Approach of the storm - Chapter 3

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 3
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

One day, we were informed we had to put on clean no. 3 uniforms next morning. This signaled six weeks' school days aboard an old wooden ship, which had been changed into schoolrooms. Off we marched past the gunnery school. "Hear that Yorkie?" my mate said "Poor b*******. I’m glad I’m not in for gunnery." "No," someone quipped, but they have a chance to swim if you get a tin fish in the side while a stoker has b***** all.

We came up to a cruiser berthed alongside. She looked enormous. Figures worked on her decks. She was bustling with activity and I think we all secretly envied her crew.
We marched on and arrived at our school. She lay alongside, lazily creaking in the faint swell, and the old wooden ship of the line looked clean and well preserved for her years. We walked up the gangway in pairs with exercise books under our arms, and were shown into a low-ceilinged classroom, to our places, two to a desk.
Inkwells and pens were set out before us. Then an officer came into the room. He wore the green of a teacher between the rings on his cuff. He immediately ordered the issue of a book to each of us, "The Stoker's Manual".

This book was now our property and we put our names inside the front cover. This book contained all kinds of data regarding boilers, compartments and cleaning thereof. Even the use of the safety lamp, I thought I’d seen the last of it at the pit. We completed our six weeks' schooling and then we were transferred across the water to Travel Camp, that was also the rifle range. It looked more like a transit camp with its hut like buildings.

Waiting to greet us, as we lugged our gear off the boat, was a Chief Petty Officer.
He was grey haired and fresh faced with brown eyes. He was quite a man, although his eyes held a twinkle, he wasn't bad on laying the law down. He was our instructor and must have been called back to the colours to train rookies like us in the art of square bashing. He looked too old for active service. "I hate thieves and I hate liars," he said. "Do what you're told and we’ll get on alright. If you get bad news from home, or find yourself in trouble, don't hesitate to come and tell me, and I'll help whenever I can. But let the side down or harass me and you’ll get what for. I'm here to make bloody men of you and by God I will.

"Any footballers among you? anyway we’ll soon find out. Oh, a popular word in the navy I don't want my delicate ears to here is "b******'". Don't ever let me hear it from any of you while you're here or I'll be on you like a ton of bricks." Yes, Chief Petty Officer Burns was quite a man, he was fair, honest and I've never met a straighter man. He gave us the same treatment, as I'm sure he would sons of his own. Under his leadership, we played football, we drilled and he instilled pride of our class and team spirit into us.

The winter of 1939 was hard and we lost one or two friends to sickness. I remember one, a smallish boy, a Scotsman and about the best footballer of our class, who was one day on a stretcher being carried to the ambulance, dark and heavily spotted. What that was I still don't know. I remember parading and having our throats swilled, despite the cold weather. Some mornings we had to run up and down in gym shorts and shirts till we were sweating. Occasionally we tramped across a field, soap and towel rolled up under the arm to the communal bathroom. This was a small place with a homemade boiler to heat the water for the bath. This comprised a large circular tin bath, about three at a time got bathed, and as you could guess the last three got lukewarm water and a lather of scum to contend with. Still, we managed. We washed our dirty clothes in buckets and hung them near the big stores in the huts.

The days went by and then it was decided to have an inter-class boxing match. Everyone entering had to give an undertaking that they had never had boxing training, "Who wants to box for our class?" Silence reigned, then some bright spark chipped up, "Yorky Russell," "No," I said. "Come on Russell, step forward. Anyone else? Right, you're a Yorkie aren't you Lockwood?" "Yes sir," "Okay, step forward. You and Russell to represent us." So I and my chum Roy Lockwood from Denby Dale were duly elected. At Lunch we said, "Well all of you b******* and yet two Yorkies have to fight for the class, you could have tossed up for it."

Next day, Roy and I had to be checked by the doctor, and I don't know how Roy felt, but I felt like a sacrificial offering. We were passed fit. Our names were pinned up advising us, who we were matched against.
My adversary was an Albert Barber, and as he and his mates were sat at lunch, they kept having a sly look at me and chuckled. If it was psychological, it sure worked. I thought he's a bloody boxer; he'd knock my head off. Then, as day dawned, we had to weigh in again. I remember mine was 11 stone 7lbs and Lockwood weighed in very close to my weight, which had repercussions, as you will see. The ring had been erected in the target hut and around it were placed forms, which they had managed to put in tiers. The seconds marine PT instructors and the timekeeper, and the CO of the camp sat at a small table on which was a small bell and a watch. The timekeeper was the padre. We the fighters sat a bit uneasy among the shouts of encouragement and general hubbub. We, the condemned, wore gym shoes, tropical shorts and white gym shirts; each of us wore a coloured sash round the waist to identify the different fighters. Eventually to the cheers of my class, I climbed through the ropes and my second put my gloves on. I nodded to his words of advice, then the referee, a PT instructor, called us together and a hush fell as he told us the rules, ...then "touch gloves, and box on."

Immediately my opponent tore in and his gloves seemed more like lumps of lead as he thumped me on the side of my head, and I tried to keep away. I thought, "I'm due for a bloody big headache if nothing else," I was beginning to feel angry now, and I started thumping back and ignoring his punches, then I moved forward. The hours on the punch ball I’d rigged in the attic at home must have paid off now, for a good punch brought a look of surprise to his face. The padre rang the little bell for the end of the round; as I sat on the seat my second sponged my face and said, "Keep a guard up, then when you see a chance, really let one go."

Getting up again as the bell for round two went, I moved to meet him, he tried to look fierce and as he started to swing at me, I suddenly let go and it must have been a good one for I found myself standing over him and he looked sparked out. "Get up," I was saying in my excitement, till the referee shoved me back to my corner. The class were on their feet. "Good old Yorkie, Good old Russ." He was down for more than ten seconds and looked groggy as he climbed out of the ring. Now I felt sorry and went to shake his hand. "Sorry mate." "That's okay." I knew then we were no longer two opponents, but two friends, and I had a headache, it lasted two days. So I didn't get off Scot-free. I sat with the class and watched Roy win on points. Some of the other fights were little short of massacres, for it was obvious some of the fighters had been boxing before. What was amazing was the courage shown by these many outclassed men.

It came to my turn again and my opponent turned out to be my mate Roy. This was a turn up, how do you clobber your mate? It turned out our weights were about the same; well that's what we were told, and we thought we were representing our class, so why do we have to fight each other?

"Well, we want the one who wins this," we were told. We clambered into the ring and smiled at one another. The opening of the first round, we circled and sparred and put tentative jabs at one another. "Get on with it," someone yelled. The referee called us together and told us to make a fight of it. So we fought in a more serious way although I'm sure we didn't want to. At the end of the three-round contest, Roy got it on points and went on to win for our class. We were not disgraced and earned a new respect from our classmates, and of course we could now swagger a lot more, knowing we could hold our own with any of them.

Pr-BR

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