Approach of the storm - Chapter 14

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 14
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

All seaports, and cities have their share of prostitutes, but some of the lads seemed to think all girls should be the same. Another time I was duty watch and I managed to sneak out of the dockyard with a messmate. We were both clad in boiler suits, and on reflection, security must have been pretty lax for we were wearing our sailor's cap with the Ramillies name band on it.

We visited a pub named the Caradoc near the dockyard, and were immediately beset by a number of women. They were obviously pros. Their language and that peculiar hardness in the eyes of some gave them away. We didn't stay long. A quick pint and back to the ship before we were missed, in case a raid developed, and a part of my duty included making sure that the fire main pressure was maintained.

As we left, one girl made a particularly obscene remark and as she poked her head round the door, my mate slammed it, how he avoided her head I don't know, but I remember getting angry with him, for not only could he have caused her serious injury, but it would have showed we had been ashore and away from our posts, and in such a case we could have been in serious trouble.

Bill T and I used to save our cigarettes and chocolate ration and take them ashore to leave at Tommy’s home till we got our home leave. I left a large case there and I’d amassed tins of Canadian butter, large oblong packs of square sugar, tinned milk and several pounds of tea that I'd acquired from a large chest of pekoe tea, which I'd happened to spot.

I did a job in the stores. I guess it might look like stealing, but I'd already seen some helping themselves, so I thought, "Why not get some to take home for my old lady?" Although I'd built up a nice little stock of useful articles for the folks at home. I'd saved some "pusses" soap, that square strong soap all old sailors will remember used for "dhobeing"(???), and I'd saved a good ration of toilet soap, for these articles were all on ration.

I experienced a couple of raids on Liverpool, but not the heavy raids they had had previously. Our A.A. batteries fired a round or two, and I started an extra fireman pump up just in case extra pressure was needed. We could have been the interest, for a battleship sitting in dry dock was a prime target the Luftwaffe would loved to have bombed.

The next time Bill Taylor and I were ashore, as the sirens sounded, we saw a couple of obviously scared women hurrying through the blackout. We saw them home and hurried back to the ship in case we were needed. As we neared the dockyard, several flares floated down, lighting the surrounding area in a pale light. They seemed to drip some glowing substance, till eventually they suddenly went out, leaving the darkness more intense than ever.

We wondered why the ship hadn't opened fire, till we realised that the use of flares meant they were probably trying to find the ship and the volume of A.A. fire the ship could have put up, might have given her away.

In the distance, a few searchlights probed bouncing back and spreading out along the base of the clouds. The "thrum thrum"' of the bombers, faded, then returned again louder, then faded again. In the distance the noise of some desultory A. A. bursts, that “Wof, Wof” and small red stars that twinkled in the sky marked the path of the planes and occasionally a bright whitish flash, and the feeling underfoot of a far off hammer blow as a bomb exploded. The noise and the 'All Clear' sounded. By then we were just through the dockyard gates, all was darkness again with the huge mass of the battleship looming like a great dark shadow, relieved only by the "faint blue light" of the gangway light. The sentry’s torch and order to "Halt" greeted our approach. A swift inspection of paybooks and a quick, scan of faces in the dazzling light of the torch, then a curt, "proceed aboard", and the relief of darkness again, as his torch switched off and we went aboard. Down on the mess deck seemed a different world from the darkness ashore, the radio playing and the hubbub of men talking, playing cards, ludo, draughts or writing letters home, and the excitement of lads looking forward to seeing their loved ones again.

As you get nearer leave, you feel much like a kid feels on the approach of Christmas. You think of your girl, your parents, mates you left in civvy street, the pride of wearing the uniform of the Senior Service, the envious looks of old pit pals with their offers to pay for your drinks. Just the chance to relax and sleep in your old bed again and walk where you walked as a kid, this time with your girl on your arm.

Was it so long ago you shinned up that tree, do the rabbits still play in the meadow bottom in the moonlight? Does the wood pigeon still nest in that large hole in the old elm? Only a serviceman who has been away and knows the ways of war, can understand, maybe a bit of youth still remains in a man of twenty.

Then the meeting, shyly at first with your girl. So uncertain after the months of the dark and storm of the Atlantic cooped up with a multitude of men. You nearly forgot how to talk in this new environment, it seemed to take nearly a week to adjust, and that environment, and that feeling that the Lords of the Admiralty had only loaned you to your family for a week or two. You felt important and needed, maybe that's why I feel so angry and sorry for the youth of today who have never had the chance to feel like that, although I think there are other things a country can do short of war.

Tommy Manlon, my "scouse buddie" got home on his ordinary shore leave, so his leave wouldn't be such a novelty. "Wait till youse gets home Yorkie. The Judies(??) are starving, you'll need a case full of 'Johnnies' to keep them going." His glowing accounts of the 'Judies' only served to stoke the excitement of the coming leave. Meanwhile, we worked hard, stokers cleaning tanks, bilges re-painting engine room and boiler rooms, helping the engine room artificers on mechanical repairs and steam pipe joints, polishing and doing a terrific amount of dobeyin(??), as boiler suits were in a constant state of greasiness.

All our home going kit was ready, all clean and pressed, ready for that great day. Seamen were occupied in chipping rust off after the months of sea-time and red leading, ready for the new coat of paint.

They dangled all over the ship on stagings, only breaking off for the ten minutes’ break of “stand easy”, when a mess kettle full of hot tea was taken to each working party along with a cup for each man. It was sometimes perilously lowered down the ship’s side by a rope, and over all the smell of hot metal as the 2” armour deck plate was being fitted by the cutters and welders, with the brilliant bright blue flame of their equipment flickering everywhere and the clatter of riveters punctuated by all the shouts and sounds of the busy dockyard maties. They worked to get the ship ready for sea again. The tarry smell of calking clung in the throat. “Up spirits” was particularly looked forward to; it helped to maintain moral and appetite. After the tot of rum, you felt like you could eat the proverbial horse.

Soon, the first arrivals from leave started returning back aboard ship, some looking disconsolate, and some joking with mates preparing to take their three weeks’ leave. The mess deck seemed a welter of cases being packed, shoes being polished, chums brushing each others’ uniforms where they couldn't reach, lanyards and black silks being carefully arranged. Not a man looked shabby, all looked smart.

Then the pipe shrilled through the mess decks, “All men going on leave muster aft for payment and railway warrants.” A quick shuffling of feet, a last look in the mess deck mirror and away to join the queue before the paymaster's desk, a murmur of voices. Along the passageway and through the unlocked bulkhead door, a bevy of officers approached, led by the commander, the paymaster commander and several lower ranking officers. A short speech and then each rating stepped forward in turn to receive his pay, his right hand had to come up and take the left side of his cap as he stood at attention. His other hand placed his pay book, opened at the front showing his official number and photo on the desk, the pay was placed on it and ticked off by the ship's writer in a large ledger.

Then about turn, quick march, payment completed, each man went down to the mess deck waiting in excited expectancy till the pipe shrilled through the mess decks, "All ratings proceeding on leave, fall in with cases on the quarterdeck."

A clattering of feet went up the hatchways to the upper deck, amid a hubbub of last minute banter. A bit of advice on what to do and not to the girls. We fell in and measured off in three ranks. Divisional officers inspected their men, then the commander followed on a brief inspection, railway warrants were handed out along with the rations coupons for the duration of the leave, then, "About turn, dismiss and proceed on leave and good luck, get back on time." This was it. Three weeks' pay in the pocket; it was nice to feel rich, a case containing many things worn in Civvy Street and just enough room left for cigarettes I’d cached ashore. Chocolate for the girlfriend and so on.

My camera I’d tied to the handle of my case, half expecting to get stopped as I passed through the dockyard gate, but all went well and we boarded a tram for the city, picking up the cached cigarettes. Bill Taylor and I made our way to Lime Street Station and caught the train on the first leg of the journey to dear old Barnsley.

We had managed a quick couple of pints, which proved a bit of a discomfort, as we hadn’t reckoned for an old fashioned railway carriage. Our compartment was the single type, no corridor to the toilet. One or two lads from the Manchester area were in with us, and it wasn't long before we had to take it in turns to drop the window down and the flap of our uniform trousers and answer natures needs in the only way possible, hoping no one lower down the train was looking out from an open window, in which case they'd have wondered where the salt spray was corning from.

Then Manchester station and the incredulous exclamation from a woman as my case burst open to deposit the top layer of duty free packets of 20 Players on the platform. “You'd better hurry up Jack and get them away before you get trampled in the rush.” Swiftly, I repacked it amid envious glances from civvies waiting for the same train. Cigarettes, especially Players, were a luxury. What I had in my case was worth a small fortune in those dark days. I realised it more so when I finally arrived home. Going out with the girlfriend, I'd wonder at the queues waiting patiently in the hope of a packet of cigarettes. If a shop had received its allotment of cigs, word soon got around.

Many shops only let regular customers have them, and then only one packet per adult. Others obviously had them under the counter in a kind of black market, queues formed for fruit. If oranges, bananas or peaches turned up, people were there. Orange juice concentrates and cod liver oil were available for children and expectant mothers, also tins of special milk powder. National milk, and powdered eggs from America were on many a breakfast table.

While on this leave I got engaged. I had gone to get acquainted with her folks, and it was quite an experience to be put on show as it were. My future father-in-law had a look in is eye that filled me with foreboding. I sensed he was giving me a critical going over. The mother seemed to set me more at ease, and her meals and baking were out of this world

As, leave progressed and I got to know the family better, I was treated much like the prodigal son. My fiancé’s sister and brother seemed pleased, so all was well. My time was spent between their house and my mother’s. Walking in the countryside, my real love of nature was shared by the woman at my side.

The odd visit to town on the “Tracky” (Barnsley colloquialism for the Yorkshire Traction Bus Company), whose red painted buses had a bare look about them. The interiors had slatted wooden seats with the bare minimum of furnishing; the lights were blue painted bulbs, uncovered in many cases. It is hard now to imagine those old utility style buses, cold and draughty, with the adverts, ‘coughs and sneezes spread diseases, trap the germs in your handkerchief’, an obvious exhortation to try to keep fit and help the war effort.

Pub bars often carried the poster ‘Don't help the enemy keep mum,’ with a picture of an old lady's face and a raised finger. Appeals to patriotism were everywhere. Post offices advertised war bonds and savings. I remember collections were made of old aluminium pans, newspapers, cardboard boxes and old iron things. Most iron railings were sawn down by teams of men, all needed for maximum effort to provide the materials of war.

People were encouraged to keep a few hens or rabbits; if a garden or allotment held room for a shed, a couple of pigs of which the government bought one and allowed a ration of meal to help feed them. A permit had to be sought to kill them, to try to avoid the black marketing and careful check was kept but many did evade the Government regulations.

The days passed swiftly by. Soon the time would come to return to that world of regimentation, navy blue, bolter suits, the smell of oil fuel and paint, orders and pipes, sometimes boredom and sometimes excitement, and the nearest I’d be to home would be by long days or weeks by letters.

It really was marvellous leave, so much to cram in, so much, I hardly saw my “Towny, Bill Taylor”. He was enjoying himself though. His face was always lit up by a big smile when we did meet. His girl friend was always by his side. There would be some glum faces when the time came to board the little old train to Penistone, where we would change for Guide Bridge and Manchester.

Pr-BR

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