RNVR HMS Wanderer and Indomitable (1941-45) Part 1

My Grandfather [Pop] related various exploits to us as we grew up, after we discovered his collection of photographs, mainly taken aboard HMS Indomitable. From the late 1990's to his passing in 2004 I wrote down or recorded these memories. These were told to me as they came to mind, so I have tried to arrange them in chronological order. I was aware during this exercise that in silent pauses and facial expression much was censored, still protecting us.

Joining Up And Training
I volunteered in 1941. My father had served in the Royal Navy as a medical orderly and dental technician during The Great War, a career the Navy would be happy to have continued, but he returned to his family and mining. I was always attracted to the sea and was by then a Teacher at the naval Holbrook School for Boys, Ipswich. At the recruiting office the Royal Navy's desk supported just three items, a sign stating "No Vacancies," and the polished boot shod feet of the service's representative. Undaunted I approached the desk.
"Hello, Chief." I said.
The CPO gathered himself smartly and responded, "How do you know I'm a Chief?"
"By your buttons." I replied.
With the Chief Petty Officer's full attention I went on to explain my preference for service and current employment at Holbrook School. At this point the Chief's eyes lit-up.
"Do you know my boy, he attends Holbrook?"
As luck would have it I knew the boy, and secured my place in the Royal Navy. We then debated upon to which branch a Holbrook teacher should be directed.
"Signals?" asked the CPO.
"No."
"Cook?"
"No."
The academic options kept coming.
"No thank you. I want to be an ordinary sailor." I was resolute, and the CPO conceded, finally.
"Very well, scrum deck sailor it is then."
Aged 30 years 11 months I went from Holbrook as Mr Evans the teacher to Evans, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, Official number JX270832. [The Certificate Of Service (COS) records the volunteer period as AF (later endorsed "Extended"), Port Division Chatham, Commencement on 6th August 1941].
Basic training as an "Ord Sig"[COS] was began on the commencement date at Royal Anthun, previously Butlins' Holiday Camp in "bracing" Skegness. I was billeted to a chalet that contained one single and one double bed, which had to be shared with two other sailors. To facilitate the use of the double beds the war department devised a method of keeping the two occupants apart. Vertical wooden guides for a separation plank were fixed to the centre of the head and foot boards of the double bed. The bed would be made with the double size bedclothes and then the plank barrier would be slid down the guides to form two single beds of equal size. Each night an inspection would be made by the Officer Of The Day on night time rounds to ensure the separating plank was correctly positioned.
[The COS shows this period of training ended 19th August. Now recorded as "Ord Sea," and shows that the the following two days were spent at Royal Anthun, awaiting posting.]
On 22nd August 1941 I arrived at HMS Ganges, Number 1 Mess. As the eldest, I was made Class Leader. Whilst marching across the parade square one day a Petty Officer barked, "Class halt!" The command was smartly obeyed, and the PO came over to me.
"Weren't you at Holbrook?" He enquired.
"Yes Sir," I replied
"I thought so. So was I." With another stroke of Holbrook good fortune I was made Coxswain of the PO's boat every time he sailed, and each Wednesday night received a free pint of beer in the PO's Mess, gaining much kudos as a result.
[The COS records a swimming qualification PPJ (G) on 29th August. Departure from Ganges was on 23rd October 1941, the following day transferred to Pembroke.]

D74 HMS Wanderer (from 7th November 1941)

My first ship was the destroyer HMS Wanderer, which at that time was assigned to the North Atlantic convoy run as Escort Convoy [KM53] Leader. My duties were those of a Bridge Messenger. As far as I can recall [in 2001] the captain's name was Orpin. He was a very worthy Captain. The First Lieutenant was always sick at sea. We always had to make sure that there was a bucket lashed in the corner of the open bridge for him to use.
When we were at sea I had a billet (cabin) right fo'ward, and it was absolutely on the dead centre of the ship, so when she rolled I was still and the ship was going round me, but oh, when she pitched through an Atlantic swell! I wasn't allotted a cabin, but I accepted when it was offered to me by the fellow who's it was supposed to be. This fellow had been torpedoed in his previous ship and had struggled to get out from a lower deck. From that day forth he wouldn't go below, unless absolutely necessary. Instead he had a little "cubby-hole" somewhere on the upper deck.
HMS Wanderer was more or less under water all the time at sea, (often referred to as being green). At times the upper decks would be out of bounds as the wash could sweep a man overboard with no hope of rescue. Although, I think there was one crewman who always used to go out? Oh, how the water just used to wash down! Below decks the water would be a few inches deep rushing to-and-fro in little waves across the deck with the movement of the ship. Sleeping partially dressed and with sea boots on so as to be ready for action should the alarm sound also protected you from a quite shocking icy foot bath whenever alighting from your bunk or hammock.
At sea non-standard dress was permitted, most dressed in many layers of whatever practical garments they had. It would seem that no one aboard had been issued with any sort of Naval duffel coat, we just didn't have any. The crew arranged for garments to be sent from home, or received packages from our adopted town. I wrote to Hilda [wife], and had her send an old brown overcoat from home.

HMS Wanderer disembarkation 11 March 1942

We were in Gladstone Dock, Liverpool, and we, well the Wanderer, had to leave that morning, for Canada. I had quite suddenly got a transfer to the Officer's course at King Alfred, which meant leaving the ship. So I was on the Quarter Deck, I think, well on deck near the rail with my case and one or two other things, although I didn't take my hammock. I was waiting for the fellow that was going to take my place, scanning the dockside, as the Wanderer prepared to manoeuvre. I was certain that I would not be on this trip, although this was cutting it a bit too fine. Finally a sailor came running along the quayside shouting excitedly, he came steaming up, and by now the Wanderer was actually moving. Catching up with the ship, the sailor acknowledged me and threw his kit bag aboard. I threw my case over onto the jetty, then they threw something else over, with the destroyer underway now and my kit ashore, they then more or less threw me over, and my replacement was hauled aboard. I couldn't leave without being replaced, by which time the Wanderer was going through the gates. Now there's a name for that, leaving the ship like that, but I can't remember it. I just managed to get off or else I should have gone to Canada with the convoy you see, and then I wouldn't have got back for my posting.

Leave [where, date? - missed train probably from Liverpool - shelter episode possibly after Gunner A course and before posting to Indom'?]
I remember that I had a long train journey home for weekend leave, and train journeys were often disrupted. Most servicemen would use the journey get some sleep, even using the luggage racks. On one occasion I slept past my stop, and by the time I got home I had just an hour or so with the family before I had to catch a train back to the ship. Hilda was not at all pleased, our daughter Judy knew that too as she recalled the episode.
Reacting to the wails of the Air-raid sirens whilst at home on leave, I wrapped my little girl in a blanket and with Hilda we made for the nearest bomb shelter. Preoccupied with getting the family to safety, I had not bothered to find any shoes. I carried Judy in her blanket, through darkened streets, bare foot. As we settled down in the sanctuary of the shelter, Hilda noticed blood on the floor. It was only then that I realised I had inadvertently cut my feet almost to ribbons on glass in the debris scattered around the streets.

HMS Excellent, Air Gunnery Section [August 1942?]
Having attended King Alfred staff college for three months I attained 742 marks out of 1000 in examination for Passing Out Certificate to Temporary Sub-Lieutenant RNVR in July 1942. As a new Sub-Lieutenant I was sent to HMS Excellent, Air Gunnery Section, for the selection and training of air weapons officers.
The Air Gunnery Section coarse included experience of weapon deployment from an aircraft, usually a resident Swordfish biplane. The Air Gunnery Section's instructor pilot met me at the appointed time and only inquired;
"Are you Evans?"
"Yes Sir"
"You're with me."
With that the pilot led the way, without further comment, out to a waiting Swordfish. Having clambered into the cockpit the pilot turned slightly to address me over his shoulder.
"You do know this is a dive bombing exercise, don't you?" he shouted.
The inquiry was rhetorical, as the pilot immediately returned to his pre-flight preparations in somewhat better humour, clearly amused by the well practised timing of this information to his students when past the point of no return.
I had flown once before as a child from a beach when on holiday, Blackpool probably. It was a brief and gentle pleasure trip in a private plane, but I couldn't recall any real detail or sensation.
This would be a quite different flight experience, in a "Stringbag", off a short cliff-top strip, and a dive bombing exercise to boot! The ground crew ensured I was "lashed" down properly with little fuss or words, just another routine dispatch for them. A crewman's hefty swing on the starting handle accompanied by a whine and a cough of smoke from the engine brought the aircraft noisily into life. A healthy wind from the propeller's wash and vibration engulfed the cockpit, the chocks were pulled clear and the biplane was on her way. As the aircraft started along the short take-off run at maximum power the tail lifted quickly, the effect from this was to swing the aircraft to-and-fro as the pilot corrected against the wind and propeller torque. All too soon the short strip ended and the Swordfish lumbered over the edge. It was now the aircraft found directional stability, the chosen direction was alarmingly down! The Stringbag sank seaward at quite a conerning rate, possibly assisted or prolonged by a further example of the pilot's sense of fun, I hoped. As I was just contemplating that the pilot in fact had no say in the descent, and it was a strong possibility that they were about to get their feet wet, the old lady slowly began climbing away from the breaking waves. It would become a regular sight aboard ship to see a laden aircraft disappear below flight deck height for a second or two after take-off, but to experience this from the air first, without prior knowledge of the phenomenon, was most disconcerting. The sedate climb to the required altitude was filled with the noise of the engine, and the beating of the elements. The open cockpit provided good visibility, and although short on comfort, it felt secure in the harness firmly anchored to the deck (cockpit floor), just how secure was soon to be tested. Arriving over the range the Stringbag rolled into the first dive. Although the harness ably prevented separation of man and aircraft, it would still allow a person to get into all sorts of positions during a dive bombing exercise, and most of these, I duly noted, were found to be extremely uncomfortable! At the bottom of the descent the aircraft was pulled up using the momentum to gain height before swooping down again, new and somewhat concerning sensations were being experienced at either end of these manoeuvres. Once the weapons had been deployed, and stomachs well and truly churned, the Stringbag made for home. Upon taxiing to rest, the pilot swiftly released his harness and left the scene with a brief farewell flung in my general direction. I remained seated, still tethered to the aircraft, my struggle to find a way free being hampered by the senses that seemly had not returned to earth with the rest of me. Having exhausted all possibilities to expedite myself, there was nothing else to do but obtain some assistance. My calls for help were eventually heeded by a passing rating who took pity on this sailor, and a wholly uncomfortable experience finally came to an end. Upon graduation from the Air Gunnery Section course I was appointed Gunner A, with orders to join what was still the latest Fleet Carrier, HMS Indomitable. (Whilst aboard I enjoyed occasional deck flights in Albacore, Barracuda and Avenger).

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