Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 20

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 20

After my month at Swindon, it came as a shock to all of us when we received orders to move, to take over the defence of Plymouth. After handing over to an incoming unit, the lorries which had brought them were used to take us down to the station for the overnight journey to Plymouth. The takeover was a bit messy, because the gun sites were widely separated, one requiring a boat trip and another accessed by ferry. I found myself in a large, gloomy, Victorian house, in Durnford Street, opposite the Royal Marine Barracks. It was just getting light and I think that I was a bit over whelmed. I was taking over from THREE troop officers, all telling me information and giving me advice about local problems. I was glad when they had all departed and I was able to look around, while the fat lad made me a cup of tea. First of all I rang round the four gun sites to check that all was well. (Gun sites are always numbered I, 2, 3 and 4 and I had told the four detachment commanders that they would occupy the corresponding sites in the new location). My latest motorbike, a “Matchless”, parked with the lorry, in the back yard, was brought into action, as I set off on my epic journey, a journey to be repeated many times in the month.
First, down to the Barbican, the historic quay, from which the Pilgrim Fathers finally left for America, in the 17th century. A naval picket boat left, from the Pilgrims’ Steps, on the hour, for Drake’s Island, a fortress commanding the entrance to Plymouth Sound. Leaving the bike on the Barbican, I transferred to the boat and crossed to the Island with a cheerful sailor steering the launch. I had a quick look round and everyone seemed O.K. if a little dazed, at the sudden change from watching GWR trains to watching warships!
Back to the boat and the Barbican, then, after checking the sketch map, provided by the departed tenants, I rode along the seafront, to Mount Wise, immediately above the two open air swimming pools, set a long way below, by the sea. The hill was shared by my gun site and an RAF establishment of some kind. As I was talking to the Sergeant, (Who was to get me into trouble a week later), I noticed a destroyer coming down from Devonport with the Ship’s Company lined up on the port side. Suddenly, from a little hut, built into the cliff face, an elderly Petty Officer emerged, stood at attention, on a platform, and blew toots on a little whistle, answered from the deck of the destroyer, down below. My lads told me that this ceremony occurred every time a warship entered or left. The history of this Devonshire naval port with its traditions going back before Drake and the Armada was getting through to me. So was the devastation, especially in Devonport. I have learned since, that, after London, Plymouth was the most bombed city in the country and the modern City has almost completely been rebuilt.
I resumed my journey up Park Avenue, through the centre of Devonport, to Pottery Road and down the slope to the Torpoint chain ferry. I rode the bike straight onto the flat ferry and stayed in the saddle as the ferry picked up its chain from the bottom of the Hamoaze and wound itself across to Cornwall. The Torpoint hillside was covered in oil tanks and my gun site was half way between the road and the water, approached by a long flight of steps made from logs. All was well on that first day, so back to the ferry and northwards to St. Buddeaux, where my site was on a naval training base called HMS Raleigh. No ferry or boat trip here, but a gate with a sentry to negotiate.
No real problem on No. 4 site, so back on my steed, for a run down to the Hoe, to the Citadel. This fortress, built by William III, had been superseded by a considerable underground Headquarters, underneath the Hoe. On stating my business, I was taken to the Duty lieutenant, who gave me the aircraft recognition signals for the next day. These two letters and two colours were changed every day. The theory was that if an allied aircraft was fired on, it could either fire off the two appropriate flares, or flash the right Morse code letters, which would identify it as friendly. The navy bloke gave me a pass, so that I could get through the entrance security. (It was forbidden for the signals to be telephoned)
Back to Durnford Street, for a well earned meal and bed! At 6am I was rudely awakened by a Royal Marine bugler sounding Reveille in the barracks across the road. I was too on edge to go to sleep again, had a cuppa, and while breakfast was being cooked, I went on a walk around. I was astonished to find, over my backyard wall, an arm, from the Sound, with a ferry boat discharging lots of commuters, from Mount Edgecumbe, across in Cornwall. The considerable estate, with its great house, was promised, by Phillip of Spain, to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the commander of the Armada, after he had defeated Drake and the English. Once, when visiting the Tor Point gun site, I went down to have a look at this pleasant park, never claimed by the Spaniards! A walk along Durnford Street led to a little beach and a good view across the Sound.
This was virtually my routine, for the next four weeks, but I sometimes altered my route, to take in interesting places, like Smeaton’s Tower, on the Hoe, and the Royal Albert Bridge, across the Tamar. It was lucky that this famous railway bridge, with its proud “I.K. BRUNEL, ENGINEER.” on each entrance, was not hit by the Germans, although they had a lot of near misses if the damage to buildings on the Devonport side was anything to go by!
I went out, one evening, to survey the night life; the region round the Hoe was dominated by inebriated sailors, who often showed an ambivalent attitude to “Brown Jobs” like me. There was also no pleasure in solitary drinks in a pub, so I stayed in and went to bed fairly early, ready for that Marine cock crow in the morning!
Three incidents coloured my life in Plymouth. I called, one day, at the Citadel, for the usual recognition signals where the duty officer asked me if I had a gun site on Mount Wise. When I confirmed that I had, he told me that my colonel was on the site and required my presence immediately. When I arrived, I was confronted by an irate C.O. and a red faced sergeant. I had never met the Lt. Colonel before, but he didn’t waste time on introductions, but got straight to the point by waving the striker, from the gun, in front of me. It appeared that he had asked the gun crew to remove the breech block, to find that there was a hole through the middle of the block, where the striker, its spring and its cover cap should have been. I could certainly see his point of view! He pointed out to me that, as Troop commander, I was responsible. However, I think that he realised, that, single handed, I could not be expected to inspect the gun mechanism, on every visit. In any case I had not yet inspected that gun site. He tore a considerable strip off the sergeant and pushed off. I then tore an even stronger strip off him and reminded him that, in future, he would personally supervise all maintenance. What had happened was that when they had reassembled the breech block, they had, in fact, replaced the striker and its spring, but had failed to turn the bayonet cap far enough, with its special key, and it had not locked
The Sergeant on Drake’s Island telephoned to say that the straw in their palliasses had not been changed for years and could I do something about it? I followed up the advice, given to us at OCTU and rang up the Battery captain who came up trumps, it seems that there were several bales of straw in the garage at Battery HQ and if I sent my truck and driver he could have a couple of bales. In the morning, I instructed my driver, in words of one syllable, to go to Battery HQ, at Plympton, and they would give him two bales of straw. This straw was to be taken to the Barbican and loaded on board the duty picket boat to Drake’s Island.
The gun site on the Island was, as usual, my first call and I warned them to expect the straw and we conferred with the Petty officer from the signal station about burning the old straw. I went away, priding myself on a job well done.
When I arrived at the Citadel, on my way home, I was confronted by the Duty lieutenant, who was, I could see, about to tell me something momentous, the conversation going something like this; “You got a gun site on Drake’s Island?” “Yes what’s up now?” With a grin on his face he went on; “This morning, an Admiral was visiting OC. Plymouth and his admiral’s barge was mooring at the Pilgrims Steps, A voice shouted “Look out” and a bale of straw came rolling down the steps, to finish on the landing stage.” “Good God”, I asked, “What did the Admiral say?” “You don’t want to know!!”
When I got home, I sent for El Stupido. It seems that he assumed that it was the work boat, because the time was right. I pointed out that it contained a man with all kinds of gold trimmings on his cap and sailors, standing to attention, with fancy boathooks! “What did he say?” I asked. “He swore at me, he was ever so rude and he said things I couldn’t understand.” I thought to myself that I knew the feeling!
I got a signal ( actually a letter, but all communications in the army are called signals), that Lt General Sir Frederick Pile, GOC AA Command would be paying us a visit and, due to a tight schedule, he would call at the gun site on Torpoint, two days later at a specified time. I, of course, went round to the site and chatted up the sergeant about preparation for the visit and probably said that we didn’t want any slip ups. In view of the subsequent events, my remarks would have proved prophetic. On the appointed day I turned up early and found everything clean and tidy the sergeant had done a thorough job. Working on the age old Army rule that if it moves, salute it, and if it doesn’t move, whitewash it, he had whitewashed the wooden logs which formed the edges of each step. Major Bailey, there for the occasion, and I, waited for the Great Man who arrived, in the usual be-flagged Humber. He was middle aged to elderly and charming. After the introductions, his ADC led the way down the steps. It would be more accurate to say that he didn’t lead the way because he slipped on the whitewashed first step and sat down with a bump, getting up with a broad white stripe across his backside. There was much suppressed mirth, not least from the General, who walked down very carefully, avoiding the logs! The day old whitewash had not properly dried, because of the damp atmosphere near the river.
My hectic month at Plymouth came to a sudden end when I received a posting order to join the 50th. LAA Regiment at a place called New Radnor. I had almost forgotten that I was a member of a Holding and Training regiment and a permanent appointment could come any time. I was instructed to report to an M.O. in Plymouth for a Medical. When my replacement arrived, I had a day to take him round on my pillion seat, to say goodbye to the sergeants and the HQ Staff and clutching my railway warrant, I told El Stupido to load my luggage and my neatly rolled bedroll into the truck and take me to North Road Station.

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