Approach of the storm Chapter 21

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 21
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

Every now and then, it was a matter of pride and showed how much every department of the ship’s company had put in efforts, especially the Engine Room in maintaining the steaming capability of the ship. Although old in comparison to the enemie’s capital ships, we felt we could give a good account of ourselves if given the chance. Short leave in Durban was eagerly taken; “parties” and beer were the main mess deck topics and the “buzz” was doing the rounds of the main mess decks, that we were going home to the U.K. after completion of the repairs. These were to take us several weeks, for fire main and pumping sections had to be re-coupled and a gigantic patch put in to repair the outer skin of the ship and the ship’s hull had to be scraped clean of an accumulation of weed and barnacles.

Black convicts were employed on this, standing on very high staging and using long scrapers, they were guarded by a couple of Khaki clad black guards, armed with assegais and knobkerries. They were burly looking men and could obviously use the tools of their trade with great effect.

One night, four of us returned to the ship after a night on the beer. Feeling quite merry we staggered towards the gangway. Suddenly we were confronted by a figure dressed in khaki sun hat and uniform. A rifle was shoved under our noses and we were obliged to show our pay books, which contained our photos and doubled as identity cards. He was an oldish white South African and must have been their equivalent of our home guard. He certainly warmed to his job, for his rifle never wavered until he had been shown each book. “Stupid old b******”; as we walked aboard, grumbling at the ignominy of having to give way to him, not realising in our befuddled state the importance of security, although when we got aboard we had to report to the quarter deck and regain our liberty cards from the watch keeper before going forward to the stoker’s mess deck and the usual greetings of endearment, “Oh oh there Jack Strops” “Pissy arsed b*******” ”What no f****** Grippos, no fancy.” All the usual naval terms from messmates who were itching to try their luck on the morrow, when it would be our turn to duty watch.

So it went on liberty and watch keeping. I was on twenty-four hour watches in “4 on, 4 off” periods. My duty again was keeping the fire main operating. I had to arrange a caller from the quarterdeck watch or the sentry in the night to change over but it was not a long job, and then back into the hammock.

We had an unfortunate mishap while in dry dock. The sea suction had to come from the ring main running round the dock bottom, which had access to the sea. Every so often, there were hose connections and valves and we drew our fire main water from these through hoses. There were also discharge pipes for pumping out bilges. The importance of these pumps cannot be over estimated. It came as a bit of a shock when I was rudely awakened one night to be informed that the large diesel generator room was flooding. I quickly dived out of my hammock, dragged my boiler suit on and made my way through the slumbering mess deck, armed with my sole item of equipment, my wheel spanner, a tool looking like a shepherd’s crook in miniature.

I went straight to the aft fire and bilge pump and immediately shut it off. It was plain this was the only source that the water could have come from. Then I made my way to the generator room. What a sight. The water was high up the ladder leading up to its hatch, a film of filthy brown creamy like oil covered its surface. Waste and a metal bucket floated on it.

It transpired that someone had been working on this section of fire main and had left an isolating valve open, which he should have reported to me, being the duty pump man. He got a rollicking and the mess deck kidded me unmercifully as the only Yorkie who could sink a battleship in dry-dock.

My luck was to hold though for now we were informed each watch was to get a one-week leave. A notice on the ships notice board gave a list of places in Natal where we could choose to go, so I and a chum by the name of Phillips, a short plumpish sort of guy, always happy and with a dry wit, decided on a place called Ballengeih near Newcastle, Natal.

We found out that many of the names of places in this part of Natal had Scotch origins and apparently, Scotch and Boers had intermarried in this area. Besides Phillips and I were two stoker P.O’s, two marines and one seaman.

The lucky part was now to come, for we were the first watch to take their leave. Meanwhile the other watch had to clean the flooded generator room and restore it to its former glory, no mean task and one I didn’t envy them. So we went and boarded the train for our seven days break.

We set off in the evening and travelled overnight, taking about eleven hours. We enjoyed a comfortable ride. Booze was available in the dining car and as night fell, a black porter came round issuing us with blankets, our beds were pull down bunks which folded back to the compartment sides.

Morning came and we were called for breakfast to the dining car. So a quick clean up and a pleasant meal, then a final brush up of uniforms, straightening of collars as we drew near our destination and the usual talk and expectations, women featuring prominently. Soon we slowed down and gradually came to a stop in the station bearing the name Newcastle. We stepped out in the cool morning air with cases in hand. Several more of the lads were going to other addresses.

Our small party had hardly looked around before we were met by a gentleman and a lady looking smart and chic in a khaki drill uniform. She was one of the South African W.V.S. She and several more escorted us to what I took to be the station buffet for breakfast and what a breakfast. We did our best to manage to get the eggs, bacon and sausage down, along with cakes of all kinds. I felt like a VIP. Everything they did was done with a desire to please.

In a way it was embarrassing, some of the lads were already assessing their chances with some of the younger women, but my memories of these people was their unstinting kindness in welcoming us strangers. I expect we were a bit of a novelty, they had probably never seen a British sailor and we were representative of a great Empire, with a fleet which had a reputation all over the world of being powerful and fearless.

Looking back it is hard for me to reconcile these people with the happenings of Soweto and Apartheid, for the people we met were so good.

The meal over, we were ushered away to meet our hosts, the people who we had been elected to stay with. A man and a woman met us and took us to a large “station wagon” estate car. Our cases were carefully deposited in the back ad another car took the rest of our party and off we went.

The village of Ballengeih was a few miles away and we were not long in arriving, and our first reaction was one of disappointment. It was more of a hamlet than a village, a few houses, bungalow style and a few “roundhovels” the small round native style houses and an area with a stockade round it. This was the native workers’ quarters where they live in a series of these “roundhovels”. I was told they worked at the carbide factory.

On alighting from the vehicles we were ushered into a small building, which served as a Post Office and wages office for the workers. A cup of tea and biscuits were provided and we were given a large box of Cape to Cairo cigarettes each, plus a bank note of about 10/- (10 shillings — 50p) each to spend, a reasonable amount in those far off days, and were told if we ran short of money, to say so.

Then we were introduced to Maurice the proprietor of a small bar. He, I remember, as a dark wavy haired man, medium sized, with a pleasant manner and a ready smile, I remember Maurice especially. His bar was to remain open all the time we were there. Drinks were available any time. We had to pay absolutely nothing. When we asked why we could not pay we were told with a smile, “Don’t worry, enjoy yourselves and liven this place up, all is taken care of.” Who could ask for more?

This meeting in the Post Office was my first meeting with someone who I still remember with a certain amount of affection. Two girls were there, girls about my age. I was in my 21st year. I noticed the two girls but didn’t give them more than the usual joking conversations that boys and girls tend to indulge in.

Now we split up and were allocated to houses. My pal and I were allocated to the Youngers, Mr. & Mrs. Bob Younger. They had a young son and daughter and I immediately became the daughter’s sailor, and the boy had Phillips as his sailor. I think we would remain as something special in their sight.

They were pleasant kids and I believe Audrey, the girl, had a hole in her heart. I hope she had successful medical treatment and has survived the years. It would be nice to go back and meet again but the passing years can be unkind and wash away friends and memories.

What a marvellous week it was to be. Our first disappointment was soon to be dispelled. We enjoyed Mr. & Mrs. Younger’s hospitality, marvellous meals, a well-stocked fridge full of all we could require, and we were told to help ourselves.

Beautiful cosy beds, uniforms cleaned and pressed every day, shoes polished and put conveniently by the side of the bed by a black servant girl who was beautifully turned out and spotlessly dressed in her uniform.

She was a very attractive girl. I remember trying to tell her not to worry over our kit, we could see to it. She only smiled, said nothing and carried on as usual.

This place was heaven. The evening got a bit chilly with a touch of frost, but later on and a steady warming up till midday, brought the heat of an English summer day. It was pleasantly located with its trees and shrubs and a smell of flowers and the constant song of birds I had never heard. It was a place I could have settled in.

A river ran nearby, supplying the works with water from a small pump house and on our numerous visits to Maurice’s bar, we came into contact with Mr. Steel. He was knocking on in years and he always seemed forever the worse for drink.

His favourite tipple was brandy. He was in charge of the pump-house and its pump and it seemed he was an expert with this particular pump, and could please himself when he drank and how much, as long as he could do his job. Yes, Mr. Steele was quite a character.

Then another old guy, slight figure with a grey moustache, caught our attention. He wore a battered old grey trilby and looked about 70 yrs old. To me he appeared to have the bearing of an old military man. When we had all met at Maurice’s and reached our state of happy drunkenness. His favourite song was “The Last Reveille”, along with “With my hand on Myself, What Have I Here” and the “Zulu Warrior” echoed round the bar, late into the nights.

I noticed the Marines were hanging round the girls like bees round a jam pot, so I and friend Phillips decided we would try our horse riding skill. I rode a couple of times as a lad on a local farm. When we informed Mr. Younger, he arranged for a young black lad to get two horses for us and had them saddled and ready to go. When this little boy of about 10yrs turned up with the horses, I eyed them. My pal fancied the smallest one. Now I knew it was lower to the floor in case it came to a fall, but it looked as round as a boiler and I said, “Phillips you can have that one.”

I was happy to have the taller one, Phillips was soon to find his mistake, I’d now donned my civvies for this ride and felt it more the rig for horse riding than a sailor’s uniform, and so I put my left foot in the stirrup and my hands on the neck, swung myself up and found it not hard at all.

The horses were mild in temperament and Phillips managed to mount after a bit of a struggle. My stirrups seemed adjusted just right but my pal’s short legs made it awkward for him. Imagine short legs trying to fit round a large barrel and how awkward that can be allied to the swaying gait of the horse.

He was content to let it amble on. I felt I’d ridden for years. I used my bit of knowledge with bridle and knee, and gained confidence with every minute, until turning back down the dirt road into the village I decided to try speeding things up.

A sharp touch of my heels against its ribs and it really went. It seemed to be galloping, my backside rising and falling in the saddle, my legs slightly stiff, till I reined it in, slowly putting pressure on the bit, then holding it back until it stopped in a flurry of dust. I was quite pleased with myself, I never really expected to stay aboard it and openly feel so confident. What gave me a bit of a fillip were the congratulations of the few village folk who had watched the proceedings, obviously in the hope of a good laugh. They did not gain one from me but “Pippi” gave us all one, for he tried to move a bit faster and gradually lost his seat and slid off.

He came to no harm and we handed the horses back to the young black lad, while we adjourned to Maurice’s and our glasses of lager. “You crafty b****** Yorkie you did not say you could ride.” I suspect the horses were so well trained they knew exactly what to do.

Pr-BR

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.