Approach of the storm - Chapter 2

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 2
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

Next morning was heralded by a bugle call and the voice of someone shouting, “WAKY WAKY, rise and shine my dears, the suns burning your bloody eyes out, on with your socks, hands off your c***s.” This was greeted by moans and groans and thumps of feet hitting the bare floor as bodies reluctantly left the canvas cocoons, and felt the early morning chill. It was its own type of bedlam with swearing and hunting round for missing items of apparel, till you eventually collected your wits, and made your shivering way down the flight of stone steps to the world’s most miserable wash place, it was obvious that the barracks were snowed under with the mobilisation.

After the stampede to the washroom we dashed back to the mess to get dressed, then back down the steps to join a veritable football crowd - seething and heaving, waiting to take their turn in the long dining hall. We who had arrived the night before were still in our ‘civvies '. The dining hall was hung with pictures of naval battles. I suppose to show us what England expected of us new recruits.

I was nearly fainting from hunger, every few minutes we shuffled a bit nearer the steps leading into the dining hall. An old looking officer assisted by a P.O. regulated the flow of humanity into the dining hall. I didn’t envy them their job, holding back this great crowd.

It didn’t help matters when someone occasionally broke wind, especially if you were in the vicinity, for you couldn’t get away. You couldn’t even lift your hand up to hold your nose. Eventually, my turn came and about forty-eight of us went into the dining hall and were led to some long empty tables, just plain wooden surfaces with wooden forms to sit on, scrubbed white and clean.

We sat down twelve to a table and helped ourselves to the eating utensils from a shallow wooden box at the end of the table. We hadn’t long to wait. A man brought a large tray of cups and saucers and plates, we passed them along, then one brought a big kettle of tea, and a tin bowl of brown sugar to sweeten it.
Then came large plates of bread and butter in reach of everyone, and then two shallow trays containing a dozen small dry looking eggs.

It made me wonder what type of fowl had laid such anaemic looking things. The other contained some bacon which was curled up and crispy, which one healthy young appetite could have eaten with ease.
Immediately the tea had been poured and everyone had grabbed his bread ration, arms and forks flashed like gladiators, and lo and behold, the bacon had vanished. I and two or three more had missed the proverbial boat and beheld the spectacle of an empty bacon dish. "Well," I thought, "I'm having some bacon." So without more ado, I rose from my seat and made my way to the galley, which was placed on the far side of the dining hall and about halfway down.

I was conscious of scores of eyes following me and apparently, it was something you didn’t lightly undertake. As I walked into the galley, the cooks gaped at me with incredulous eyes. I felt that I was walking on hallowed ground and invading their steaming, sizzling domain, but fortified by the smell of frying bacon.
I answered the P.O. cook in charge, "I want more bacon, and four of us have had none." "Why not ask the greedy buggers who scoffed the lot?" he said. Anyway he took pity on me and I got a real good helping, for we who had missed out, when I got back, I shared it out with the lads who had had none.
“What about ours?” the others said. "You can f*** off you greedy b******s, you've had yours. Fetch some if you want some." But they were lacking in courage when it came to asking for more, and facing the galley staff, I realised after that they really had to provide more if you were still hungry, for an officer used to come round asking if we’d any complaints and it wouldn’t have made a good impression if someone had jumped up and said he was still hungry.

The days went by and we were soon issued with uniforms. Behind a high counter were several WRNS. Two or three were good looking and it wasn’t long before jokes were made on their behalf. The P.O., with a stern look on his face said, “Quiet there,” but behind it lay a quiet chuckle. One asked shoe sizes and hat sizes. We tried trousers and tunics behind one screen, and we were given, well, two of everything and one seaman’s knife, a heavy metal knife containing a fold in blade and a spike. Next, we were given two boiler suits, larger than you would normally buy in Civvy Street, but of course, you needed the larger size to go over your uniform.
We stamped our name on all our items of clothing, not so it would show outwardly. Everything had to be marked, towels, blankets, kitbag, hammock everything that moved.

Next we were taken to give an oath of allegiance to King and Country, and that now meant we were really Royal Navy and were under the full vigours of Naval Law and discipline. Our civvies we packed carefully away and sent home, case and all.
We were issued with a pay and identity book. An official photographer took our photo, one at a time, and this we had to stick in the place reserved for it. This small book had to be carried on shore leave, it had to be produced on pay day and carried details of home leave, rating, travel warrants inoculations and was quite an important document.

We were also split up into watches, port and starboard, then issued with a small card, green for port and red for starboard. These were used for organizing working parties in the barracks and covered any granting of shore leave locally. If you broke any rules or regulations, this was taken off you. Your very movements were covered by the use of this little card.
Punishment was awarded through this card and the P.O. or Chief P.O. in charge collected this card and marched you for dental check-ups, haircuts, medical check ups, in fact, everything. You couldn't wangle your way out, for you were checked by that little card.

The rum issue was marked on it; if you took rum, it had a G for grog marked on it, if you were a non-drinker it had a T and under age it had UA. If you were old enough to draw your rum, you received your tot, measured out carefully by a copper measure.
Anyone not drawing their tot and being temperant received 3d (thrupence, slightly more than 1p) a day cash in lieu, the rum issue came just before the midday meal and it used to give a tremendous boost to the appetite.

Barrack life comprised a round of work routines from peeling spuds and other vegetables, and chucking them into great metal vats. Of all these jobs for the galley, the worst was peeling onions.
It made you wonder where the tears came from. A chorus of moans and groans came from the onion detail. "Oh effing hell, not that again! You poor sods'", from the more fortunate.

Polishing the floors wasn't so bad because you were inside. But your arms ached, pushing the big square polisher up and down and you felt you were banging your head against a brick wall, because by evening it was as bad again.

Dust used to pile up through the few broken pains of glass, so by evening rounds at 9 o'clock the duty watch had to tidy it up before the visit of the duty officer and his entourage. Barracks was a cold place in December 1939, and maybe it played a part in hardening us up.

We were flustering for work in the cold morning, and marching off to our various assignments with overalls rolled up and tucked under armpits. What appeared funny to me were the men going down to jobs in the Dockyard. They’d fall in maybe a hundred or so and a blue jacket band leopard skins, white gaiters and all, would march in front. The bandmaster, twirling his baton with the gleaming brass ball on it and the various P.O's in charge of parties chanting, "Left, left, left, right," to the naval airs the band played.
Probably it was good practice for the band, maybe it inspired some poor rating destined for a job cleaning bilges out, one of the dismal tasks on a sub. For when they returned from their job, they had the added job of cleaning their boiler suit.
Try cleaning an oily boiler suit with a bar of soap and elbow grease. You always seemed to miss the hot water and it was usually luke warm.

Pr-BR

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