,” and Jack and I swiftly got aboard and passed down the corridor till we saw the two girls. We slipped through the glass door, put our cases on the racks and sat down opposite them.

Their brown overcoats were neatly folded and placed on top of their small cases along with the wide brimmed hats. They looked more attractive in the khaki jumpers and the collar and ties. It wasn’t long before photos were being passed around. All the small talk and banter led us to more personal questions, our homes, and were we married, where we came from and so on. I felt a knee rub against mine under the small table between us, and can remember the gaze from a pair of grey eyes. It came to the time then that we were in a situation where anything could happen. I remember opening my case on the table and as they leaned over to see the surprise I had, they squealed and nearly took off when my rabbit’s head flopped out. They had probably seen their share of rabbits, but not popping out of a case before.

Then the girl opposite me took down her case and rummaged inside. She produced half a cake and offered to share it out. We ate it and then I got up, announcing I was going for a visit to the toilet. The girl looked at me and I knew she’d follow. I looked in the toilet mirror and combed my hair. Then, coming out I saw her there, she was leaning on the small brass handrail near the train window, looking out at the darkness. She looked round and I saw the pale glow of her face in the dimness, her voice murmuring softly over the rumble of the train. “I wonder if this war will ever end in victory, shall we win?” “Yes, I’m sure we shall,” I replied. “How far are you going?” I asked. “Not far now — Cheltenham,” was her reply, “I’d like to see you again.” She moved up close and I could smell her hair, her face rose up to me and we kissed. Her face felt cool, but her mouth felt warm, and I thought to myself, “Bloody fool,” as we stood together. I felt the pressure of her breasts against my chest, and knowing we were nearly at Cheltenham, and the situation was so tempting and getting out of hand, I reluctantly drew away.

“Why don’t you and your pal get off with us and you’ll be OK for the night?” she suggested. “No, we can’t do that. We have no money and we are all on one railway warrant,” I told her. We made our way back to Jack and her chum. Jack had a twinkle in his eye and her friend was flushed. I thought, “You might have got off the train with us, but Bill here says you can’t.” Jack said, “Bill,” with a slightly surprised look, but caught my wink and said, “Oh, we can’t, you’d get us bloody shot.”

Anyway, Cheltenham came and as we saw the name slowly pass, the train slowed to a stop. I helped B down with her coat, and held it for her while she slipped her arms in. I got her case down and handed her hat. I walked with her to the carriage door and gave her a quick kiss. For a fleeting moment, I felt a twinge of sadness as with a last little wave, the two girls disappeared along the dimly lit platform.

Jack said, “That’s that — and what’s this bloody Bill?” “I couldn’t tell her my real name, could I you silly b******?” I replied. As the train started again, I felt just a bit of me had walked away on that platform. Silently I thought, good luck kid. I hope your war is good to you, and you find what you are looking for. I hardly knew her name but she impressed me, and I remember her to this day. I only hope she made it.

We who survived the war and still live on have a unique experience. We learned respect, one for the other, we learned a unity and comradeship, we came I believe, nearer a classless society, discipline apart, that I have ever experienced. The girl I had known so briefly, I loved in a way without any bodily contact, except a kiss. She had filled me with all the feeling we seemed to lose in the men’s world of steel and ships.

I know I had fallen strangely silent. Later on we drew into the station at Newcastle and by now it was getting on for midnight. We had been informed we had to get on the small train for Hebburn(?) So we made a quick change, for it was already waiting. We stood the last short journey and wondered what our hosts would be like. Jack and I were taken by lorry into a council estate and dropped off outside a small gate, and were given a form to hand over to the people who had undertaken to have us in their home. We could see they were expecting us, a faint chink of light just showed through the blackout curtains. Jack gave a tentative knock on the door, a slight pause then the door opened and a tallish woman stood there. “It’s the Navy”, she replied to a question from the room. “Come in lads, and I’ll show you where to put your stuff.” We followed her up a flight of stairs. It looked neat and homely. The bedroom she showed us too was clean, and the bed looked inviting after our long journey. Catnapping on a train is no substitute for a real bed. A large wardrobe, a couple of chairs and a chest of drawers surmounted by a large oval mirror, further furnished the room.

The woman herself was a smiling, jovial sort of person, a kind face, with eyes that looked lively from behind the glasses she wore. Her voice immediately put us at our ease. We instinctively felt we were going to get along with each other. “Now while I get you some supper, you can wash and put your things away. By the way, I’m Mrs MacLachlan and my husband is in the living room, his name is Alec, and my son is there with him and he’s Alan.” It didn’t take us two minutes to put the hammocks and kitbags away. We sorted out toilet things and put them against the washbasin, washed and went into a pleasant, warm, nicely furnished living room.

A man sat there and we could see immediately he wasn’t a fit man. The skin on his features looked pale and transparent and drawn over his cheeks too tightly. He was slightly hunched as he sat in his chair and his eyes shone just a bit too brightly. But his quiet greeting was warm and the grip of his hand was clammy, but sincere. “You are welcome lads, aren’t they Alan?” This to a boy who stood slightly behind his shoulders and was gazing at us with a bit of apprehension in his eyes. “Well Mr MacLachlan, I’m Tommy, Tommy Russell, and this is my ‘oppo’ Jack McCormack — and of course you’re Alec Junior,” I said to the boy. He was at a guess about eleven. He said, “I think I’ll go in the Navy when I’m old enough,” and Jack said, “Yes, but make sure there’s no war on then!” We had supper and were soon on first name terms. This was home from home. If all Geordies are like these, I thought, I’ll settle for a Geordie anytime.

“This home is your home while you are here,” Mrs MacLachlan told us, and it certainly was. On our nightly forages into one or two of the pubs, we would come back singing and would sit and talk late into the night about our own folks and what we had seen in our side of the war.

Mrs MacLachlan’s cooking could have satisfied anyone’s capacity, both in volume and quality. She was tops with us, and all this on top of looking after a sick husband and a growing boy. Courage doesn’t only exist on a heaving deck on a wartime sea; we found it there in the quiet fortitude of that sick man and his marvellous wife.

We made many friends among the girls behind the bars. We played them off against one another, nearly like a sport, and I realised how far I’d gone when I nearly caused a fight between two of them, then I knew I must give this silly game up. For my wife used to visit me whenever possible and God knows what would occur if any of them met. What seems harmless fun might look different and it wasn’t the thing to do really. I was more than happy with the woman I’d pledged my life to.

Pat, the daughter of one of the landlords I remember well, combed her fair hair in the Veronica Lake style hanging over one eye. She was a sport and encouraged Jack and me to have beer on the slate when our fortnightly pay ran out. We paid up then ran another bill up. On our way to dinner, we’d pop in and down a pint, for our times of work were school hours. Down at Hawthorne and Leslies at 9am, dinner hour 12am until 1 ‘o’ clock and pack up at 4pm. It was ideal.

Pr-BR

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