Approach of the storm - Chapter 1

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 1
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

The year was 1938; I’d been offered a job boring the coalface and was proud of the fact that the under-manager sought me out for the job. He asked me personally, as man to man, and flattered me by saying that he knew it was a tough job, but thought I could be trusted to do my best. He helped me by first having me instructed for a shift by a surveyor who had been a very efficient borer himself, which meant colliers could fill coal more efficiently. Like all jobs, it had its bad points. The job was regular afternoons; I got my bike out and rode from home at about 11 o’clock, having first changed into my dirty work clothes, reposing at the bottom of a cupboard near the fireplace.

When I set out to work, I wore an old jacket, a waistcoat in which mother had sewn two large pockets and one in which I carried a quart bottle of water, and a snap tin with four large slices of her excellent home-baked bread, smeared with a thick covering of best butter and strawberry jam. Sometimes it was dripping, out of the Sunday joint, or sometimes I took half an onion. Simple fare, but as it was, I enjoyed it.

The job was tough and dusty. As I dragged the borer and cable along the face, the lamps of the fillers were dimmed by dust. I had to go by men who had not finished their stint. “Hello young Russell,” they’d say, “what’s it like outside?” If the weather was good, they’d try to hurry up a bit. If not, “...well, we’re bloody missin’ nowt then.” They were great men in more ways than one. Stripped to the waist, knelt there, sometimes stretched and glistening, black with sweat and coal dust, their arms moving and backs stretching out as they shovelled the coal onto the conveyor. They looked like ebony statues come to life. Their faces would turn and show teeth and eyes gleaming starkly white against the dust as they joked with me. “Who the bloody hell are tha going we toneet? We heard about thee at t’ golf links last Sunday, yer young bugger.” (Yorks dialect: Who are you going with tonight? We heard about you at the......) One or two would say, “Hey up Russ, pop another hole in my coal,” to help them. That was all right if it didn’t blow too small when the shot firer fired it. The bosses didn’t want dust or small coal and wouldn’t be long docking some money off wages.

The summer of 1938 approached and I felt, as I rode on my regular bicycle rides into the countryside, things were not right with me. I didn’t like all that dust down the pit. I could see the searchlights playing about the night sky and war was being talked about in a furtive way. You felt it was coming, but you couldn’t quite believe it really would. It was discussed occasionally over a pint, territorials drilled in civvies in the local schoolyard with Lee Enfield rifles, and I was growing restless.

I’ve always had a leaning towards the navy. As a child, I’d been nurtured on tales of German atrocities in Belgium and the glories of Jutland, the shelling of Scarborough and our mighty navy that feared nothing afloat. I mentioned to my mother and father, one day in July, the fact that I wanted to join up in the Royal Navy. They were quite upset. “You know what’s coming,” my mother said, “Stay at home until you have to go.” My dad said, “They’ll only send miners if it comes to the worst.” But after a lot of arguing, my dad said, “Look, if he ant to join, let him have a go. He’ll only live to rue it.”

My brother said, “You’re a fool.” But I remained adamant. I looked at the family, father, mother and my two young sisters and thought of what could happen if Germans ever got her. I thought it over seriously. Then I returned home one day in early August and made up my mind to go to the local post office for a pamphlet on the Royal Navy.

“You’re never going in now are you lad?” “Why not?” I said as I passed through the door and picked up my bike leaning against the kerb. Arriving home, I kicked my shoes off, lay on the sofa with my legs up over on one end and went through it at my leisure. I eventually arrived at trying to join as a stoker. It seemed a good idea at the time. The money was 2/6 (2 shillings and sixpence, 12 ½ p) a day, more than a seaman’s whose daily rate was 2/- (2 shillings).

Mother said "It's not much money.” I'd been getting about 12/6d at the pit for a shift. "Yes, but that's pocket money. I don't have to buy food." "Alright you'll see my lad!'"

The day came for me to go to Sheffield to the RN and RM recruiting Office, and after wearing a bit of shoe leather, looking around I arrived. I was greeted by a chap behind a desk. The man immediately impressed me. He seemed all dark blue, red and gold uniform, and I was surprised that he dare move at all, in case he spoilt that immaculate turn out. He showed me to a shining polished chair in the office that was as neat as himself, "Now then sir." His blue eyes gazed at me from a face which was full and about fortyish. He studied me for a second or two, then, "Well is it the Royal Navy or Marines you have come about sir?" This "sir" bit really made me feel important. "I'd like to join the Royal Navy as a stoker." "Stokers are in for twelve years." "Okay,” I said, "put me down for twelve years then.” Yes just like that. I didn't give it another thought.

He wrote on various forms. I had some simple sums to do and a sentence to write. Did I wet the bed? Had I flat feet? Had I any teeth missing? Then he fitted me up with an appointment to go to Manchester to the RN recruitment depot, and a railway warrant to get there. Mother's response: "Tha's finally done it then, tha bloody young fool."

I walked round the local beauty spot and I remember it was warm, for I took my jacket and carried it over my shoulder. Rockley that day was beautiful indeed; the southern side was framed in a backdrop of large beech trees, looking cool and green with thick trunks. Round the lake itself were rhododendrons in full leaf. The lake waters were clear and sparkling, the dam's front of stone and the back of this was earth. Over the small weir was an old stone bridge, modeled on the old packhorse style. A cottage on the island in the middle of the lake gave the place an added touch with its framing of rhododendrons and its small boats moored.

I paused on the little wooden footbridge and looked into the small stream that flowed into the lake. In its clear depths, I saw two fair sized trout.

As I watched, I thought of where I would be next year at this time. Would I be away overseas at war? Would I indeed ever hear the nightjar, which used to char char at dusk at beautiful Rockley?

Would I ever stroll on a summer evening around its shores again? Or dress up on Sunday chatting to the girls, for it was the local bunny run in summer, and the local youth used to compete for their affections in the ideal setting. I carried on home and I remember going to Manchester about a week later. I took the train from Barnsley Court House Station to Penistone, and changed then for Manchester via Guide Bridge.

It was the first tine I'd traveled on my own by rail and I felt quite independent. On my arrival at the R.N. recruiting office, I was given a seat and asked to wait by a man in civilian clothes, and then I was ushered into a dark room, for a sight test. I told of my hobbies, where I worked, my age again, then I had to strip and I walked backwards and forwards across the floor. I had to cough while one held my testicles for a second. After that I got dressed and was given a shilling for a meal, and was informed that I’d be notified.

On my return, my mother was now treating me as an equal. I’d come of age as you might say; behind her worries, she’d laugh and have her little joke. My father didn’t show any worry at all, he seemed to enjoy telling others that I was joining the navy. My brother and sisters never bothered much about it, and I kept to myself a lot then, just going out for the odd pint and a ride with my mate, Willis D. He was good fun and we had some happy times together.

The news now was getting gloomier and September came, and that fateful Sunday of September the 3rd. The German panzers and Stukas were ripping the heart out of Poland, and we at home, as we gathered round the wireless to listen to the news, knew that only a miracle would make the Germans give up their invasion. Chamberlain had warned that we would be at war if they did not stay their hand.

The ultimatum was at 11am Sunday the 3rd. I recall it was a nice morning, but the streets were quiet. Everyone was listening and we all learnt that we were at war with Germany. Immediately, the announcement was made, I looked out and saw the barrage balloons ascending in a huge circle round Sheffield, all silver in the sun.

"That's it then,” my Dad said as we sat down to dinner, “Bloody Jerries again. So now, you look like having a chance to see what war's about." Evening came and I went out. Everywhere was blacked out and people were carrying their little brown boxes with their gas masks in. We had visions of fleets of German bombers dropping bombs and gas, but nothing happened at first.

I thought people were more like burglars, furtive movements in the darkened doorways where the light of a rising moon didn't penetrate. Giggles and laughter meant the blackout was proving a boon to those with romantic inclinations.

About midnight, I was awakened by the rising and falling wail of the sirens. Everyone seemed to be up and now it was like day outside, a beautiful harvest moon hung in the night sky. I sat on the doorstep in a shirt and trousers and my mother said, "What are you doing there?" I said, "Watching to see the bombers against the moon if they are going to Sheffield." I needn't have bothered, it was a false alarm, somewhere I heard the football rattle which meant "gas" and we had a good laugh about that, probably the A.R.P. warden getting too enthusiastic. We went back to bed only to learn next morning that the liner Athenia had been sunk by a U boat in the Atlantic. Lives had been lost and suddenly we became aware it was really war.

My days in the pit were now numbered. I received notification to report to Manchester for my final examination on December 5th; this was in October, a month before the Royal Oak battleship was sunk in Scapa Flow. December arrived swiftly and I met another local lad at the recruiting office. We were sent in a party to the Salvation Army hostel for bed and breakfast, and told we had to be in by 10 pm, and sober.

Sleep did not come easily, voices were kept low and from the dark words and sentences like: “I hope I get a bloody battleship. I’d like a destroyer, give me a cruiser. Well what about a sub? I wonder what the birds are like in Plymouth, plenty of crumpet there I’ll bet." And one voice, "Plenty of pox as well, they say the seaports are rotten with it.”

Next morning, a canvas-covered lorry took us to the railway station. One of our number was put in charge and given a list of names and a combined railway warrant, to Plymouth North Road Station, and we were then all given a paper bag of buns.
I should think they were the original rock buns and an enamel mug, so we could get a mug of tea where we had to change. As it turned out, we were glad of the buns.
We got on the train amid a hissing of steam and a lot of half hearted joking. “What a poxy place Barnsley is,” someone quipped. "Never mind, we have a bloody football team who know how to play," I replied.

Passing through Wales we saw that famous station, you know the one. We had a good laugh trying to pronounce it, and we hadn't a Welsh man among us to help us pronounce it.

After what seemed hours, the train for Plymouth came and we all trooped aboard and settled our cases on the overhead racks. Some smoked, some carried on playing cards, some napped and some just looked out of the window seeing the lazy wisps of steam and smoke occasionally drift past the green fields and the reddish brown soil of the Southern countryside. Now we really felt a long way from home. Even the mystery of the wagons we passed with their various company names Like Ebbw Vale, and Carlton Main LMS LNER FYFFEES Bedwag and many others no longer interested us, for we were now becoming closer to this whole new world, and frankly, we did not know what to expect. I suspect some were even feeling a hit homesick by then. By now, it was falling dark rapidly and the ticket collector passed through checking that the blinds were drawn before the dimmed
lights were switched on. We got off on a darkened Plymouth platform, lit by one or two blue painted bulbs. A voice called, "Are you for the Navy lads? This way then." Another canvas-covered lorry, and by the faint blue light, waxen faces shone like figures from Madame Tussauds. At last, form up in threes and by the right quick march.

A figure loomed which appeared to be a sentry in naval uniform in white belt and gaiters. This was the guardroom, and we were amazed to see our P.O. turn his head to the left and salute it, then turn his head back again. He told us, “When you come in or go out of this
establishment, you always look towards that guard room and salute. It may, mean your leave might be stopped and punishment awarded if you don't, for that represents the Quarter Deck of HMS Drake.

Our apprehension increased when we were informed they were navy police and keen as mustard, and mean b********, especially to rookies who didn’t wear their uniforms properly or salute officers.

Eventually we were halted outside a barrack block and down into the basement where all were given a wonderful new experience. We placed our cases on the floor and were given a sausage shaped canvas bundle tied up with a rope. This was the navy issue bed, the hammock and a sailor’s best friend, for all his years after he was in the navy. He slept on it; he could use it in emergency for plugging holes in bulkheads and he was often buried at sea in it. First though we had to be shown the way to sling it. It was surprising how many ended up on the floor at the other side of it with the small mattress you got with it draped over you.

Pr-BR

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