Bernard Hallas' Story

My Life My War - Chapter 1

By Actiondesk Sheffield

People in story: Bernard Hallas
Location of story: City of Manchester
Unit name: Royal Marines
Background to story: Army

MY LIFE MY WAR

By
Bernard Hallas

Contents
Chapter Title Ref. No.
Chapter 1 An Escape from My Old Life A4112371
Chapter 2a May 1935, The Birth of a New Life A4112452
Chapter 2b May 1935, The Birth of a New Life (Cont.) A4112515
Chapter 3a To the ‘Killing Fields’ A4112614
Chapter 3b To the ‘Killing Fields’ Cont.) A4112678
Chapter 4 Eager to be off A4112731
Chapter 5a My First Big Ship A4112759
Chapter 5b My First Big Ship (Cont.) A4112768
Chapter 6 Back to the Grime A4112902
Chapter 7a I Meet my Future Wife A4112948
Chapter 7b I Meet my Future Wife (Cont.) A4112975
Chapter 8a A French Catastrophe A4113028
Chapter 8b A French Catastrophe (Cont.) A4113073
Chapter 9a The Taranto Victory A0000000
Chapter 9b The Taranto Victory (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 10a The Catastrophe that was Crete A0000000
Chapter 10b The Catastrophe that was Crete (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 11a Heaven over the Horizon A0000000
Chapter 11b Heaven over the Horizon (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 12a Back on Board A0000000
Chapter 12b Back on Board (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 12c Back on Board (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 13a We Bombard Salerno A0000000
Chapter 13b We Bombard Salerno (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 13c We Bombard Salerno (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 13d We Bombard Salerno (Cont.) A0000000
Chapter 14 I “Find my Brother” A0000000

Introduction
This is not and was never intended to be a work of fiction. It is a true compilation of a sequence of events drawn from the life of the author who was born in the poorer quarter of the City of Manchester in the year 1918 and was brought up in the catastrophic aftermath of the Great War 1914 / 1918. When he arrived at an age of responsibility, which he had decided was 17 years, that enough was enough and walked away…





Chapter 1 – An Escape from My Old Life

To the Post War population poverty has never been experienced to the same degree as it had been in the twenties and thirties; to the majority of the unemployed, life was merely an existence and acts that today would be considered degrading were every day occurrences.

To those who fell foul of the habit of smoking, it was not considered out of the ordinary to wait outside cinemas at the end of each performance and as the emergency doors were thrown open, to fight their way through the outgoing mass and once inside run along the rows of seats emptying the ash trays of their contents before they were caught by the cinema attendants.

It was then off to the city centre to wait outside the various hotels and as the ‘Toffs’ stubbed out their smokes before entering their transports home, become engaged in scuffles to retrieve the much valued ‘Fag ends’ from the gutter. Cigar butts were an extra dividend and a much-prized commodity. It was then home where the proceeds of the night’s activity were carefully shredded and rebuilt with the help of the faithful Rizla cigarette rolling machine, after which it was a case of selling them off to the highest bidder after retaining some for home consumption.

On the food line in the larger green grocers such as Allendales, it was the normal practice to “Top and Tail” the vegetables, this comprised of chopping off the dirty root end and the unwanted top leaves, these were discarded into a corner bin and sold at a very meagre charge to the poor of the district under the exalted title of Pot Herbs. Mixed with a variety of bones from sympathetic butchers they produced a substantial meal for the ever-hungry family.

At week ends an added luxury was the unsold cakes that would be un-saleable by the Monday. These were bagged by the local bread shops and once again for a very small charge distributed to the poorer elements of the local population.

As I have explained, with no social security in existence, cash was in great demand and it was not uncommon to see the “Ragamuffins” waiting outside the various train and bus stations with broken down perambulators, offering to carry suitcases for a copper or two. The older boys of the family would ride their old ‘Boneshaker’ bicycles around the city selling the current daily newspaper. For every thirteen copies sold they were rewarded with the princely sum of one and a half pennies; that was the old penny at two hundred and forty to the pound.

Besides being fed and watered, the family had to be clothed and for many that was the last consideration. Under clothes were practically unknown and with holes in the seat of their pants it was common practice before getting fully dressed in the morning, to pass the longer tail of their shirts between their legs and pull it up at the front to at least give some degree of modesty to the wearer.

On the sanitation side what is now considered a necessity was in fact non-existent. As far as a certain section of the community was concerned, toiletries had not been invented, even public conveniences did not supply them as they were stolen so quickly. Toilet paper had to consist of what was readily available, i.e. magazines, newspapers, paper bags etc. There was never a shortage of substitutes. Soot from the back of the fireplace cleaned your teeth, burnt ash from the embers of the fire were used to scour the dirty pans and in many cases thick cardboard was cut to shape to provide insoles for shabby shoes that let the water in. All this lack of sanitary products had of course its backlash.

Vermin increased in the poorer quarters and living in overcrowded conditions did not improve matters. Head lice was a common complaint and having been discovered by the “Nit Nurse”, it was not unusual for the guilty party to have to suffer the disgrace of having his or her head shaved. In the very poor quarters, “The Slums,” body lice was also a major problem and the structure of the buildings themselves were contaminated by colonies of bed bugs, which were reputed to come out at night and live on the blood of their victims, and then retire to the crevices in the plaster walls and the frames of pictures (if these had not already been burnt to provide warmth). One could go on and on describing the deprivations of the poor and still not cover everything that they had to suffer. All this was taken as the norm.

The “War to end Wars” had been over for some time, we were in the late twenties and thousands of now unwanted ex service men had returned home to a life of unemployment in their native cities. There was no such thing as social security, if you had no job you had no money, it was as simple as that. Eventually the government was forced to take some sort of action to alleviate the suffering and the hardships of the ordinary men and women of a much increased population, caused no doubt by the return after many years of military service and the deprivation of the normal family activities.

Under the infamous disliked title of the Means Test, it was considered right and proper for the already deprived and starving families to have their belongings inspected and then ordered to part with anything in excess of their requirements and to sell them and live on the proceeds, after which they may possibly receive food vouchers. Accommodation was at a premium for all of the poorer classes, mixed sexes sleeping together in over crowded beds leading to a certain amount of promiscuity.

Incest was not unknown amongst families, young girls were forced into prostitution and more than a fair share of them were put into “Service”, living in the houses of the really well to do families and working long hours for food and lodging and a very small pittance. Obviously, even this had its drawbacks, some of the girls were treated quite well, and others unfortunately were treated like slaves.

The returning armies were of course the main part of the poorer classes and the young were only too eager to try all in their power to extricate themselves out of the filthy morass that threatened to engulf them. I was no exception; my Father had been badly crippled and was unemployable. Out of our large family, the girls chose going into service and the boys unable to find decent employment, were only too keen to go into the various armed forces, if they were eligible.

Obviously with an Irish Mother and an Irish background, we had to be Catholic and attend a Catholic school. The school of our area was St. Aloysius’s or something near to that, “I was never all that religious”. On one particular morning I was sent to school after a short absence, with a note, explaining that I had been really unwell, the Mother Superior decided that this was an untruth and promptly bent me over a bench and was in the process of giving my backside one or two holy strokes, when who should walk into the class room but a very irate Mrs. Hallas, nee McGarry?

Now Mrs. Hallas was a very hefty washerwoman, all fourteen stone of her and it was her religious belief that no one, but her, chastised her children. The Mother Superior finished up on the other side of the desk, on her back and I and my half brother Albert were marched out of the building and down to a Church of England school where we were enrolled as Anglicans, and so remained to the end of our days.

The local priest almost lived on our doorstep, but to no avail. He pleaded and pleaded but our mother was adamant. It was however an expensive exercise. My mother was summoned to attend the local court in Minshull Street Manchester, for assaulting the Mother Superior and was fined the sum of five shillings. There was no difficulty in paying the fine; a street collection raised more than enough to pay it off. It was not every day that a Mother Superior was given a good hiding.

We had no complaints with our new religion and the school was small enough to concentrate on giving its pupils a reasonable education. St. Paul’s, Brunswick Street Chorlton on Medlock was a lot smaller than the Catholic Church school and had only two classrooms and two teachers. One, Mr. Slater was a sadist who kept his Malacca canes soaking in water in a pickle jar and enjoyed taking them out every ten minutes or so to bend them. Tall and cadaverous, he was disliked intensely. The other, Mr. Hewitt was short and tubby and most sympathetic to his charges, he very often brought articles of clothing, donated by his well off neighbours and distributed them among the most needy in the school. I shall always remember Saint Paul’s.

The building itself was built on the corner of a row of terraced houses. As you entered the front door there was one classroom on your left and directly facing you, a flight of well-worn stone steps. This was repeated on the next floor, after which there was a small playground on the roof surrounded by a high wall and a tall iron railing. It was supposed to be high enough to prevent a ball from going over but it was usually ineffective. It was within its walls that I first discovered the meaning of humanity, even the poor went out of their way to share what little they had with those who were less fortunate.

After leaving school I worked as a plumber’s mate, a grocer’s boy and as a very young receptionist in a dance hall in Oxford Street. This was my training ground for the tricks of the trade. The Plaza came to life at the weekend, and I was responsible for escorting the customers to their tables. It was the common practice to reserve most of the popular tables near to the band in my own name and then make pretence of being extra generous and allow chosen couples to be seated at the tables after I had made a show of removing the ‘Reserved’ ticket. This invariably resulted in a rather generous tip, as I explained before I was now beginning to see the other side of life, and I was also determined that I was going to have my share of it. This was one of the most popular ways of supplementing your week’s wages.

After a few months I decided that I had to make the final effort and leave home, I knew that it was not going to be easy and that I would have to make a really determined effort to make the final break that would entail leaving my family, and at the same time robbing them of the only breadwinner that they had. I knew that it would hit them hard but I knew that it had to be done, but when? I decided that it would have to be on my seventeenth birthday. I would have to make a clean break, get as far away as I possibly could and then write and try to say what had been on my mind for a very long time.

At last came the day that I had been waiting for so long. Tomorrow I would be seventeen years of age, I could not as yet envisage my future, I could only look back at my past and it was not a pretty picture. Living in squalid conditions, listening to the family arguments and sometimes, vicious rows that were made more vicious by the demoralisation that had been created by suffering the extremes of poverty that I had endured for most of my childhood. Was now the chance to end it? It had to be; I had to cut the ties that had held me in bondage for so many years.

It was a lot easier than I had ever imagined. Waiting until everyone had gone to bed I left the large bleak house in which I had existed for more years than I care to remember. I walked through the night, listening to the patrolling policemen tapping their signals with their nightsticks on the stone kerbs. More than once I attracted their attention as I walked through the dark rows of shops in the city centre. I always gave the same answer, “I’m going to join up sir, and I’m going into the Navy.” I had no idea whether or not they believed me but they all pointed me in the right direction and wished me luck.

By the time I arrived at my destination, dawn was already creeping over the roofs of the towering office blocks and the early risers were already opening up and getting their places of employment ready for the day’s business. It was here that I had my first taste of kindness from my fellow human beings. As I sheltered in the dark doorway of the recruiting office, I was offered mugs of hot tea from those who were fortunate enough to be in full employment. I had not yet learned that this was the code of the day in those dark days of the thirties.

Eventually the heavy doors were opened and I was invited to enter and take a seat. I was not impressed, it was dark and dismal and the walls were covered with posters of far away places. There were two desks, occupied by two totally different people. One was short and tubby and dressed in a navy blue uniform with a white shirt and black tie. The other appeared to be taller, also in a blue uniform but buttoned up to the neck and with the buttons brightly polished, he also had a fair share of gold badges on his sleeves. When he spoke, his voice carried just that amount of authority that commanded an immediate response, but at the same time there was a hint of kindness in his voice. It was a strange voice, firm but gentle, I decided then and there that this was a person in whom I could place my trust. I remember thinking to myself, perhaps he too had run away from home and from that moment on, I was quite prepared to put my future in his hands and to do exactly as he said.

As later events proved, it was a wise decision and one that I was never to regret. As my parents had refused to sign my enlistment papers, it was necessary for the Recruiting Officer to engage the services of the local J.P, who, after questioning my reasons, signed the papers in their absence and after receiving the King’s Shilling I was duly enrolled. I took a solemn oath to serve my King and Country for twelve long years (or more) and became a recruit in His Majesty’s Royal Marines. I was already “Walking Tall”.

After a cup of tea and a corned beef sandwich, I was escorted to the main line railway station and supplied with a free warrant which would entitle me to travel to some hitherto unknown place named on my papers as Deal in the county of Kent. It did not take me many days after my arrival to realise that this small town on the South coast was the “Mecca” of all Royal Marines. I start my new life from here.

Chapter 2a - May 1935, The Birth of a New Life

From this small seaside town Royal Marines had departed, fully trained to man the guns of the fleet and to land on far distant shores to defend the distant outposts of what was then our Empire. Kipling describes a Royal Marine as “All over the world you will find him, a’ doing all sorts of things, like landing himself with a Gatling Gun, to talk to them heathen kings”. It would appear that even at this early stage; our shabby appearance had to be hidden from the curious eyes of the locals. And in the quickest possible time we were marched off the platform.

My first impression was quite bleak, leaving the station along with two other would be heroes and led by a corporal in an immaculate uniform, we were taken down the back lanes to our destination: an iron studded door half hidden by masses of ivy on a very high brick wall. The door was opened with a huge key and as we entered, I remember thinking that this was the point of no return and I also remember those immortal words that all mothers say to their daughters when they get married, “Well, you have made your bed, now you have to lie on it.”

No one had ever bothered to tell me, just how hard that bed was going to be, well, for the next twelve months at least. We had now entered a large bathroom containing six communal baths, full to the brim with what appeared to be very hot water and having a strong carbolic smell. We were stripped down to our skin and all our clothes placed in individual cardboard boxes addressed ready for posting home. There was to be no danger of anything unpleasant entering this establishment. Standing there completely naked, I was amazed that there did not appear to be any semblance of shyness amongst us, we were as one and the removal of our clothes had put us all on the same level, we were now equals.

Stepping gingerly into the hot baths we were then instructed to scrub each others’ backs and soak our heads completely. Only when your guardian was satisfied were you allowed out of the bath and supplied with a large towel to dry yourself. Covering our nudity we then proceeded to the next department, which was the Quartermasters store.

We were now to be issued with our kit. It was quite unbelievable, starting from the ground up there was three of everything, three pairs of socks, three pairs of underpants, three vests, and three shirts then came the uniforms two plain blue serge trousers, and one pair of dress trousers with a bright red stripe down the side seam. Two plain blue serge tunics and a ceremonial tunic, two khaki tunics and khaki trousers, two khaki drill tunics with trousers to match and two pairs of khaki drill shorts plus three short sleeved khaki shirts.

I had never seen such a large selection of clothing. There were the necessary "Puttees”, a khaki bandage that was to be neatly rolled around the lower leg from below the knee to the ankle, this we were told, was to protect us from snake bites, a regimental coloured belt and a pair of cloth braces. Then came the “Great coat” a really smart overcoat that was, compared to those issued to the Army, an out standing garment. The last items to be issued were two pairs of overalls, for all the dirty work around the barracks. Packing all of this into a newly issued kit bag of huge dimensions we then entered the equipment store and started all over again.

A full set of green webbing, belt, shoulder straps, ammunition pouches, bayonet ”Frog” to hold your bayonet (I never did find out why it was so called), back pack, haversack water bottle, two rifle slings, one green and one white for ceremonial, one white ceremonial belt, one white ceremonial helmet, two blue uniform caps, one steel helmet, one gas mask and to complete the issue one entrenching tool with webbing cover, this was a small collapsible spade, which was, we were so informed, to dig your own grave when landing on foreign soil.

The last item was your’ Housewife’, a heavy twill roll with six pockets and in its appropriate pocket was a knife, fork, spoon, comb, button stick for keeping the metal polish off your uniform during the polishing process, and last, your wooden Name type block. An end pocket contained a Gillette razor and sharpening strop, and a toothbrush. Packing all this was a major task and we were all instructed to keep a sharp eye on everything, any lost item would have to be re-issued and paid for.

As a protection against anything lost or stolen, we had to pay sixpence for the wooden stamp. On one side was your name and on the other your regimental number. For the remainder of my service career I was to be known as Marine “B. Hallas. CHX1219”.

It was only a short walk from the stores to our allotted barrack room but in our pre trained emaciated condition we were glad to get rid of the two heavy kit bags and look at our surroundings. There were twenty beds and only eight of us; it was decision time, on whom for the next year or so was to be your next bed neighbour. I had already made the acquaintance of a pleasant lad from Scotland with an accent as wide as his smile, and it was by a mutual agreement that we decided that we should pair off.

From that moment we became firm friends for many years. His name was Anderson but to one and all he was always referred to as “Jock”. We stood side by side and studied our new world, which was a space approximately eight feet by four feet. The beds were just iron frames in two halves with a push and pull arrangement that enabled you to reduce the bed to half it’s size by pushing the foot end up and under the top half. At the back of the bed was your rifle rack and wooden pegs for holding your great coat and above all this was a small iron shelf on which you had to place tour equipment, it seems that there was a place for everything but there were no palliases or bed clothes. Apparently, that was no problem and we would soon discover the mystery of bed making.

We were each issued with a fairly strong large cotton cover and we trooped down to the stable, the instructions were very strict. Working in pairs, each cotton bag had to be stuffed with as much straw as possible, one of each pair, would then stand inside jumping up and down to pack in as much straw as you could, if you failed to comply with the instructions supplied by the Instructor, within a week or two, you would be very sorry indeed and you would be sleeping on a very hard metal frame.

That night there was no sleep for any of us. Balanced precariously on this huge mound we were disturbed many times by the sound of bodies hitting the hard floor and the ensuing curses in many different dialects.

The next day was fairly easy. Our first duty after breakfast was to stamp all our items of kit with our name and regimental number, after which we were introduced to our squad Instructor Corporal Blank; I have omitted his name for reasons that will be explained at a later date. He informed us that for the remainder of our time in the Depot we would be known as the 225 Squad.

In the next few days, we carried out various fatigues which included keeping the barracks spotlessly clean, until we arrived at our full strength of forty and could be called a squad. As we had no experience of marching, we were contained on the Theatre Parade, so called because it housed at one end of the square the very ancient Globe Theatre where on so many nights in the week, it was possible to see various films and at times, plays, organised by the senior squads. It was a smaller edition of the Holy of Holies, the main parade. This smaller edition was situated out of sight of the remainder of the barrack inmates and there we would be incarcerated until it was considered that we were fit to be seen.

It was hard; mistakes were made and corrected time after time. For the first two weeks there were no punishments, but it was inevitable that we were due for a sudden change in the third and fourth week. By that time we had decided that our Instructor had had no Father, but as one man we suffered in silence, our day would come. In between drills, we had been inspected in all our uniforms by successive officers, first the Company Commander, followed by the Adjutant, then the Brigade Major and finally by the Commandant himself.

At each parade, the Master Tailor would make alterations, marking with his triangle of chalk every correction that that particular Officer demanded. Each uniform was then returned for alteration after which it was once again re inspected until it was considered by each successive officer to be in a fit state to be worn. At the end of the fitting sessions we could be forgiven for walking around the barracks as if we were Beau Brummels.

On the Monday morning of the fifth week we joined the main parade, and as the junior squad, took our place at the rear of the squads, the “King’s Squad”. This squad because of it’s seniority was of course the leading squad and was inspected first. The remainder were seen one by one by the Parade Sergeant Major, and having satisfied himself by dealing out the appropriate punishments for all sorts of minor crimes, he took his appointed place for the dismissal of the squads. One by one the Instructors marched their squads off the parade to their different destinations.

Now was the moment. I had already stated that the squad as a whole had decided that we could no longer put up with the excessive punishments meted out for very minor offences by an instructor who had shown us that he had sadistic tendencies, but how to express our dissatisfaction without incriminating one particular person.

The previous evening we had called a meeting of all the squad and it was agreed that on the next day’s parade, after we had been inspected and dismissed, we would as one man ignore all orders given by our instructor. This was crunch time. Standing perfectly to attention, we awaited his orders. “Move to the left in threes, left turn”. There was no response from the squad, and the order was repeated, still no response, we were like statues.

It was almost unbelievable, everyone in the vicinity of the parade was now in a state of tense excitement, even the leaves on the trees had stopped trembling. It had never happened before in the two hundred and seventy one years of the Corps’ history, the junior squad on parade defying the lawful commands of the instructor.

It was now the turn of the First Drill, “225 Squad, and move to the left in threes, left turn.” It was the smartest left turn executed that morning, there was an audible sigh of relief from around the parade. “Carry on Corporal,” bellowed the First Drill. It was a stalemate, once more the voice of Corporal blank rang out “225 Squad, by the left quick march,” and once more there was no sign of movement from the squad.

It was now obvious that Sammy Sparks, the Parade Sgt Major would have to take a hand, “Squad, by the left, quick march.” Forty left feet hit the ground as one, as we stepped off in unison and the tension seemed to ease, it was short lived. As we came to the edge of the parade, our Corporal gave out the order, “Change direction left, left wheel,” he might just as well have said nothing. There was no way we were going to change direction on his say so, we kept marching straight ahead, crashing through the ranks of the immaculate King’s Squad who, after circumnavigating the parade just happened to pass at the wrong moment.

As we came to the wall of the Infantry Training room, it was apparent that the parade Sgt Major had had more than he could stand. “First Drill, take over that squad, Corporal Blank, fall in outside my office,” he bellowed and marched off the parade and out of sight, no doubt to take his tablets. Meanwhile the First Drill marched us off the parade and up to our barrack room. We were dismissed and the First Drill left and made his way back to report to the Sgt Major. In the parade office, the senior parade staff, in their wisdom had decided to play it low key, and as no officers had made their presence known, decided that no further action, other than a very expressive warning, would be taken.

It took some time for us to realise that our collective action had been successful, our Instructor was returned to his home base, Plymouth, and we were to be placed under the personal supervision of the most respected Instructor in the Depot, i.e. First Drill Fletcher.

As for the squad, we had been instructed to erase it from our memory and not to discuss it around the barracks. Fortunately it was a one-day wonder and died a natural death. There was no further trouble for the remainder of our training and we were treated no worse nor better than any other squad as we progressed through the daily routines.

Chapter 2b - May 1935, The Birth of a New Life (Cont.)

As time passed by, the various members of the squad had sorted themselves out with their obvious likes and dislikes, to choose their friends in teams for sports and recreation alike. In all we were a mixed bunch, within our own circle we could travel from the slums of Manchester and the Gorbals in Glasgow to a life of refinement as a footman, to an Earl or some other person of high rank. Then of course there were the different dialects stretching along the length and breadth of Britain, from Lands End to John o’ Groats and over the sea to Ireland.

We were indeed a mixed bunch, but we were loyal to each other within the squad. At that moment in time we never imagined that at some time in the future we would be engaged in a major war and that the friendships and ties that bound us together as Royal Marines would be put to the test, and that some of us would be remembering the last words spoken by our friends and comrades before we committed them to a watery grave in some far off ocean. But I digress, the future is a long way off and we are still struggling to make the grade here in Deal.

Our training had started off with the basics of personal hygiene; how to keep ourselves clean. We were taken to a barber’s shop in the town and taught how to shave, a visit to a dry cleaner’s to learn the rudiments of cleaning and pressing clothes; a cobbler’s for tips on keeping our boots in tip top condition and a visit to the public wash house to be shown how to wash our underclothes. Armed with a bar of soap (Sunlight), a shirt, vest, underpants,socks and a scrubbing brush, we were placed in alternate positions between very hefty ladies who explained how to treat each article and how to press them when dry. When finished we were informed by the ladies “That we would make some lucky girl a good husband.”

In our well earned time off, (we had at last passed inspection and were now considered decent enough to be seen by the public), we soon found out that we were expected to attend the local hostelry, and discovered that our main occupation was competing with the members of the senior squads for the favours of the local lasses, and there were more than a few willing to spread those favours around.

We were of course starting off with a slight advantage The local lasses were searching around for ‘fresh blood’. Two of the most attractive and obviously the most sought after were Dot and Dolly, close friends, who were both daughters of members of the local coal mining fraternity. As Deal was a very small community, there were many confrontations between fathers and would be lovers. However in the course of a few short days I was informed that the Gods had looked upon me favourably and as a result, I was privileged to be accepted as a regular date by the good looking Dot, much to the dismay of the remainder of the hopefuls.

Seventeen going on eighteen I thought I was a man of the world, but after the first night on the golf course on the outskirts of the town I realised that here was a young lady who not only had and knew every thing, but who was only too willing to teach some young Marine the joys of living. That night after my usual quota of "Bulmer’s Cider,” I had not as yet acquired a taste for beer; I made my excuses and left the pub. I had made arrangements to take Dot home.

We made our way hand in hand (a practice frowned upon in daytime by the ever present Royal Marine Police) along the perimeter of the golf course, taking the long way home, mainly I suppose to avoid any contact with the stray drunken miner on his way back to his village, but also because it was the quietest and darkest way home. Following the old stonewall, which bordered the lane, we came to a recess in the stonework and Dot stopped and sat on a conveniently placed ledge of stone. Pulling me towards her she unbuttoned my double-breasted overcoat, and putting her arms inside, she clasped them behind my back and drew me even closer, if that were possible. In that firm embrace it had to happen, we kissed and her lips were as soft as I had imagined. Her tongue flickered in and out parting my lips with long searching probes.

She knew by now that I was fully aroused and her hands left my back and moved to the front, where, without any hesitation, she undid one by one the buttons that stood between her and her ultimate objective. Her fingers were warm and gentle; I could sense her eagerness, her knees parted and her legs locked tight behind my thighs.

Somehow she had managed to re-arrange her underclothes and now there was nothing between us but my will power and that was failing me by the minute. I have to admit that I was a little nervous, and as this was my first real encounter with the opposite sex, a little clumsy.

I had no need to worry. Ever so slowly she moved in and by now I was only too willing to co-operate, at first it seemed that it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, but as Dot raised herself to a more comfortable position and moved her hips forward, everything became easy, the obstruction, if there had been one, was gone. I was now in full control (I think), and as I entered, she gave a small groan through parted lips and forced her once wide open thighs closer and closer, working with a frantic rhythm until, with a final thrust we both reached that ultimate moment and the earth seemed to explode as we climaxed simultaneously.

For a long time we stayed locked together and then as our breath returned we made ourselves presentable, and holding hands, we walked to the end of the short lane where Dot lived. A last goodnight kiss and reluctantly, I turned and walked home alone; for Dot I suppose it had been another conquest, if one could believe the stories, but that night I had my doubts. For me, had she only known it, I had lost my virginity and as I walked through the guard room gates, I imagined that every one could tell.

That night I had a very disturbed sleep, I was reliving every delicious moment of my night out with Dot and convincing myself that, God willing, there would be many more nights together, but we were both aware that in a few short months 225 squad would be departing for new pastures and another squad would take our place and I would go on my way, fully indoctrinated into the pleasures of the flesh and all the better for it.

There was one thing that I was sure of, I would always remember my very first teacher. The ensuing weeks were of course to prove just as exciting and at times very strenuous; the Royal Marines not only expected a 100% performance from every man, but also were determined to get an extra 5% over and above the prescribed maximum.

We had already been categorised as to our capability of absorbing punishment. We had been detailed off to parade in the gymnasium in plimsolls and shorts, and were paired off with whomever was standing next to you. With no preamble as to size and weight, you entered the boxing ring, were fitted with 10 oz gloves and watched by the remainder of the squads, who themselves had done it before and with the company commanders sitting in the front row, you really hammered each other for a full three minutes.

At the end of those three long minutes, bloody but unbowed, the officers had at least an inkling of the calibre of the men under their command. It was obvious that at the start of our training we would fall foul of the establishment, each in our turn would be punished and sentenced to at least one hour’s extra drill. Dressed in ‘Battle Order’ with rifle, we would be taken to the beach and drilled at the double with very few pauses.

The beach at Deal was comprised of large duck stones and our heavy studded boots sank into them and made life very unbearable. To say that it was hell was an understatement, and one and all vowed that if it were at all possible, it would never happen again, and in my case that was quite true.

We were in our tenth week of infantry drill of the very highest order. Arms drill, fixing bayonets on the march (a speciality of the Royal Marines) in those far off days, firing ceremonial volleys and countless precision movements on the march from start to finish with no verbal orders, working on the number of paces taken or on the beat of the music.

Our instructor was a perfectionist and only perfection would satisfy him. Having completed the necessary number of weeks laid down in the training manual for infantry drill and ceremonial, it was now time to leave barracks and go out into the field and be instructed in the use of weapons under live conditions.

It was now the turn of the field training instructors to take us out into the wild and teach us the real reason for wearing the Globe and Laurel: for us to go out and fight, with efficiency and to the best of our ability. It was not going to be an easy ride.

Chapter 3a - To The “Killing Fields”

We set off in our lorries, dressed in our rough field uniforms and sharing the platoon weapons between us. There were two Vickers Machine guns, six Lewis guns, four 2" Mortars, two 3" Mortars, a Projector Infantry Anti Tank (PIAT) gun and various small arms. It was going to be a wild, wild party. The instructors were looking forward to the training as much as the troops.

The parade ground would be forgotten, but there would be a different kind of discipline, a discipline that would be enforced up to the hilt in order to save lives. But there would be no “Spit and Polish”. The only cleaning would be on the weapons and that would be carried out under very strict supervision and woe betide anyone who failed to pass the test in that department, the punishment would be severe. Apart from all that, we were all looking forward to weeks of real soldiering. After all, that was what we had enlisted for and we were more than eager to get started. We shouldn’t have been so eager. There were countless hours of monotonous preparation; the simple matter of lying down in a prescribed position was repeated time after time.

Then it was how to hold the rifle, the instructions will remain with me for the rest of my life. Left hand underneath at the point of balance and hold it tight, right hand firmly round the small of the butt, grip it tight and pull the rifle firmly into the shoulder, place your finger on the trigger guard, keep your weapon upright, get the tip of the foresight in line with the centre and level with the shoulders of the back sight, line everything up to the centre of the target and holding the rifle firmly, gently squeeze the trigger.

If you have set the correct range on your back sight you should be rewarded with a bull’s-eye. Then follows a few seconds of apprehension. Your gaze is fixed at 500 yards, the target looks like a postage stamp, the marker at the butts raises his indication marker, passes it back and forwards across the face of the target and finally places it over the spot where your bullet has entered. An outer, in the outer ring, a magpie signified by rotating the marker, creating a black and white effect, an inner, still closer, and if you are lucky, dead centre, a bull’s-eye.

A total miss brings down the wrath of the instructor and you try, try and try again. Eventually you get it right and for your reward you can now wear the coveted crossed rifles on your sleeve, “Marksman” is entered on your company record and most importantly, you are now entitled to an increase of three pence per day on your pittance.

After two weeks, you are considered proficient enough to go out into the training grounds and put your training to the test. The instructors loved It, “Down,” came the order, and time after time we crashed wherever we happened to be, the meticulous timing of our particular instructor was almost certain to ensure that we “Crashed” in the deepest, muddiest hole in the area. It was not unknown, in certain conditions where the terrain was of a sticky nature and clung to your hands, in order to protect your weapon, you would urinate on your fingers and palms to assist in the cleaning process.

We would always pray that water was available. Eventually, all these good things had to end, we had become efficient in firing the mortars, the machine guns and thrown the odd hand grenade, carefully watched by our instructor of course, and were only a few short days from the end of what had been a very exciting and interesting period of our training. We cleaned all our weapons, our equipment and ourselves; we knew that once more back on parade there would be no excuse for traces of our field exercises. There was a thick dividing line between the two.

As soon as we disembarked from the trucks the parade ground instructors were there, bellowing and shouting their orders and letting us know that the ‘Easy Period’ was now over and that we were now back where it really mattered, on the ‘Holy of Holies’, the main parade ground of His Majesty’s Royal Marines, Deal in the county of Kent. A place venerated by countless numbers who had passed through its gates.

After a week of intense revision, the great day dawned. It was to be the culmination of all our efforts. We had now assumed the title of “King’s Squad”. On the designated day we would be paraded in all our glory to pass out in front of the Commandant General Royal Marines and the very senior invited guest, who, more often than not was a senior member of the royal family.

At 10.0’clock, on that Monday morning, we paraded in the drill shed, shining like new pins. We had been preparing since the first notes of reveille, the ceremonial spare coveted chinstrap had been fitted and was taut on our chins. We were straining at the leash and ready for the show of our lives. Our Instructor, First Drill Fletcher, was standing front and centre; as usual he was immaculate and as straight as a ramrod. From the parade ground we could hear the bugler sounding the Officer’s Call and we could imagine the scene that would be unfolding on that large square where we had suffered for almost a year of our young lives. Then it was the band call, and the band which had assembled with us in the drill shed marched off to take their place on the parade.

At last there was silence, the assembled officers would now be seated and the public would be arranged on the three sides of the square. Special seating arrangements had been organised for families and friends alongside the officers; this then was the moment. Our instructor called us to attention and addressed us in a very low tone, “In one minute from now you will be parading in front of your Commandant, remember that you are now the 225th King’s Squad, You are the best that there is, now go out there and show the world.” We were already two inches taller and as he gave the order, “225 King’s Squad, move to the right in fours, Right turn! Quick March”, 40 left heels hit the stone floor as one. It was a thrilling moment as we smartly emerged from the bowels of the drill shed and as we entered the arena to the strains of our regimental march, “A Life on the Ocean Wave”, we were greeted with spontaneous applause from the whole of the assembly.

The next hour was automatic, for myself it was concentration all the way, changing direction, changing formations, arms drill at the halt and on the march, ceremonial drill and as a finale, advancing in review order. We then reformed, and marching in column gave our salute to the presiding officer, after which, we marched off once again to the tumultuous applause of the crowd. We vanished into the darkness of the drill shed, where we were congratulated by our instructor who in turn received our thanks for all of his hard work, and his patience, and his kindness, over the months. After a short pep talk about our future we were dismissed. It was a free day and we duly made our way down to the town to keep our pre-arranged appointments with our girl friends to which we would shortly be saying a fond farewell.

It was appreciated by the powers that be that the evening following the passing out of the King’s squad was something special, and the frequent visits of the Royal Marine Police to the hostelry on the main street, which had been the meeting place for all Royal Marines from time immemorial, was curtailed for a short time. Providing you could walk back to the gate of the barracks, unaided, you were left to your own devices. Time in the Depot was now running out. In a few short days we would be posted to H.Q. Royal Marines Plymouth, the venue chosen for our Naval Gunnery training. A short two days later, it happened, and on the company notice board in clear black letters, it simply said “Tomorrow at 0800 hrs, 225 Squad will parade in full embarkation order with all kit and personal weapons for onward transit to Plymouth.” As the Bugler sounded, “Secure” for the day’s activities there was a concerted rush out of the main gate.

It was time for the last farewell. Dot, like many of the other girls, was in tears as we parted and said goodbye on the edge of the golf course, but I suppose that by now she was used to the ‘routine’ of saying goodbye, no doubt in her case, practice made perfect and by the week-end her heart would be in one piece again and she would be all set for a new conquest.

The journey to Plymouth was uneventful, admittedly, in our white helmets we did draw some slight attention from the public. Even on the South coast in the thirties, Royal Marines were something of a rarity; in the North of England they were practically unknown. It was pleasant when some inquisitive and forward youngster approached you and said “Excuse me sir, what is your uniform?” and you would reply, with just the right amount of pride, “It’s the uniform of His Majesty’s Royal Marines.” It felt good and left you with a warm and rosy feeling.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at one of the oldest barracks in the United Kingdom. The Head Quarters of His Majesty’s Royal Marines, Plymouth Division. The ornate stone archway was huge in structure and led straight on to the main parade ground. As we marched through the impressive entrance the sound of our coming echoed around the four walls of the ancient building. We wheeled to the right and halted in line facing the huge clock. We were to be introduced to our instructor who would be in charge of the squad for the duration of our gunnery training. From the rear his voice rang out. “ 225 Squad, stand at ease, stand easy,” We recognised that voice at once, it was our former enemy from the Depot. He moved round to the front and centre ramrod stiff, and firmly gripping his pace stick, he just stared for a full minute and then he smiled. “It would appear that some of us stepped off on the wrong foot back in Deal, I am sure that here we are going to have a new beginning, this is not the Depot and you are now fully trained marines, so you will be treated as such. When you are dismissed the duty orderly will show you to your quarters, get your kit off and make your way to the dining hall. I shall see that there is a hot meal ready in thirty minutes, squad, dismiss.”

To say that we were relieved was a pleasant understatement. We discovered later that he was more than a little pleased to be returned to his home base and be with his wife and family. From that moment on we worked together as a team. The very next day we were introduced to the Naval Gun Battery, and to our gunnery Instructors. My section was to be allocated to Colour Sergeant Parker, six foot plus and a chin like the prow of a battleship, we realised right from the start that this was not going to be a picnic.


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Chapter 3b - To The “Killing Fields” (Cont.)

Gunnery was a serious business and it was going to be discipline, discipline and yet even more, for without it, catastrophe could be just around the corner. The first hour of every day was “Cleaning Quarters”, every square inch of every gun mounting had to be cleaned to perfection and was examined by experts, the slightest smear was frowned upon and you had to start all over again, life indeed was going to be grim.

However, the gunnery itself had its compensations and I took to it like a duck takes to water. There were of course the odd punishments, but standing to attention cradling a six-inch projectile in your arms made you realise that it paid dividends to pay attention to your instructor.

Starting at the smaller four inch anti aircraft gun and its ammunition we progressed to the six-inch breech loading secondary armament and concluded with the massive fifteen-inch turrets. In sequence we were taught the drill of each and every member of the gun crew, some time in the future it may be necessary to function with only half of your crew left standing.

In addition there were the different types of shells that might have to be dealt with, time fused for aircraft, armour piercing for enemy ships, high explosive for concentrations of enemy troops etc. To conclude our training we had to learn the rudiments of fire control, range finding, deflection, and dip. To explain but one, (dip), was the allowance made for the difference between the alignment of the bore of the gun on the water line and the height of the director controller, some eighty foot plus on the wing of the bridge. As the director layer moved his binoculars up and down and along the horizon, so the pointers on the guns moved in unison and followed his binoculars.

We were taught that there was an important difference between ‘Bearing’ and ‘Inclination’. Bearing was the angle formed between your own fore and aft line and your line of sight measured in degrees, Red or Green (Port or Starboard). Inclination was the angle formed between the enemies’ fore and aft line and your line of sight, measured in degrees left or right. After a while it all seemed as easy as pie. Little did we know that in a few short years we were to find out the hard way just how difficult and how important our training had been.

Training was essential to the safety of any ship that we were posted to in the future. We were continually being told the story of H.M.S. Devonshire in the twenties. During a firing exercise, on a misfire, the captain of the turret opened the breech prematurely. To his horror he could see that the gun had not fired. He immediately made an attempt to close the breech but as history tells us he was seconds too late, the cordite ignited, there was a tremendous explosion and the whole of the turret’s crew perished. No one will ever know the exact truth but that can only be a reasonable explanation.

We finished our course with a spate of Seamanship, running bowlines, reef knots, sheepshanks and knots that boy scouts had never even dreamed of. It was a world full of pleasant surprises and to see an eager team of youngsters rigging sheer legs was a joy to behold. I suppose the easiest way to explain ‘sheer legs’ was to say that it was three huge cylindrical beams of timber, about 15 feet long and six inches in diameter lashed together at one end and spread at the base in the shape of a triangle and hoisted erect by brute strength and resembling the framework of an Indian Tepee (Tent.) From the top dangled a block and tackle and it’s main function was a hastily erected crane for lifting gun barrels.

All clever stuff; then came Fire fighting with damage control. The intention was that at the end of our training we would be as good if not better than the Seamen on board our assigned ships. The three months soon passed and to my amazement I was now the proud possessor of my first gunnery badge. I was a paid QR 3. My qualifications later led to me passing out as a QR 2 and the magnificent increase of nine pence per day.

It had not been all work, we had our free time and of course we had made friends with the local lasses, and as we usually went ashore in pairs, it sometimes led to complications. My current buddy was a Scot, Jock Anderson. He had an accent as wide as the Clyde; we had been friends from the very first day of our enlistment and we would remain so until we were separated by the system.

On one particular night in the local amusement arcade we made the acquaintance of a sweet young thing named Iris, and being gentlemen we tossed up to see who would have the good fortune to take her home. Jock was the winner and smiling happily, he put his arm around his prize and waltzed off into the night. Although separated shortly afterwards by the requirements of the service, I heard many years later that Jock and his Iris were still a happy couple. It was unfortunate that now, I was a loner, for a short time at least, but in a port like Plymouth it was a situation that could not last for very long.

She was tall and her name was May and I suppose that the least I can do is to tell you that her family name was Italian. On our first meeting she had confided to me that at the tender age of seventeen, she was employed as a companion to two elderly ladies who went to bed at a very early hour, and if I felt so inclined as to knock lightly on the back door after eight thirty, I might be lucky enough to get some sort of refreshment before making my way back to barracks. At that time of my young and tender life I had no idea what Italian refreshments comprised of.

At the appointed time I knocked on the rear door of this very large and imposing residence and even in the dim evening light, as the door opened I could see that my first course was to be served up by a very curvaceous and stark naked temptress by the name of May. At first, I was on the point of turning and doing a runner but something inside of me led me to believe that the second course was going to be the Chef’s special, and I must confess that my imagination ran wild and overcame my more decent instincts. I allowed myself to be led like one of the seven ages of man, unwillingly to school, or could it have been, like a lamb to the slaughter? If so, death must be very pleasant indeed.

Slowly, she took my hand and led me to the sacrificial couch, and if you think that I am going into detail, you are very much mistaken. She was a young lady who believed in taking her time and experimenting, her hands and lips were everywhere and left no place undiscovered. She was also a very patient lady and at the exact moment she paused and held off. It was not her intention to see all her hard work pass by in one mad moment of passion.

Eventually, we were both in such a state that it was inevitable. I don’t know how it happened but our roles became reversed and I finished underneath. Like a well-trained jockey, she rode me to the finishing line with no intention of dismounting until she was certain that there would be no complaints about the finish.

For a short time after we cuddled and played around in the bathroom, until we both heard noises from the bedroom. Making sure that I was presentable she led me to the back door, and after a long lingering kiss, I was passed out into the cold night air. I was more than halfway to the barracks before I realised that we had both been so intent on our activities that there had been no refreshments, nor had I mistaken the wording of the invitation; no matter, there would probably be some bread and cold cheese with chutney in the dining hall.

I was famished. It has to be told in passing that back in our recruit days at the Depot in Deal, we had to attend educational lessons in between our military training, and our teacher was a young Lieutenant in the Royal Navy. His lessons on the effects of Carnal pleasures and the consequences of not taking precautions when in foreign ports, was too lurid to ignore, I cannot remember him saying anything detrimental about English ports but he did explain that whether you were on board ship or in barracks there was always a supply of free condoms to be had from the medical room, and to encourage you to use them there was no embarrassing questions asked by the duty sick berth attendants.

I have no doubt that in certain cases there were the odd raised eyebrows. The lasses that frequented the bars in the area around the barracks were renowned for their generosity. It was obvious that information was passed down from previous squads, and doubtful ladies who had earned reputations as ‘Easy Lays’ were more or less ignored by the bulk of the over careful young marines, and as far as I can remember there were no casualties reporting to the medical centre.


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Chapter 4 – Eager to be off
For the next few days we eagerly watched the notice board for our instructions, we were waiting for news of our departure, for now we were classed as fully trained Marines and would take our place where and when required. Our first posting would be to our various divisions and as I have previously stated my destination would be to the Royal Marine Barracks in Chatham, Kent.

The time had now come for the splitting up of the squad. As each of the three main sea ports had certain units of the Fleet allocated to them, it would mean that in all probability we would never see the other two thirds of our friends again, I think that I have previously explained that on enlistment every new squad is divided into three separate units by their regimental numbers Ch/X for Chatham, Ply/X for Plymouth and Po/X for Portsmouth and so it was. As we paraded for embarkation, there were three separate groups of emotionally disturbed Marines who had literally gone through hell together and enjoyed the experience but it had been expected and we were prepared. One last “Get Together” in he local pub the night before had said it all.

I had already said “Goodbye” to my Italian temptress and it was “Farewell Plymouth, Hello Chatham”. We arrived on a very cold and wet miserable Monday morning. After being dismissed on the parade, we were given the day off to be allocated to our various companies and once again came the shuffling around to ensure that friends were as near as possible, billeted together. I suppose that for a short time I would miss my Scots friend, Jock Anderson but I did have a standing invitation to call on him or his family if ever I visited Boness in Scotland. In the services, it happens all the time, you just move on and hope that sometime in the future, you would meet up again.

In the meantime making new friends was easy. As I stated at the very beginning, when we first joined we were all as different as chalk from cheese, but after a year of extensive training and suffering the hardships necessary to create us into the finished article it was as if we had been created in the same mould, we were now a member of one of the strongest families in existence.

We were a Brotherhood that would remain united in war and peace for time immemorial. We were “The Elite” of the armed forces. Nowadays we read far too often about the ‘Bullying’ and the swearing, the ‘F******g’. I can honestly say that we were never bullied and we were never the recipients of obscene language. Yes, we were sworn at, but mainly by our instructors and never by senior ranks and the Officers.

Yes, we were encouraged and egged on to do that extra 5% above and beyond the maximum and this was achieved by instilling in every single recruit, a pride in his unit, his Corps and mainly in himself. After we had settled down, each man had his own responsibilities. In particular before commencing the daily grind, one of the most important duties that you have is the constant reading of the company notice board. If you are detailed for guard and fail to turn up, you are punished severely and there is always the possibility among other things that you have been posted.

There were several options open, if you were posted to the Mediterranean Fleet, The East or West Indies Fleet or as far East as the China Station, you could rest assured that you would be away from home for a minimum of two and a half years. The young married men naturally were not too keen to be posted abroad and much preferred to be drafted to the Home Fleet.

If the Home Fleet was not to their liking, then there was something wrong with their marriage and we will not discuss that here. The only other alternative was to find a nice “Cushy Number” like, tailoring, gardening or as a divisional training Instructor, obviously these were very few and far between and much sought after. In specialising in Naval Gunnery I had of course unwittingly placed myself in the category that always remained at sea and this was only apparent in later years.

In those later years after the war had been fought and won, we were not very happy to arrive home and discover that as a unit of so many marines, so many corporals and so many sergeants with no signs of promotion, the instructors who had of necessity, remained in barracks, were now well up the promotion ladder. But that was the system. The waiting and watching soon came to an end and on the notice board one bright morning, in letters that appeared to be a lot larger than usual, B Hallas was drafted to HMS. Resolution, Home Fleet.

My first ship was to be a battleship of the well-known “R” class. In practice, battleships tended to be built in groups of five. The other four were HMS. Revenge. HMS. Royal Sovereign, HMS Ramillies and HMS. Royal Oak. These were the “Hard Hitters” of the Royal Navy, all equipped with the same hardware.

There were eight fifteen inch guns, fifteen inches being the diameter of the shell and each shell weighed a massive two thousand two hundred and forty pounds or, one ton and could be hurled (with a full charge of cordite) more than fifteen miles.

The secondary armament consisted of eight six inch guns, four each side of the ship each capable of firing projectiles weighing one hundredweight each. That, accounted for the surface to surface weaponry, The surface to air mountings consisted of eight four inch quick firing anti aircraft guns, four on each side of the upper deck and spaced about the super structure, one on each quarter were four multiple “Pom Poms”; quite an array of weaponry.

These ships were of course the older end of the various Battleships which had fought with distinction at the Battle of Jutland during the 1914/ 1918 Great War. Other and more modern Battleships which we shall mention later, were of course deployed all around the world. Needless to say I was elated. I had at last realised what I had planned all those months ago as I trudged through the dark streets of Manchester on my way to “Join Up”.

The posting was almost immediate, I only had three days to say goodbye to the friends that I had made in the town and to write those very hurried letters to my various relations. Letters had to be curtailed in those early days, postage had to be rationed out, there were other and more important things to be purchased out of a very meagre pay, boot repairs haircuts, Blanco (green and white), metal polish, soaps and the necessary toiletries.

All of this out of your pay, which in my case was 13 shillings and sixpence (67.5p), comprising of ten shillings (50p), a week plus my marksman and gunnery qualifications.

Not much for volunteering to risk your life in defence of King and Country, but quite a lot when you compared it with my existence before my enlistment. I forgot to explain that my income was sadly depleted by five shillings (25p) a week, which I had allotted to my parents as some sort of compensation for depriving them of a possible wage if I had remained at home.

Those few days before, my embarkation passed all to quickly and at the appointed time, I fell in on the main parade with some forty or fifty eager bodies ready for the great adventure, We were fully dressed in embarkation order, our kit bags were stacked in the drill shed awaiting the lorries and we were waiting to be inspected by the duty officer.

It was only a matter of routine and took but a few minutes, after which we followed the Royal Marine Band in a short walk to Chatham dockyard and there we entrained for the long journey to Plymouth. You may or not be aware that Chatham is situated on the river Medway and the nearest that the Battleships of more than 30,000 tons with their deeper draught can approach up river, is the anchorage at Sheerness. It was considered more convenient therefore for Battleships allocated to Chatham to use the facilities at Plymouth Dockyard.


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Chapter 5b - My First Big Ship (Cont.)

The “Bay of Biscay” at it’s best, is no place to do a continual patrol and it was necessary for the morale of both officers and men to spend some time ashore for recreation. One of the most popular spots was Golf Juan. It was here that I discovered the Hotel Palace, a small but very popular bar in the main street. The patron was a short fat man by the name of M’sieu Macocco and his daughter Madeleine, who was certainly not short and fat, assisted him.

She had already considered it her patriotic duty to entertain the English visitors and she had dressed accordingly. With long slender tanned legs, a much shorter skirt and a cleavage that locked ones eyes, you had to make an effort to look her in the face. It was well worth that effort, small and delicately formed and with eyes that were full of mischief she had no use for make up of any kind.

We had already decided, that is, I and my boson buddy by the name of Ray Colbourne, to book a room for the night and consequently, there was a long night of drinking ahead of us with our newly found French friends.

One of the “Highlights” of our trips was to send postcards depicting our travels in foreign climes and this was to be no exception, the only problem being that we had no idea where the stamp machine was. Madeleine to the rescue! Taking me by the hand she led me down the street to the level crossing and then along the railway line to the local station.

For me, an eighteen year old in a foreign land, it was exciting, but not as exciting as that short walk to obtain a stamp. Madeleine was an expert at rousing a man’s expectations, with fingers entwined, her body was making contact from knees to shoulder and she exuded a body heat that was as entrancing as the gentle perfume that surrounded her.

As we stood at the stamp machine in the dark, it was unavoidable, I put my arms around her waist, drew her close and we kissed. It seemed to go on forever, and then it happened. My friend Ray, or he was, up to that moment, had followed us to the station to make sure that we did not get lost. The moment had gone and we returned to the bar, by the time we arrived, it was closing time and Papa was preparing to lock up. Madeleine was sent to her room, and no doubt locked in and we retired much the worse for wear. Ray was still sulking from the verbal lashing he had brought upon himself and we went straight to bed.

The next morning was a catastrophe, my good friend feeling the urge to go in the middle of the night, no doubt after the large amount of French beer he had consumed, used the bidet instead of the toilet and once again he received a verbal lashing to encourage him to clean out the bidet and open the windows before we went downstairs to enjoy our first continental breakfast, served up by a perky Madeleine. After the experience of the bedroom we decided that we would call it a day and give the hotel palace and the lovely Madeleine a miss and on our next watch ashore, a small party of us took the bus to Cannes, not so famous in those early days but to us uneducated youngsters, it was the ultimate in foreign travel.

During the course of the evening, four of us were attracted to a rather glitzy bar, entering rather timidly we were immediately surrounded by a bevy of heavily made up ladies, not so young and certainly not Madeleines, who promptly ordered on our behalf, drinks all round.

Needless to say we were flattered and allowed the drinking and cuddling which was intended to overcome our sexual inhibitions and to lure us into the small bedrooms at the back of the establishment, where these well-worn ladies would initiate us into the various aspects of carnal novelties. The fun and games went on for the remainder of the evening until it was time to catch our bus back.

This was not as easy as it looked, the bill for the evening was like a toilet roll and we would have had to rob a bank to pay it. Our “Glitzy” bar was in fact a rather expensive Nightclub. We were not very happy; the Police were called, followed by the Naval patrol and we were escorted back to the ship to face a very angry Major of Marines.

It has to be said, that as he himself had had a very pleasant evening in the infamous Madam Regina’s. He was very lenient and on condition that we agreed to the deductions from our pay he dismissed the charge and put it down to our ignorance and youth. Needless to say, after that we always checked the prices on later visits.

Gibraltar was our next port of call and there, we felt more at ease, the atmosphere and the prices were more to our liking. For the princely sum of ten shillings (50p), I became the proud owner of a pure silk dressing gown, heavily embroidered in gold wire with fierce looking dragons and a pair of slippers to match. It was to be my first take home trophy.

My first “Spring Cruise,” was coming to an end and our last port of call was to be the Canary Islands. As previously stated, Spain was in the middle of a civil war and consequently goods were hard to come by. We were however allowed to go ashore where we discovered that domestic items especially soap, were very much in demand. With our pockets discreetly stuffed we could demand our own price from the more than grateful senoritas, and get it. Unfortunately the island had one small drawback. Franco had assembled his Moorish troops there and this created a minor problem.

An occasion arose when the Moors, having consumed the very cheap wine, were waving their arms about and shouting the praises of Franco, “Viva Franco” was the often-repeated cry. Eventually it became obvious that it was getting on the nerves of the visiting sailors and rising to their feet and holding their glasses high, they replied with gusto “F****** Franco”. Unfortunately Among the Moorish troops there were many who had served as deck hands aboard British merchant ships, and of course they had been well versed in the dockside language, To them “F*** Franco” was an insult to their beloved leader and they rose to the occasion.

Being very much in the majority they turned on the British Tars, much to their regret they found the Tars were fighting fit and soon took the upper hand, but more Moors were rushing to their comrades’ aid.

By this time the Royal Marine detachment, fully armed and carrying entrenching tool handles which could I suppose be classified as a smaller pick axe handle had landed on the jetty, mounted machine guns at either end and strategic points and sent snatch squads into the bars to quell the disturbances.

Recognising that they were up against a far more disciplined and tougher force than they could muster, the Moors senior officers ordered their troops to withdraw off the streets and the royal marines escorted the victorious Tars back to the ship.

During the brief stay one of the items coveted by the British Sailors was a small bamboo cage containing one or two canaries and for a tablet of soap it was a bargain. There were so many that the executive Officer arranged for one of the six inch gun casements to be turned into a canary storage room. Strung on lines from bulkhead to bulkhead, they were looked after by two members of the crew and fed and watered daily.

Unfortunately this special care was to no avail. As we arrived off Finistere, orders were received to call in to the Port of Brest and we were delighted to be given leave. We were soon adopted by the local people and it was my good fortune, along with two friends to be invited into the home of the local green grocer, Andre Renault and his more than beautiful wife Madeleine, who was a 100% flirt.

I am ashamed to say that during our very short stay in the Port, there were more than a few furtive kisses. The next-door neighbour was an American, Walter Sayers who was the manager of Pelly’s shoe shop; on leaving he presented me with a pair of miniature wooden sabots, or clogs, which I still have to this day.

On the day that we left, our hosts escorted us down to the jetty and as our launch sailed across the harbour both hosts and guests rendered a very good French national anthem, sung in one particular case, through her tears.

As I stated earlier, the special care taken to look after the birds was to be of no avail. The authorities ashore in England signalled that no live birds were to be allowed to enter England. It was a sad state of affairs reluctantly, birds were released and the cages thrown overboard, freedom from the confines of the cages was short lived, flying around the rigging with no land in sight, they became the victims of the ever hungry gulls and suffering from the extreme cold and dropped to their deaths on the steel decks where they were washed down the scuppers by the incoming sea.

By time we arrived back in Plymouth there was no evidence they had ever existed and we arrived in port cursing customs and excise, which soon faded as we prepared to go on leave. The days soon passed and my first leave was an experience to be remembered.

First, I had to find somewhere to live, I had no intention of returning to the area of squalor that I had discarded only months before. I was not against paying it a visit, after all, the friends that I had made in my early teens were still living there, and I was looking forward to meeting them again and savouring their astonishment at the obvious transformation that had taken place by kind permission of His Majesty’s Royal Marines.

My first port of call was to the family that had been so kind to me before I left home. They were both delighted and astonished and without any hesitation, invited me to stay as long as I wanted, and considering they had seven more than lovely daughters, who was I to refuse. This then was my base as I travelled daily to various parts of the city doing the necessary rounds of my friends and relations.

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Chapter 6 - Back to the Grime

I did however visit home and looking at the down at heel district of Chorlton on Medlock only served to convince me that I had certainly done the right thing that morning when I left. I think that one of the best things about my visit was the obvious pride of my Father, badly crippled as he was, he insisted that I joined him in the local pub and always it was the same introduction, “This is my youngest, he’s a Royal Marine, first to land and last to leave”.
He was so proud and pleased when I was with him, and I couldn’t deny him that small pleasure. It was as if he was saying “I may be a cripple, but this is my son”. I have to admit that I considered my visits home to be a duty and I was only too glad to return to my friends where I enjoyed a much better lifestyle, I did not at that moment in time realise that I was acting as a first class snob.

My friends were an Irish family from Sligo, as I explained previously the mother was a widow with seven very beautiful daughters and two younger sons. The youngest daughter, Georgina was a really good looker, she had everything and it was all in the right place, but a poorly paid Royal Marine was not her idea of a good time. She was more interested in the well-heeled bookies and those of the racing fraternity who were frequent visitors to her mother’s house. Maude, the eldest was a real classical Irish beauty.

Unfortunately for her, one of the visitors, a married man took her eye and they became lovers. It had to happen, she became pregnant and the married man, a well-heeled Manchester garage owner, to avoid a scandal, arranged a back street abortion. It went wrong and Maud died a short time after. I suppose that in a way I enjoyed the company of the easy come easy go gambling men and they enjoyed showing me the town, money was no object and frequently I became the recipient of a large white five pound note which came in very handy on my leave which was over far too soon.
I eventually tore myself away from this lovely family, who gave me food and lodging and asked nothing in return, and caught the train back to my ship.

My stay on HMS Resolution lasted for one year. In that year I qualified for my higher gunnery rating and became a QR2. On my transfer to my next ship, HMS Royal Sovereign, I became a Gun Captain and in the Marines’ fifteen-inch turret I became the churn lever operator, the main job in the turret. I was already proving myself. The other churn lever operator on the left gun was a much senior Marine who had been in the corps for many years, I can’t say we became very good friends but he tolerated the youngster who worked opposite him in the gun house, and that was as near as we got. It was a natural state of affairs in the service, men tended to stay in circles comprised of those in a similar seniority and it was accepted without question.

Going back to gunnery, we, the Marines, manned only one of the four turrets and Seamen manned the other three. In addition we manned four of the AA guns on the port side and four of the six-inch guns on the starboard side; the Marines also manned their own magazines.

The Royal Marine Bandsmen were also employed in the gunnery system and it was a very important function and a very dangerous one. Deep down in the bowels of the ship they controlled the Transmitting Station, a small compartment reached by a vertical ladder, and there they co-ordinated all the information relating to the ship’s armaments, distance of targets, wind velocity, range, direction of targets, opening and closing speeds and a host of other important features. Needless to say, if a ship was sunk, by virtue of their confined and difficult to reach position, percentage wise, they suffered the most casualties.

Finding my way around my new ship posed no problem. She was a sister ship of my last one which made life much easier, however she had the same problems, the boilers could only cope at the most, with only one bucket of water per rating; showers, washing and shaving had to be performed in cold salt water, not a very pleasant pastime. In peacetime, service in the Home Fleet was not a very exciting place to be.

Mostly going to sea for two or three weeks at a time, carrying out gunnery exercises and performing all sorts of Fleet manoeuvres, the Admirals enjoyed themselves, moving the huge ships around like toys and giving out stupid orders, designed to keep every one on their toes. An example might be “HMS So and So, prepare to fry eggs on the forecastle.” You may think that I am joking, but ordering a ship to send it’s postman round the ship on a bicycle was just another Admiral’s idea of fun, there were many more and they came under the hated title of “Evolutions”.

To cheer us up there was the inevitable visit to Scapa Flow. This was an experience. Usually three battleships with their attendant cruisers and destroyers, each giving leave to half of their ship’s company at the same time in Kirkwall, was something to behold. One very small pub, rationing the beer to one pint per man, and obviously not enough glasses to go round, was not a sailor’s idea of fun. The officers of course had no such problems; their wardroom mess was well stocked up with every kind of drink.

I suppose to have talked like this all those years ago would have been classed as mutinous. It certainly would not be accepted nowadays. Two or three days in this “Graveyard” of the Orkneys, as it was of course, with the German High Seas Fleet lying beneath our keels, was more than enough. Then it was back to sea and more “Evolutions” and testing the versatility of the various units, what it actually did was to create the idea that our Admirals had nothing better to do than make bloody fools of themselves and I am fairly certain that this view was held by most of the executive Officers aboard each ship in the fleet.

During these spring manoeuvres some lucky units would proceed to the French Riviera visiting Juan le Pais, St. Jean de Luz, Gibraltar and Lisbon.

After a time, all of these places came to be well known to the older hands, the brothels and bars all had their own type of entertainment, and Lisbon in particular was so cheap it was a joy to spend an afternoon going round the souvenir shops, after which, having spent three months away, it was expected that we would return to our home port and with a bit of luck go home on leave.

“Home on Leave”, as soon as I stepped off the train in Piccadilly, Manchester I became an object of attention, perfectly turned out in best blues, brasses gleaming, white gloves and a silver headed swagger cane and a blue hat with the globe and laurel badge on a red background, I could walk tall. I was back in my hometown and Royal Marines were rarely seen so far north.

Mothers smiled and apologised as their children crept up behind me to read my buttons. It was a nice feeling.

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Chapter 7a - I meet my future Wife

It was on one of those leaves that I first met Ruth; she was small, about five feet three inches, or less, but she had the most beautiful smile, (A smile that lasted for the next Sixty one years). It was her eyes that did it. They never faltered, they were full of honesty, trust and if I dare say it at such an early period, full of love. She took me by the hand and wherever I travelled in later years and even after I came home for good, our hands remained clasped, until that awful day, sixty-one years later when I kissed her goodbye for the last time.

There are moments even now, when I can feel the warmth of that very small hand, and weep as I remember the absolute trust that she always had in me. But I digress and I am sorry. It was August 1939 when I first met Ruth, and after a few short days I was convinced that here was a young lady that I had to see more of. I have to admit that on my part, there were moments when I felt that I could in no way take her home to the more than squalid area where I lived.

I had no need to worry, when it finally came to decision time, she held me and gazing at me with those wonderful eyes, she said “Stop worrying, I knew where you lived, before we went out for the first time and I’d seen your parents. It’s not them I am going out with, it’s you and nothing else matters.” I knew then that once again I had made a decision that would affect me for the rest of my life.

We only had a few short days together before my leave was to finish and it was a very tearful goodbye as we parted on the platform of the railway station. We had each made our promises, to remember and of course to write as often as we could. What we could not foresee was that fate was not on our side.

On my arrival back in barracks I was immediately posted on draft to the Battleship HMS Warspite, Flagship of Admiral Andrew Cunningham, somewhere in the Middle East. The Fleet, normally on a peacetime footing was to be brought up to a full wartime complement as soon as possible, It was obvious that the drafting office had done their researching well and my qualifications in gunnery had made me a prime suspect when it came to choosing the different types required for the duties on board ships of the fleet.

There had been no time for letter writing, General Assembly had sounded off and more than 400 Marines of all ranks formed up on parade. A quick but efficient inspection to ensure that all and sundry had their full embarkation kit including their individual weapons, and we were off. It was a short march to the dockyard train, which set off almost immediately on full steam ahead for the port of Newhaven.

Alongside the dock one of the latest Cruisers had made fast and was ready to embark within minutes. Teams of Sailors helped the Marines with all their baggage and equipment and it was rumoured that we would set sail within the hour. By now we knew that our next port of call was to be Dieppe, which at thirty plus knots per hour took no time at all. Everything was going at a fast pace. At Dieppe we were ordered to entrain on a French express and a quickly mobilised French navy carried out the transfer of our kit and equipment.

By midnight we were more than half way to our destination and paused for a short time to enjoy a hurried meal, courtesy of the French Government. We already knew that our final destination in France was to be the port of Marseilles on the Mediterranean coast.

When we arrived, there was no slowing down of the system, everything had been planned in advance. HMS Suffolk a Cruiser lay alongside and in record time, swallowed up the whole of the “Draft” and once again, it was “Cast off fora’d, Cast off aft” and we were off once more.

A short stop at the island of Malta to unload a small contingent, and we were off again on the final lap to our destination, the Fleet anchorage in Alexandria harbour. I have to say that I was impressed. About the same size as my last two ships, this one was totally different. With a streamlined modernistic superstructure, painted in the Mediterranean light grey, and flying the flag of the Admiral of the Fleet, she was beautiful. This was “Warspite”. It was now the third day of September and as I climbed wearily up the Port quarter deck ladder, the order was given to keep quiet and over the tannoy, came those immortal words from the Executive Officer “As from now, we are at war with Germany”.

There was an uncanny silence; it seemed that all the ships in the harbour were mulling over this historic announcement, and probably every individual was saying to himself, “Now what?” And then it was as if your ears were suddenly unblocked and once again the busy harbour came back to life. It was of course obvious that the Fleet would put to sea as soon as we had replenished ship and within minutes it was all happening.

The tannoy was blaring out its orders “All hands prepare to provision ship. All hands prepare to ammunition ship, Clear Port side for barges to come alongside” etc. etc. It was to be a very busy time ahead of us and we had not as yet been fed and watered. As we made our way down to the Royal Marine barracks, our last glimpse was of the huge lighters coming alongside loaded to their plimsoll lines with supplies, which were just as quickly hoisted inboard and dispersed to their various destinations between decks. At each deck there were checkers booking items down as they slid down the improvised chutes and being taken off the moving line as the came to their appropriate store.

I cannot say for sure that certain stores were not ‘Diverted’ and hidden away in some corner to be retrieved much later. Standing off, were the ammunition lighters, they too were fully loaded with every type of shell that would be required in the future.

At this moment in time we were not involved, but it did not take more than an hour to complete our routine for joining the existing detachment, we were directed to our various stowage places, discarded our kit, unpacked and changed into overalls. A hasty meal was prepared (the ship’s company had already eaten), after which it was, fall in on the upper deck and join in the fun. All main hatches had been opened and all derricks rigged to receive the incoming supplies.

Experienced as they were, the ship’s company made short work of what, to the inexperienced onlooker, seemed a mammoth task. Fifteen inch shells, each weighing a mere 2,240 lbs, were manhandled, not with contempt but with a vicious efficiency that resulted in a never ending stream, down through the four main hatches, into the shell rooms of the four separate turrets and when each had received it’s quota, the drill was switched to load up the magazines with cordite.

Meanwhile, other parties were loading all the anti aircraft shells and small arms weaponry. It was a smooth operation and carried on through the night watches. On completion, the executive officer thanked the ship’s company for a job “Well Done,” and explained that as we were now on a war footing with Germany, there would be no shore leave and we would be preparing for sea immediately.

All boats were hoisted inboard, all booms and ladders were recovered and secured, cable parties took their various stations, the mail including the ship’s company’s frantically written letters were transferred into the fleet mail boat and before the anchor was safely stored in the cable locker, we slowly made our way out of the harbour. We were proceeded by the cruiser squadron who took up station on the Port and Starboard quarters, followed by the destroyers who provided a protective screen around the capital ships and so, for the first time we went forth to war.

As we were at that moment in a reasonably safe area, we were only operating “Cruising Stations”. This meant that we only had one of the four watches closed up. As we approached a more vulnerable area, we would be ordered to close up at “Defence Stations” and two watches, half of the ship’s company would close up at their prescribed stations.

This was far more exhausting and meant that you were working four hours on watch and four hours off. The difficulty was that on your four hours off, it would take you almost half an hour to settle down and get off to sleep and you would be called to go on watch again 15 minutes before your next stint. This. left you three hours 15 minutes of sleep time. During those three hours fifteen minutes you could be awakened by an alarm for any one or more reasons, most of them false. Carrying on like this for an extended period of time was of course the cause of the stated exhaustion.

Only when it was apparent that there was a chance of contact with an enemy force would the bugler sound the stirring call to “Action Stations ”and more than one thousand four hundred men would race to their main action stations. If you have ever seen an ant colony rushing around the passage ways of their constructed nest, then it may give you some idea of what it was like as the crew answered the call to arms. All over the ship, guns were being traversed and elevated and depressed to ensure that they were still in working order and that there are no obstructions.

This then was the normal procedure. The only variation to this was the drill at dawn. Every morning, half an hour before the sun came up, the whole ship’s company again went to action stations and remained there until the lookouts reported “All Clear” (we had not yet been fitted with radar). The bridge would then give the order to “Stand down”; the watches not required would then revert to their normal duties.

The cooks had to prepare one thousand four hundred breakfasts and others to wash, shave, stow hammocks and clean ship. Only then would we be free to sit down and eat breakfast, provided by the two “Duty Cooks” on each mess, a duty that changed daily. The same two men would then clean the mess area ready for the daily inspection.

Food was wholesome and varied, herrings in tomato sauce, fried or boiled eggs, kedgeree and of course the usual home made white bread, fresh from the ship’s bakery. A four man team of bakers was capable of turning out one thousand loaves per night, a luxury that we maintained for the remainder of the war, only made possible by provisioning ship at each port of call around the world.

After breakfast, those of the ship’s company who were not closed up at the gunnery positions would be employed at the normal daily routine, cleaning all parts of the ship and the gun drills, which were always necessary; not only to keep you on your toes but to ensure that all machinery and all working parts were in tip top condition. It has to be emphasised that we were a happy ship, the excellent attitude of the ship’s company was due in no small measure to the cooperation of the officers and the men they commanded.

The ship herself was second to none in the Royal Navy, and we were all extremely proud to be members of her ship’s company, and within our pride was a confidence that we were the equal of anything that we might have to engage in action, and that confidence showed in the various bloody battles that came to be her lot in the next six years of war, all around the world from North of the Arctic Circle to the warm waters of the Pacific Ocean and all points in between. But in my praise I am going too far ahead. We have only just received our first commitment to take an active part in our fight for survival. From the Admiralty, came the signal, “HMS Warspite will proceed with all haste to Halifax Nova Scotia”.

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Chapter 8a - A French Catastrophe

I have to mention that as Gracie made her way to the theatre in a chauffeur driven black car, suitable for a “Star”, she was surrounded by a throng of merry Sailors and Marines who promptly picked the car up and carried a triumphant Gracie and her car to the steps of the theatre. She loved every moment of it, and so did we.

The next day was a day of surprises. A French Destroyer, from memory I think it was called Le Francais Mail Brieze or something near to that, was loading with ammunition, mainly Torpedoes. It was rumoured, after the event that the Torpedoes were primed in the barges alongside. It was most unfortunate that as one was being hoisted inboard towards its stowage, the lifting cable snagged on a corner of the superstructure. It is easy to say after the event, but some person unknown kicked the cable loose and the disentangled Torpedo swung inboard and exploded on impact.

There was a terrific explosion and a huge flame shot through the small ship. Men were blown overboard, others were trapped between decks, many could be seen trying to squeeze out of the too small portholes and over all there was a red haze. All ships in the harbour had ordered their boats to the rescue, but all movement on the upper deck had ceased, only the screams of the men between decks could tell you of the tragedy that was unfolding before our eyes. It was now apparent that nothing could be done to alleviate the suffering of the trapped seamen.

There was but one thing to do, and I am glad that I was not the Senior Officer who gave the order to our own warships to fire their Torpedoes and send her to the bottom. In minutes it was all over, only the film of smoke, which was slowly, drifting away gave some sort of clue, that on this clear day, a proud ship had gone down and brave men had died. In after thought it was a decision that had to be made. If the ship’s magazine had exploded, the ammunition barge alongside would also have gone up, and in that small harbour with warships lying only cables from each other, there would have been a catastrophe of gigantic proportions.

The next day, I was once again on watch as Corporal of the gangway, a duty that comprised of checking everything that came in or went out of the ship. Just after I had taken over for the afternoon watch the Admiral’s barge signalled that it was coming alongside. We had been warned that an important personage was to come on board, but in those days of top security, no name had been mentioned. Looking over the ship’s side I instantly recognised the old peaked cap and the ever-present cigar.

It was, it was ‘Winnie’ himself. Now, this would start the rumours going. He was entertained in the Wardroom (Officers’) Mess for a short time, spent an equally short time in the Admirals’ quarters and then made his departure as quietly as he had arrived. No doubt he had left behind the “Sealed Orders”, that would only be disclosed when we were well out to sea. This was confirmed a short time later when experienced eyes observed that the Destroyers were getting up steam in preparation for leaving harbour, and then our own tannoy blared out “Cable party, close up, all hands prepare for leaving harbour. Recover and secure all ships boats”.

We were off, where to was any one’s guess; the orders would only be opened at the Captain’s discretion. A mere formality, I suppose, Churchill would no doubt have whispered a few words in the old Sea dog’s ear. It was not going to be a mad dash to any place in particular; we spent some time exercising with short bouts of main armament gunnery and then to our disgust, finished up in Scapa Flow, or to the older hands, “Devil’s Island”.

Once again it was a whole fleet disgorging twenty five per cent of it’s ships companies into one small pub, “Devil’s Island” was an apt description, one pint per rating, a shortage of glasses and no time for a second helping. It was almost a pleasure to proceed to sea again. We did however get enough time to write our letters and after they had been censored by the officers, and partially destroyed by scissors, they were taken to the mainland for posting.

Time was passing quickly and now, being far from land and no danger of information being transmitted to shore, the sealed order was opened and we knew at long last what was in store for us. It would appear that North of the Arctic Circle in a little Norwegian harbour at the end of a long and freezing cold fjord, was a small town called Narvik. In this harbour sheltered a full flotilla of the latest class of German warships i.e. ten Destroyers, which periodically sallied forth and patrolled the North Atlantic, looking for and sinking whenever possible any convoy taking much needed and essential supplies to our Russian allies.

The previous week a small British force, under the command of Captain Warburton Lee had intercepted the much more powerful German force and had suffered heavy losses, Captain Warburton Lee died in the engagement but for his heroic action he was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross. Before breaking contact the British force had destroyed two of the enemy ships, which was good news for us, we now had only eight enemy ships to confront.

In deciding to send in a much heavier force, My Lords of Admiralty had chosen HMS Warspite, described by the media as an old Battleship and a veteran of Jutland in 1918, implying by their tone that if we were destroyed, it would not be such a great loss. It was not stated that the “Old” battleship had been completely rebuilt and at this moment in time, was one of the most respected and efficient Warships in the Fleet with a gunnery record second to none. Came the day, our destroyer escort took station on our Port and Starboard beams, we were amazed and at the same time delighted.

It was a full flotilla of the very latest Tribal class, The Eskimo, The Cossack, The Punjabi and seven more very capable destroyers. Admiral Forbes had designated Vice Admiral Whitworth to take command of the combined force and we assembled inside Vestfiord about one hundred miles from Narvik and became “Force B”. At 07.30 we proceeded at maximum (for us) speed up Vestfiord. It was snowing and visibility was approximately ten miles.

The Admiral addressed the ship’s company, informed us that we were going into Narvik to destroy enemy shipping and he wished us all, the very best success. It was 1152 when we arrived at Ofotfiord and we launched our Swordfish to report on the positions of the enemy ships. During the course of it’s observation, the plane piloted by Petty Officer Fred Rice attacked and sank a Submarine, U.64, the first U Boat to be sunk by the Fleet Air Arm. We were now under attack ourselves by Gun Batteries, Shore based Torpedoes and another Submarine which was forced to take evasive action by our Destroyers and of which we eventually lost contact.

The German destroyers rather than engage in direct confrontation, lay in ambush in the small fiords approaching the port, although they did inflict damage on our Destroyers, they were eventually destroyed by the massive fire power of the attacking British force. It was an outstanding piece of Naval strategy. We had suffered some casualties in the smaller ships but we (The Warspite), retired victorious and undamaged. We did however take some of the wounded off the Destroyers (Our Medical facilities were much more competent), and lay to, while a short but impressive service was conducted and our dead comrades were given the last rites, where necessary before we committed them to a watery grave.

Before leaving, we did make a parting gesture to the Germans, by bombarding beyond the town, in the foothills where, fearing that an invasion was taking place, German sailors and troops had fled to regroup. Since first passing Baroy Island at 1214 pm and sinking the last Destroyer, the Bernd von Arnim in Rombanksfiord, it had taken the British force just over three hours to destroy the whole German force along with their supply ships and remove a thorn that had been annoying the convoys to Russia for many months past.

Now it was time to get back to the open sea, no doubt there would be attacks by retaliating German bombers and the narrow confines of the Norwegian fiords would not be a healthy place to be in. We remained around Norway for a few days, carrying out the occasional bombardment as required and then feeling quite satisfied with the result of our expedition we made our way to our home base.

The news of our success had just hit the headlines and as we steamed up the Clyde, all ships flew the signal “Well Done”. The press had a complete change of heart and the “Old Battleship” now became one of Britain’s recently modernised ships. If we thought that our victory deserved a few days leave, we were sadly mistaken. Spending just enough time in Greenock to replace our spent ammunition and refuel, we took in our anchor and left for parts unknown which later turned out to be Alexandria, The Battle of Narvik had made us famous and Admiral of the Fleet Sir Andrew Cunningham wanted a Flagship and who better to fly his flag, but HMS Warspite.

The flag was flying proudly from the ship’s mast on the evening of the 10th May 1940. The very next day the Warspite had to go into dock for extensive repairs to make good the damage to her decks and superstructure, which she had inflicted on herself during her heavy firing at Narvik. She was finally ready to take her place in the fleet on the 24th May. Seventeen days later, Italy declared war on Britain the date was June 10th. Within hours, Cunningham took the entire British fleet to sea and swept the eastern end of the Mediterranean.

There were no Italian warships or Italian convoys to be seen, even the Italian Air Force stayed well out of sight. It was obvious that Battleships, had, by nature of their consumption to be used economically and consequently their crews were more fortunate than the smaller vessels who took periodic sweeps of the Eastern end of the Med and escorted small convoys to Malta and North Africa.

In itself Alex was not one of the most desirable places to be in for long stretches at a time, but it had a certain amount of charm, once you had found your way around. It has to be said that where there are “Dock side “areas, there are of course brothels. This is recognised the world over and Alexandria had it’s fair share. The Rue es seurs was not very far from the town centre. Going under it’s more popular known name “Sister Street” was one such district and was the haunt of many of the servicemen on leave from units all over North Africa, mainly the Australians who had been having a rough time on the desert routes from Sidi Barani or Bardia and Torbruk.

With too many customers and not enough girls, there was tension on most nights and the Madams and their charges had to be protected. The Royal Marines from each Capital ship had to provide police patrols and it was often one of my regular duties. The Madams were so grateful for the presence of these patrols, that free beer was always available and made the job a little more pleasant, despite the many unpleasant disputes with, what we considered to be, the undisciplined Aussies, I was not a “Goody Goody”, but brothels were not my idea of a night out.

It was far more pleasant to make your way to the nearest YWCA, have light refreshments provided and more often than not, music and dancing. In the afternoons equipped with towel and trunks it was only a short ride to “Le Bay des Amaroux”, or, translated “The Bay of Sweethearts”.

This was my favourite jaunt, it was a lovely beach and the only problem was a shortage of female company. The answer was back in town. We were always welcome at the YWCA on the corner of Mohammed Ali Square and while not wanting to be unfaithful, we were a long way from home and it was more than a little pleasant to spend some time with very attractive female company.

Tea and cakes and soft drinks were plentiful and in no time at all most of the visitors were pairing off for visits to the beach and it was all in good clean fun. It was a lot better than getting sloshed on the foul smelling Arab beer being dished up in the over crowded Naval canteen.

In no time at all I had the good fortune to be invited to an afternoon beach party and I was paired off with a really beautiful French Egyptian girl by the name of Tony, short for Antoinette. Her father was the manager of the local branch of the Prudential and I suppose that he thought the world of his daughter, but he would have died if he could have seen her at that beach party. Taking me by the hand, she led me to a large wooden changing room and it only took a minute to remove what few garments she wore in that hot climate.

I have already said that she was beautiful I have to repeat myself. About five feet four, she had an all over tan without one single blemish, and standing there in nothing but her high heeled shoes, she was in no doubt that she was the most desirable thing on the beach and at the same time, she gave out an aura of untouchability. Stepping into a slinky one piece, she tied her hair back and laughed, she obviously knew that she had this effect on men.

Chapter 8a - A French Catastrophe

Looking at her gorgeous rounded body standing there in her high heels I thought to myself, “If ever I am to be unfaithful, this is the moment. I would be lying in my teeth if I tried to say that I was not sexually aroused but I felt helpless and could do nothing. Quickly slipping into my trunks, I followed her down to the waterline and holding hands, we plunged into the cool clear water.

I was never more grateful for the chance to cool down. After a pleasant afternoon swim we made our way back to Alex’ and tea at the YWCA, followed by an early evening dance and then back to the jetty in time to catch the last liberty boat back to the ship.

Shortly after breakfast the next day, I was duty watch aboard and eagerly looking forward to the following day ashore, it was not to be; the dreaded tannoy ordered the ship’s company to prepare for sea and by mid morning we were making our way to somewhere on the African coast. The Admiralty had been requested to give a bombardment support to the men of the 8th Army, who were just about holding their own in a dirty coastal area going under the name of Bardia.

At dawn the next morning, three Battleships and a fifteen-inch Monitor fired more than a hundred high explosive one-ton shells into the fortifications ahead of our advancing troops. A signal received later thanked the Navy and said that we had made life much easier.



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Chapter 8b - A French Catastrophe (Cont.)

We were now free to patrol the Eastern end of the Island of Malta. Some of the smaller craft went into the “Grand Harbour”, but the battleships stayed well out to sea. The Maltese people were having a rough time as it was without capital ships entering their harbour and inviting enemy bombers to come in and have a go.

Every bomb that missed the fleet would probably hit Valletta, the capital city of the island. The Maltese people no doubt missed the money that usually passed over the counters of the sleazy bars in “The Gut”, the services name for that particular area where “The ladies of the night” plied there trade, but this was compensated by the supplies that we took to the island. They would also miss the food that was thrown down the rubbish chutes after the ships' companies had finished their main meals.

Stationing themselves on the rubbish barges alongside each ship, young boys and girls would catch the “Swill” as it arrived at the bottom of the chute and sort it out into empty 7 lb jam tins, potatoes in one, vegetables in another and so on. All this only served to emphasise the sorry state that the inhabitants of this brave island were in.

The days passed ever so slowly, The Italian Fleet obviously thought that discretion was better than valour, we did have a few half hearted attacks by high level bombers, they came over the Fleet, dropped their bombs wide of the mark and departed in the direction of Italy. If I have to be honest I can only say that life was a bit boring; our mail had to be carried the long way round via the Cape and through the Suez, and I would receive anything up to ten letters at a time, all numbered and to be read in their order.

Ruth, true to her nature, never mentioned the difficulties that the people at home were suffering, no doubt she did not want to pass her worries on to me but in every letter she expressed her love, and the wish that the war would soon be over and that we would be together once more. I was in full agreement. We carried out occasional sorties, fought off the odd air raid, escorted small convoys to Malta and life was becoming a little tedious. It was obvious that something had to happen sooner or later.

Early in July there were various meetings of the Top Brass on board and it was apparent that “Something was up”. But what! Cunningham was a crafty old devil. It would appear that Admiral Tovey, commanding the Cruiser squadron had been on a normal sweep in the vicinity of the coast off North Africa and had made contact with an unidentified Italian unit.

During one of the attacks on his unit, the Cruiser HMS Gloucester received a hit on the bridge and killed the Captain, six officers and eleven ratings. Cunningham immediately went in to support but the attacking aircraft had called it a day and left the scene of the action. The next day we changed course, It was reported that an Italian unit of two battleship, six Cruisers and possibly seven destroyers were leaving the vicinity of Benghazi and it was supposed that they were returning to the base at Taranto, we immediately changed course for the Italian coast. Cunningham ordered the Fleet Air Arm on board HMS Eagle to locate and report the enemy’s strength, and the information received was a little disturbing.

The Italians were only 150 miles away and their combined strength was two Battleships, sixteen Cruisers and thirty-two Destroyers. I suppose that Cunningham had weighed up the comparisons between the two Fleets. Two of our ships, HMS Malaya and HMS Royal Sovereign were really old ships that did not have the speed of the enemy ships, and the Italians had an advantage of more than 8,000 yards range on their smaller calibre guns.

Also HMS Eagle, Cunningham's only Air Craft carrier could only muster seventeen out dated Swordfish planes against an astronomical number of bombers that the Italians could call upon from the dozens of enemy airfields, all situated within a short distance. We were now off Calabria, Cunningham had achieved his original objective of cutting the enemy off from his home base and regardless of the Italian superiority was more than a little eager to engage.

Unfortunately he had to leave the two slower battleships behind and he would have to place himself and Warspite at risk. The horizon was now covered with the superstructures of countless enemy cruisers, and Warspite opened fire at more than twenty six thousand yards. The falling shots straddled the cruisers and they turned away, laying a smoke screen as they retired. Reluctantly we returned to harbour. Signals were coming in thick and fast; we were to cover the passage of two convoys from Malta to Alexandria.

One carrying stores the other evacuees. Our force was to be three battleships one aircraft carrier five cruisers and seventeen destroyers organised into three separate units. On the 7th of July we put to sea, We had only been at sea for a few hours when one of our patrolling submarines reported that the Italian Fleet were making their way towards the North African coast. We learned later that Cunningham suspected that they were covering a convoy of men and material to Libya and he decided to put his force between them and their base at Taranto.

On the 18th of July the Italian Air force members of Regia Aeronautica stationed on the Dodeconese Islands attacked the Fleet ferociously. In less than six hours they dropped more than one hundred and twenty bombs. At this time I had been closed up on P2 the port side Anti Aircraft Quick Firers and it was an awe-inspiring sight.

The attacking planes seemed to have a charmed life as they pressed home their attacks. Occasionally, one would be unlucky and from somewhere on board I could hear a faint cheer as he crashed into the sea. Although the Fleet sustained no damage or casualties, there were many near misses and we would be drenched as pillars of spray covered the superstructure. It was then that two enemy battleships appeared to take action against Warspite. At twenty six thousand yards the battleships opened fire.

The Giulio Cesare and the Conte-di-Cavour, the first named flying the flag of Admiral Riccardi fired the first salvo’s and with an unexpected accuracy the first salvo fell within one thousand yards, the nearest shell fell within four hundred yards and drenched the Warspite’s decks. By now Cunningham’s rangefinders had got the range and began their task of answering; it was to be a battle of Admirals Riccardi v Cunningham.

At twenty-six thousands yards the mighty turrets opened fire. It was the first time that I had been caught on watch on the 4” AA guns when the Main armament opened fire and it was an awe inspiring experience. Without warning there was a thundering explosion followed by a searing blast of heat and a sound of an express train rushing overhead.

For a time we could see the base of the shells until they reached the highest point of their travel and then, losing their velocity, they hurtled end over end to their target. Matters were made worse in that being the gun captain, and having to listen to the communications number, it was not possible to wear the solid cone shaped earplugs issued at that time. After seven minutes and the thirteenth salvo, a tremendous explosion was observed on the Italian flagship, hitting spot on. The Warspite had once again proved her gunnery superiority. It was reported later that six of the enemy ships' boilers had been put out of action and over 20 men killed and 60 wounded.

Cunningham had won first round in the battle of the Admirals. The Italian fleet turned away from the action under cover of a smoke screen. During the remainder of the day there were frequent skirmishes between various units of both Fleets and the British units were constantly under air attack. The Warspite and the carrier H.M.S. Eagle were especially targeted. The light entertainment was provided by decoded signals from Admiral Riccardi telling the Italian Air Force that they were bombing the wrong ships.

By 1700 hrs we had made our way Northwards and avoided most of the smoke screen, we still remained at our action station as we were never too sure what was on the other side of the smoke, but a search of the area by ships and planes showed no sign of the Italian fleet, they had escaped and taken the damaged Battleship with them. That was always referred to as “The Battle of Calabria”. For a very long time, the Italians avoided going to sea, the accuracy of our gunnery had destroyed what little moral they had. Standing down from “Action Stations”, we were now on course for Malta. The destroyers who had been dashing here, there and everywhere, entered Grand Harbour To re-fuel, as usual we remained off the Island until they were completely replenished, after which they re-joined the Fleet. On the 11th of July we once again set sail for Alexandria.

On the return journey it would be quite possible that we could be attacked by Italian bombers based on the Dodeconese Islands as we had been previously. Consequently, we were nearer the Libyan coast and the danger was just as great. We should have gone via the Dodeconese. On the first day leaving Malta, between noon and 1800hrs we were constantly closed up at our AA stations, it was “Aircraft Red” for the whole of the afternoon. In the course of five separate attacks more than 66 bombs were aimed at us. The attacks then eased off until the next day.

The following morning, immediately after breakfast, they swarmed in again. During the forenoon watch for more than three hours they attacked incessantly, seventeen separate attempts were made on Warspite, and over 160 bombs fell into the sea around her.

On one occasion a long “Stick” of bombs” came so close that we were completely deluged with water. Two-dozen bombs fell very close on the port side and another dozen fell just off the starboard side. As in the old saying “I remember it well”. At that particular time I was off duty, only the opposite watch was closed up in AA defence. About six or seven of us were watching the “Stick” of bombs exploding off the port side and we were enjoying a mid morning mug of cocoa on the boat deck. Suddenly we realised that after the eighth or ninth bomb had exploded that it was an extra long “Stick” and there may be a few more. Immediately there was a mad scramble through the bulkhead door and the nearest bomb exploded as we fell down the iron ladder in a jumbled heap.

I didn’t feel the impact; all I felt was a searing pain in the middle of my back and the warm blood sticking on my tropical shirt. I lay there as the bodies underneath forced their way from beneath me, and my particular buddy at that time staring down at me. If I had expected sympathy, I didn’t get it, “Get your fat A*** out of the way, and get me another cup of cocoa, mine’s all over your Bloody Shirt”. I realised then that I was undamaged and among friends. The following day we reached our anchorage.

Two convoys were already there and they had arrived unscathed. The Italian Navy and Air Force had been too occupied with the Fleet. It was back to pleasure, for the last six months or so, I had been the proud owner of a beautiful light grey pin stripe suit, and paid a local hotel manager the princely sum of one hundred Piastres (one pound) to hang it in one of his wardrobes, along with another dare devil, one stoker Horton.

I say dare devil, because the wearing of civilian clothes was most definitely against orders. It did however have its advantages. Wearing it, you could take your date out in the evening and go into places like the sporting club at Ramleh where you could hold hands, drink and have the odd dance. To wear plain clothes was of course a necessity; the locals did not appreciate their young female nationals cavorting with British men in uniform.

On this particular occasion I had persuaded the lovely Tony to accompany me to, of course, the sporting club. Taking a seat at a table near to the cabaret, all was well until I saw the occupant of the next table. It couldn’t be, yes it was, my own executive officer, Commander Sir Charles Madden. A slight nod and nothing more and we were left to enjoy a pleasant evening.

The next morning I entered the Wardroom Mess as part of my duties and the first person I should meet, was of course, the Commander. “Good morning Hallas” said he, “Good Morning Sir”, I replied.” “I Would like you to know that the Sporting Club is my favourite ‘Watering Hole’. please find somewhere else for your evening out,” said he. “Yes Sir,” was all I could reply. As he turned away he said in an aside, “Lovely Girl”.

I was worried for a time, but I should have known better, he never mentioned it again and no one was any the wiser. If he had informed the Major of marines, I would have been very severely reprimanded. But that was Sir Charles, an officer and a gentleman, small wonder that he attained the rank of a full Admiral.

Letters from Ruth were arriving every time the mail boat arrived, but as yet I had nothing to reprimand myself for, more by good luck than by management. The afternoons at the YWCA were a pleasant break from the traumas of cruising the waters between Alexandria and Malta. And from what Ruth told me in her letters both she and her friend Ada spent many a Saturday evening in the hot spots of Burnley, and had to walk home alone over the lonely moor road to Rawtenstall.

Alexandria was lovely while it lasted, but Cunningham was one of those Admirals with ‘Itchy feet’, in no time at all we were up anchor and away. This time it was to be a sea borne assault on the advancing Italian army. Only six miles from the Egyptian border and a mere 250 miles from Alexandria, the Italians were in a strong position, holding the Port of Bardia, which allowed them to be supplied by sea by sneak convoys. This then was to be Cunningham's next objective.

He had decided that the time was ripe for a concentrated bombardment on the Italian fortifications. To destroy their radio installations, their armour and supplies, but most important, to put so much effort into the attack that he would also destroy their moral. It was early morning on the 17th of August.

We would be the main force (Warspite) the two battleships, Malaya and Ramillies and the county class cruiser H.M.S. Kent. Our target was to be the ports of Bardia, Capuzzo and Ramleh, stockpiled with stores and mechanised transport.

The range of the three targets averaged between ten and fifteen thousand yards. The bombardment started at 0700 hrs and lasted less than half an hour. Warspite had fired sixty, fifteen-inch shells and forty-seven, six-inch shells. HMS Kent, the cruiser had fired ninety one, eight inch shells and the two battleships, Malaya and Ramilles had fired one hundred and twenty five, fifteen inch and two hundred and twenty seven, six inch shells.

The return fire was minimal and had no effect at all, a few four inch shells, falling over a thousand yards short. On the other hand however, the Italian air Force sent out a considerable force of Savoia bombers which dropped a large number of bombs on the retiring fleet, with no hits but at the cost of a dozen planes. Following this successful operation the main Battle Fleet had a period of inactivity.


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Chapter 9b - The Taranto Victory (Cont.)

I decided that once more I would put my story in verse.

The Battle of Matapan.

Alexander was way astern
Our bow was pointed west,
The enemy Fleet had put to sea
And soon would face the test.

Two cruisers teased them Southwards
Such a tempting bait,
Ere dawn had broken in the East
One side would know their fate.

In the dark we lay and waited
All our guns trained on the beam,
Shells and cordite fully loaded
Breeches closed, A gunners dream.

Three ships they came a’sailing
The Pola, Zara, Fiume,
In line ahead with guns secured
They were sailing to their doom.

Ahead of them in the darkness
Having laid the bait,
The Warspite, Valiant and Barham
Patiently lay in wait.

The escort ships on either beam
With search lights, torpedo and gun,
Awaited the Flag ship’s signal
In case they decided to run.

For this was a game of cat and mouse
And the mouse was approaching his hole,
But lying in wait was the craftiest cat
That ever played the role.

The radar bleeped its signal
The enemy is on the screen,
Still we lay and waited
Unheard as yet unseen

Then, at the given signal
Blazing “Starshells” dropped astern,
Three enemy ships in silhouette
Sitting ducks just ready to turn

The Searchlights hit them fair and square
The guns crews took their time,
The crossed wires on their gun sights
Lined up on the Plimsoll line.

The intercepting contacts made
The “Ting-Ting” of the bell,
The director layer had made his play
And opened the gates of hell

The turrets spewed their lethal load
The sky erupted in light,
The flames and heat from exploding shells
Was not a pretty sight

Like roman candles their magazines blazed
It was carnage from stem to stern,
As we turned and made our way to base
Leaving them there to burn.

The smaller ships looked for survivors
And plucked them from the sea,
For sailors are sailors, all over the world
Saying “Thou shalt not die by me.

There was no joy in victory
As there is no joy in death,
And safely in our naval base
We prayed beneath our breath.

The battle had been quick and fierce
Now beneath the waves they lie,
And said in the hearts of every man
“But for the Grace of God, go I”.

Today is a day of victory
Or so the headlines ran,
But to them and to us, it was just a word
And that word was “Matapan.”

On board ship in any action there are not many people who can actually see what is happening. Obviously the best viewpoint is commanded by those fortunate to be on the bridge, excluding the fact that it is also one of the most dangerous, subject to shrapnel and even direct hits.

The four-inch AA crews on the upper deck and the pom-poms are some of the ships company who have a first class seat at the action. At the guns themselves who are doing the bombardment, only the gun layers peering through their telescopes can see the targets.

The remainder of the crews can only rely on the remarks of the layers as to what is happening. Suffice it to say that the news that night at Matapan was all good, the next morning, taking stock of the results of the nights activities, it was a most distressing sight.

There was wreckage everywhere floating in oil-covered water, bodies floating alongside others who were signalling with any object they could find to try and attract attention to their sorry plight. One could feel sorry for the struggling seamen using the dead bodies of their shipmates to help keep them afloat. Our Destroyers were hard put to, making some attempt to pick up survivors, but as the radar operators were picking up large groups of aircraft on their screens, this act of mercy had to be abandoned.

It was true to Cunninghams’s nature both as a human being and as a seaman, That a paragraph from the prayer of Admiral Lord Nelson at Trafalgar came to mind, “And may humanity after victory be the predominant feature of the British Fleet”, and he signalled the Italian High Command and informed them of the situation and requested that they send assistance to give aid to the struggling men and only then, fearing attacks by submarines and aircraft did he order the Fleet to resume formation and proceed back to base.

As expected Stuka dive-bombers attacked us all the way home but the planes from the carrier HMS Formidable dealt with the attackers successfully. The next day ships companies cleared lower deck and held short thanksgiving services for the victory, Matapan was a defeat that the Italians could very well have done without but I suppose that in their opinion they had to make some sort of showing to save face, it was only a few weeks previous that we had assembled off their main entrance to North Africa.

The port of Tripoli was a well-defended port. Their main defences facing seawards consisted of fourteen gun batteries mounting five inch, six inch, seven point five inch and ten inch guns. There were numerous a/a batteries stationed around the dock area and the harbour itself was protected by a minefield and within easy reach, there were two main airfields. The whole operation was over in less than two hours and was a complete flop.

Over five hundred tons of high explosive shells only disrupted the port for one day. Three merchant ships were damaged and a very small naval vessel was also damaged. Sad to say, the civilian population came off worst, four hundred either killed or wounded and one hundred of their houses destroyed. Only only two or three Stukas, which were beaten off, subjected the fleet to odd attacks and the Admiral returned his force to Alexandria expressing his views to all who would listen that he was utterly disappointed.

That evening I went ashore fully intending to change into my civilian outfit and take the delightful Toni out for a drink. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the wardrobe in the hotel was completely empty, not only my suit but also the suit of my friend the Stoker had also vanished.

I had some hard words with the hotel manager but he was adamant that he had nothing to do with their disappearance. He could only say that that afternoon my partner in crime had gone up to the room with a suitcase and stayed for only two or three minutes. I later found out that he had been drafted off the ship to a shore establishment some hundreds of miles away and had decided that it would be a good idea to take my suit with him. He knew full well that I was not in a position to complain and in future I would have to go ashore in uniform.

By now we were getting used to the sudden departures of the fleet Destroyers, but the next few days they seemed more active than usual, it was apparent that something unusual was happening. We were soon to find out the unpleasant news. The island of Crete, which we had defended for more than six months, was to be evacuated; it was going to be another Dunkirk.

All leave to the Fleet had been stopped. Once again the shipwrights were going round securing loose fitments and we awaited the call to prepare for sea. It came only too soon and the same old routine was once again carried out and in no time at all we were assembling outside the harbour and taking our positions as a Battle Fleet ready for whatever may come.

The surprising news came from the young bugler on the bridge “The Old Man” has gone ashore with his staff and we are flying the Flag of a Rear Admiral.” Now that was surprising, but when we heard the full facts of the matter, perhaps not. We were not going out to face the demoralised Italian Fleet. Germany had decided that the capture of Crete was to be a major operation.

Chapter 10a - The Catastrophe of Crete
Paratroopers, glider borne troops, Junker troop transports and troops coming over from the mainland of Greece in commandeered boats. Add to this, Almost 10,000 specially trained mountain troops and it will give you some idea of the size of the operation. To land a force like that it was obvious, even to us numbskulls on the lower deck that they would be well protected, just how well came as no surprise.

Hitler had ordered all of the available aircraft in the vicinity to provide cover for the attack; later reports estimated that some four hundred bombers escorted by fighters were to attack the Fleet and the defending troops. As if to put the finishing touches to the bad news we now know that Cunningham had requested air cover for his Fleet and had been told that no cover could be provided.

It is no small wonder that the Admiral of the Fleet decided to fight the battle from his office in Alexandria and send Rear Admiral Rawlings to fly his Flag in Warspite. Given the opportunity I would have been only too pleased to stay ashore with him. However, it was as we expected, they came in wings of one hundred planes at a time, breaking up into squadrons to deal with the various units of the Fleet. It was a sight that I for one never want to see again.

The sky was a mass of exploding shells, there were dive-bombers coming in from every quarter. It was impossible to engage all attacking planes at any one time and it must have been obvious to the command that we were going to suffer catastrophic casualties At the time we had no idea where we were, information was passed to the guns that the capital ships were placing themselves between the attacking British Cruisers and Destroyers and the possible intervention of the Italian Fleet.

This however did not materialise and we were fully occupied fighting off the dive-bombers. History books tell us that in the course of those few days, over four hundred bombs were aimed at the Warspite alone and every one else received their fair share. We were constantly being drenched with spray and shrapnel as dozens of ‘Near Misses’ dropped within yards of us, our hull proved itself and as far as we knew at the time we sustained no leaks.

However, It has always been said that there is a law of averages and this time it proved true. I had been closed up at S.2 six inch for the whole of the forenoon watch. We had had our share of torpedo bombers and firing a fused barrage, with the fuses set at varying distances and with skilled hands on the bridge we had been successful in avoiding all of them. It did mean however that we were fully occupied from 0800 hrs that morning. Below decks we only had a limited view through the gun shields but we could hear quite well the noise of the bursting shells and the noise of our own guns and the shuddering of the ships hull as sticks of bombs burst all around us.

It was a heartening sound as the four inch anti aircraft guns on the deck above us carried out their incessant firing, it was only when the short range weapons opened fire that we paused and waited and the Maltese ammunition suppliers dropped down on their knees and read their Rosaries.

We were still going strong at Thirteen hundred hours, when we were relieved to find, that most of the planes had withdrawn. In the ensuing pause, Jimmy Hadley, a King’s Badge-men and Captain of S.2. for the afternoon watch jumped into the casement and said “Go down and get your Tot Barney, it’s going flat on the mess.” I thanked him and left the Starboard Battery. Closing the heavy armoured door behind me, I descended the ladder and sat down thankfully on the mess stool.

I was partaking of the holy nectar when a tremendous explosion lifted the whole deck about six inches. For a full minute, I along with others on the mess deck were completely stunned and then as one, we rushed to the steel ladder and the armoured door. The door, which I had closed only minutes before, was so badly buckled it took our combined efforts and a large steel lever to force it apart and make a gap big enough to squeeze through.

I was totally unprepared for the scene of devastation. We were enveloped in thick acrid smoke, the heat was intense and as the smoke partially cleared we could see that there was burning paint everywhere and the sight that came into view when the smoke finally cleared will remain with me for ever.

There was a strange smell, which we identified as burning flesh. The six inch gun crews and amongst them my friend and shipmate Jimmy Hadley were somewhere in a mixture of burning wood and melting steel, the cables were still on fire, clothing was still smouldering and was the only indication of where the wearers body was in this unbelievable carnage.

I automatically made my way to the spot that I had vacated only minutes earlier; Jimmy Hadley was unrecognisable but still alive. Gently he was carried down to an available mess table but unfortunately or should I say fortunately he died within a few minutes. His own personal friends carried his body down to the keyboard flat and laid him to rest beside the members of my crew that had died with him. Tears were shed and no one was ashamed.

At that moment there were six in all. Many more bodies had been taken down to the ships chapel. The Executive Officer, Commander Sir Charles Madden was already in command injecting morphine into those who he thought needed it, there were many for whom it was too late. These were carefully tended and taken to various places in the ship away from all the frantic activity.

The bodies of all the Royal Marines were now in the keyboard flat and tenderly wrapped in their hammocks with a six-inch shell at their feet, laid in a row with sentries posted to guard them. The guns on the port side were still firing and the whole of our starboard side was completely immobilised, we had to break off the action and do our best to reach the safety of Alexandria. At 19.30.hrs we buried our dead and remembered all the good times that we had had together. It was a very sad occasion, made sadder by the knowledge that a good friend had taken my place and died. The only consolation was the fact that he and the members of both crews would have known nothing about it. In all we lost sixty-nine casualties, thirty-eight including one officer died and thirty-one wounded.

At the time I decided to try and describe it in rhyme and penned the following verse.
“Hold that island”, My Lords had said
“Hold it for what”, we cried,
“Never mind for what, just hold it” they said
And holding it many of us died

For it had no real significance
It was neither here nor there,
It had no rich ores or priceless crops
Bur for grapes, it was almost bare.

But hold it we did for seven long months
From the month of November to May,
And then when we were ordered to leave
That’s when we had to pay.

|Three Battleships and one Carrier damaged
Six Cruisers wrecked and three lost,
Six Destroyers sunk, seven of no further use
And that wasn’t the end of the cost.

With the Carrier damaged and of no further use
With no aircraft support for the Fleet,
One thousand eight hundred Sailors had died
We had to admit defeat.

Yes, we had our moments of valour
The fighting had not been one way,
There were names that would live on in history
As of yore on Trafalgar Day.

So if there’s to be another mistake
Like the one that happened that May,
Then send out the Politicians
At least to earn some of their pay

For it’s easy to sit in comfort at home
Doing deals with a nod and a wink,
But to go out and die for a stupid mistake
Would at least make them sit back and think.

For if Politicians had to stand up and fight
Instead of dreaming up laws,
Then there might be peace all over the world
And an end to all stupid wars

The lives that were lost for that barren isle
Were lives that were wasted in vain,
My Lords might stand and bare their heads
But it’s the people who bear the pain.

We were as yet not out of danger the dive bombers followed us until we reached the point where we could call upon our own aircraft in North Africa. It appeared to be the last straw, when Commander Madden asked for volunteers to go on board HMS Orion and help her exhausted crew in clearing up.

Five hundred men, evacuated from Crete were assembled on the upper deck when the bombers came in, they had nowhere to go as a 1000 lb burst in their midst. One can only imagine the overall scene. In our section there were bits and pieces everywhere. It was a case of making bodies and placing them together in order to have something to bury.

Commander Madden still cool calm and collected, at least on the outside, ordered the many volunteers to change into boiler suits as blood ran out of the hastily built coffins and we were more than grateful when everything had been swilled down and secured. Only then could the Commander and his weary volunteers return to the Warspite.

Much to our surprise Andrew Cunningham returned on board and raised his Flag once again. There were many comments from the ships company, such as, “I would rather see Admiral Rawlings Flag up there” and “It looks better ashore on the Admiralty Building”. But who were we to judge. All we could do was curse the Government of the day for not sending whatever planes were available from Malta or North Africa, to give the Fleet whatever help they could.

For the Admiral it must have been a nightmare. To send his fleet out to engage the full might of the German air force, knowing that he could not rely on having any air support himself and then, to see its battered remains struggling back to harbour having buried its dead out at sea almost broke the old seadogs heart. He immediately sat down in his office and sent a signal to the admiralty offering his resignation as Admiral of the Fleet. Quite rightly, the Board of Admiralty did not accept this.

If the truth was to be told, it should have been the people responsible for refusing the request for air cover who should have resigned. That same evening I was on duty in the wardroom when the Commander came in dressed for dinner. He immediately ordered two pink gins and I took them off the wine waiter and approached the Commander.

Leaving his companions in the ante room, which was a small room off the dining area, he walked to meet me and removed one glass from the tray. “You can drink yours in the pantry Hallas”, was all he said as he turned away. It was a gesture of thanks, but from Commander Sir Charles Madden Bt, it was meant as an appreciation for all the assistance he had received from the men under his command and he had chosen me to be the recipient. In the confines of the pantry I drank his health and knowing that I had a good excuse for my breath smelling of gin, I poured another for good luck. That was Commander Sir Charles Madden, no small wonder that he rose to be Admiral of the Fleet.

The next night I was on duty as corporal of the watch. It was a strange position to be in. Apart from the bridge and the lookouts on duty we were ‘Stood down’. Below decks, “Pipe Down” had sounded and all was quiet. The Master at Arms and his regulating staff “Ships Police” had all turned in and were gently snoring away. Below decks the ship was all mine. It was my duty to see that nothing untoward was happening as I walked from stem to stern on my patrol. I would then go to the quarterdeck and report to the Officer of the Watch.

This one particular night was different, I had walked from the after mess decks along the Port Side and was returning via the Starboard Side, The damaged Starboard gun battery had been shut down and after being made seaworthy had been secured. I suppose it was force of habit, I lowered the Cleats on the armoured door and after passing through I refastened the doors behind me.

At a point half way through I noticed Sergeant Collins was in the damaged control cabinet. “Good night Sarge” I called, and only then did I realise that Sergeant Collins had been on duty with me when the battery was destroyed, he had died instantly. To this day I cannot explain my feelings, I remember that I quickened my pace as I passed through the tangled mess and as the smells came back to me I could feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stiffening.

I managed to open the armoured door at the after end of the battery and escape into the cleaner air, shutting the door tightly behind me. I decided that I had better keep my experience to myself, Seamen are very sceptical and to some of them it would be a source of amusement. As the next day dawned most of the damage was out of sight and it was only at meal times that we looked at the empty spaces and realised that we had been spared.

Chapter 10b - The Catastrophe of Crete (Cont.)

For the next few weeks we were fully employed making the ship seaworthy with temporary repairs. It was unfortunate that when the repairs were almost completed we had another air raid; this time it was a near miss. On the night of the 23rd of June a 1000 lb bomb hit the water on our starboard side and detonated under water alongside the forward turrets.

Once again the ship was shaken from stem to stern. It would appear that the enemy had a personal vendetta against Commander Madden. He was flung across the armoured conning tower, covered in glass and sustained a strained neck muscle. The ship fared slightly worse. The anti torpedo bulges and the plates beneath them were badly damaged and flooded for over eighty feet and one of our motor boats was destroyed.

It is now the 25th of June and despite our injuries we were off to parts unknown. We had said goodbye to our friends in the General Hospital ashore in Alex’, I doubt if most of them could hear us, it would be most difficult, swathed from head to foot in cotton wool and lying in a waterproof bed, soaking in Saline.

One peculiarity that we discovered was the fact that most of them had broken ankles. It would appear that the blast of the bomb, hitting a standing body at its widest part, spun the body so violently that the weakest part snapped. We live and learn, but at what a price. As we said goodbye, the nurses told us that as their patients were war casualties from the fleet they were something special and although beer was in short supply all the female staff had donated their ration to those who were well enough to enjoy it.

Leaving the harbour at dusk we made our way to the Suez Canal, arrangements had apparently been made to keep it clear to enable us to travel at speed and be well out of sight of Alexandria by dawn. In the narrow confines of the canal this caused havoc, as the many fishing boats lining the sides were washed ashore. We were now in the Red Sea and it was as hot as ever.

The stokers, (I cannot understand why they are still referred to by that name, (shovels and coal were dispensed with many years ago) were stripped to the waist. On the deck of the starboard wing engine room beneath the Royal Marine barracks, there were large vats of Lime and Barley water, as fast as they drank; it came out again through their pores.

Our destination was still secret and travelling southwards gave no clue at all. As we entered the Indian Ocean the world was our oyster. South West to Capetown, around South Africa, to England, across the Indian Ocean in a South Eastern direction to Australia or due East to India or Singapore, where the hell are we off to? It soon became apparent however that we were in fact steaming Eastwards, Aden lay off to our Port side, and it was any body’s guess.

At least we were more or less in a safe area. It was only necessary to have one watch on duty plus the full lookouts, we could spend most of our afternoons lazing around or playing the odd deck sports. It was no surprise when the latest news came around. The lookouts had reported that they could see over the horizon a huge sign, which read “Ceylon Tea”. To those of us who had been this way before it meant only one thing, “Colombo” in Ceylon. Travelling in secret as we were, the only person allowed ashore was the postman.

As we had “Hove To” over the horizon, he had at his disposal the “Skimming Dish”, a small fast speedboat. In no time he had made the return journey and delivered his precious cargo to the mail office. News from home was always given priority and today was no exception, as each name was called out there were many eager cries of “Here”. As usual I received my fair share, they were all from Ruth, eight letters all were numbered to be read in turn, but all giving the same loving message. “Please be careful, come home soon, I love you”.

Well, we could be careful, we could return that love, but, come home’ that was in the hands of the Gods. In the meantime, it was where are we off to, if that was the first lap, where the hell were we. Do we make for Aussie, only the next few days would tell. Now we became interested in the heavens, every morning we went on deck at dawn to see which direction our bow was pointing in relation to the rising sun. It was always east.

Day after day until we eventually arrived in Singapore Straits, only then did I realise that here was a possibility of seeing my brother Albert. For the past four years he had been incarcerated in the gun battery protecting Singapore from a sea borne attack, eventually I plucked up courage and approached The Major of Marines for permission to see Commander Madden and obtain his permission to go ashore and surprise my sibling.

I knew it was a big thing to ask, there was no one other than the Postman going inshore and strict secrecy was being enforced. Commander Sir Charles Madden was most sympathetic, he waited for a second or two and then said, “Yes of course, go and see your brother, but bear in mind that you comply with the Official Secrets Act and that you return with the mail boat at 1800 hrs” I was delighted.

Arriving at Jardine Steps in Singapore Harbour, a Sergeant in the Military Police took me in tow and commandeered a taxi and I set off for Jahore across the Causeway. It was a hot afternoon and apart from the sentries the whole garrison was in the middle of their siesta. The long black Humber car drove up to the half hidden sentry post. All that the sentry could see was a white-topped cap with a red band he jumped into action, “Guard, Turn Out”.

The guard Sergeant was on his toes, he dressed the guard gave them a cursory inspection and then turned to me. He took one look and let forth, “Who the Bloody Hell are you and what are you doing here”. I could see that he was not too happy at being awakened from his afternoon nap and after six years in the Marines I knew how to deal with the situation. “I’m really sorry Sergeant, I only have thirty minutes to see my Brother after four years and I would really appreciate it if you could show me where Gunner Hallas is as soon as possible, I have to get back to my ship”.

It worked “Bit of a bloody laugh wasn’t it, I shall have the balls off that sentry”. His face broke into a smile, “Orderly, Show this Royal Marine where Gunner Albert Hallas is”. It was only a short walk, almost under the huge barrels of the Naval 15” guns of which he was a crewmember.

I searched round the room and found him in the far corner, a gentle shake and he opened his eyes, he was as astonished as his Sergeant, “Where the bloody hell have you come from”, servicemen have a novel way of expressing themselves, we shook hands and I sat on his bed, I had more up to date news to tell him. He wanted to know all about home and what sort of a girl was Ruth. We pored over the few photographs I had with me and in no time at all, we had to say goodbye, it had been short and sweet.

We parted at the guardroom gate and I entered the taxi that was to take me back to Jardine Steps. As I looked back through the rear window to watch him waving, I had no idea that that was the last vision I would have of my elder Brother.

He was captured and starved to death in Death Valley Prison camp in Ko Ko Po, Rabual, New Britain, another “Cock up” that the Government of the day would have to answer for. Over 60,000 men were ordered to surrender and become the victims of a sadistic race of people who had no idea of the normal behaviour of human beings and treated their prisoners worse than animals until they died from disease or starvation.

I arrived back on the jetty in plenty of time to stock up with a basket of fresh limes for the mess, unfortunately I put my trust in a native basket and one handle came off tipping the precious limes into the waters of the harbour, thankfully they were rescued amid much laughter by the children swimming around the steps. Returning on board I made it my first priority to thank Commander Madden for his generosity in granting me that very important privilege.

Leaving Singapore, we were still going east. It was fairly obvious now that we were going across The Pacific and when we were well out to sea we were at last informed that our next Port of Call was to be Manila in the Philippines. The information was correct and it was well received. The first place of interest was of course the Cigar factory and there we were treated to the pleasant sight of watching the really expensive cigars being rolled. First measured and de-stalked on the work bench and then hand rolled on the warm moist thighs of young Filipino girls, it would turn anyone into a cigar smoker, and then of course, being with American Marines we had to visit the sleaze joints.

The eagerness with which we had come ashore was now wearing a bit thin. Visiting heroes with money to burn, forget it. There were ten “Yanks” to every girl and the prices of everything were well out of our reach. I did manage a box of fifty genuine Manila cigars and a few beers. Our hosts were more than generous with their hospitality but it went against the grain to accept too much and most of us were contented enough to go round the bazaars just looking. It was fortunate that we only stayed for two days, this gave each watch one trip ashore and then once again it was “Prepare for sea” and we were off once more.

I have to say that although the voyage was most interesting the food situation was getting worse. We were not short of anything but it was mostly coming out of a can. Powdered potatoes powdered eggs, powdered cabbage, tinned herrings, and Spam etc, etc. If there were any submarines in the Pacific they only had to follow a trail of empty cans and there we were. But I’m getting carried away from the main point of interest and that is where we were going to next.

We were not left wondering for long. I can even now hear the Commander’s voice and imagine the smile as he came over the tannoy. “I suppose you are wondering about our next port of call, I am pleased to tell you that”, and there he paused, on the mess deck there were mutterings of “Get on with it” The voice then carried on, “In a few days we shall be dropping anchor in Pearl Harbour, I hope you can enjoy yourselves in Honolulu, we shall stay for four days, there will be leave to both watches and we will partly provision ship. Have a nice time”.

On the first available liberty, I was there, best tropical rig and money changed into American dollars. I needn’t have bothered; the Americans had been waiting for this famous wounded battleship to arrive in their base. The United States Marines in particular were lined up on the jetty; they intended to show the Royal Marines just what was what in the way of hospitality. Our money was useless.

They showed us the town from A to Z and their favourite bars, reserved just for Marines, they took us on board their ships and showed us a style of living that took our breath away. Launderettes, a Barber shop, a soft drinks bar and well spaced sleeping accommodation. Each evening they took off their tropical uniform, handed it in to the cleaners and the next day, there it was all cleaned and neatly pressed.

The day passed all too quickly and come the evening it was the favourite pastime. A casual stroll around the “Cat Houses”, to the uninitiated, that means “Brothels”. No one intended that we should partake of the amenities on offer but my newfound buddy, by name of PFC, (Passed First Class) Oriel King. United States Marine Corps informed me that special arrangements had been made with the “Madams” that anything that the visitors wanted was “On the House”.

To be honest, although there were one or two English girls in their teens, who supplied us with free drinks during our stay and who did their very best to raise the temperature, and our emotions, just by being what they were and by moving in close, kissing and cuddling and exuding very strong perfumes. It was very difficult, but I have always been frightened off, mainly I suppose by the enforced lectures, which we attended during our training and the lurid descriptions of the horrible consequences that could follow ten minutes of carnal pleasure.

Our new friends with the promise that on our next day ashore we would have a real day out, because that would be their payday, helped us back to our ship. "God Help Us". After a day of rest on board talking over our experiences, we were ready for our next foray and it proved even better than before.

They had arranged a special meal on board the battleship, I think it was the Virginia or the Minnesota I honestly can’t remember, I do recall that the cook house had entered into the fun and provided a banquet, after which, we went ashore. During our conversation I explained to my escort that I had left my girl friend with a world map and all the main ports had been numbered from one to twenty, the number of kisses on my letter would say where I was at the time of writing although the censors working hard, cut out names and any reference to other ships or even temperatures they never interfered with the love and kisses.

Unfortunately I never thought that I would go past Singapore, consequently she had no Idea where I was, and not receiving her usual quota of mail, was a very worried girl. Added to which was the fact that James Joyce i.e. “Lord Haw Haw” the British traitor had broadcast on the radio that HMS Warspite had been torpedoed and sunk in the South China seas.

My American friend was not only sympathetic but also very helpful. He bought a picture postcard of Honolulu and wrote, “Dear Ruth, last night I had a pleasant night out with a mutual friend of ours, Bernard sends his love and to tell you not to worry”. There must have been one very relieved girl back home in Crawshawbooth. As for our young American Marine, he was a great guy and it was a sad moment when his sister wrote some time later to tell me that he had died during the treacherous attack by the Japanese on Pearl Harbour.

The “Holiday” was over too soon, there were many fond farewells on the jetty as we piled into the boats taking us back to our ship. As usual we prepared for sea and on completion the ships company lined the sides and the Royal Marine Band played us out of the great harbour we could hear the haunting strains of “Goodbye Hawaii” and see groups of Hawaiian dancers swinging their hips to the sound of the music, it was one of those moments that live on in your memory long after the event.

We were now fully aware of our final destination and it seemed that a dream had come true. We were to go to the port of Seattle on the Pacific seaboard of the good old U.S. of A. But first we had to get there and that meant, “Crossing the Line”. The ceremony of crossing the Equator is one of the oldest customs in seafaring history and is still practised today. The King “Father Neptune” and his retinue of “Mermaids” come on board and initiate all those who are passing over the Line for the first time.

Blindfolded the victim is subjected to different trials, swallowing mystery concoctions is one, running the gauntlet is another and different “Courts” invent an assortment of events that are supposed to please the King (Colour Sergeant, Snaky Snelling”) so called because of his very tall thin stature, before he his satisfied enough to return to his domain below the waves.

You then receive a signed certificate to prove that you are a member of “ Father Neptune’s Court”. The war now seemed a long way off, however the broadcast that we had been sunk in the South China Seas intimated that the enemy had some idea of our whereabouts. It was essential therefore, that although there was no apparent danger from capital ships, there may be the odd submarine somewhere in our vicinity. With no necessity for the main armament gun crews to stand to in their turrets there were plenty of spare bodies that could be employed as lookouts and we crossed the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean with no incidents whatsoever.

Chapter 11a - Heaven over the Horizon

The six-day voyage from Honolulu to Victoria dragged ever so slowly and then one beautiful morning “Shangri La” came into view just over the horizon, it was the Western Seaboard of Canada. We anchored, off shore for a small party of all ranks to be disembarked; they were the first to be sent home to England.

Our first sighting was Victoria and Vancouver and as we steamed past, making our way to the main seaway channel, the Puget Sound, a waterway which went from Canada, over the border and finished at an inland port of the United States, that was Seattle. We had no idea what sort of a reception was in store for us. The Canadians had not seen a British capital warship for more than twenty years and they were thrilled to bits.

They had heard about the Battle of Narvik, The victorious battles of Matapan, Taranto and the Battle for the island of Crete and here in their waters was “The Old Lady” herself, Flagship of the Fleet and they expressed their admiration and delight. Thousands lined the shoreline as we passed, we were overcome with emotion, we could hear the thunderous cheers as we passed and everything that could make a noise was utilised.

Whistles, horns, sirens, clapperboards and every piece of tin that could be banged was in use. Dozens and dozens of small boats were trying to get as near as possible and a delighted and happy population were doing their best to throw cigarettes and bags of sweets over the ships side. It was a real “Tear Jerker”. Eventually, with much regret we had to leave them far behind as we entered mid stream and made our way down the ‘Sound’ to our berthing dock. It was not to be in Seattle but in the United States Navy yard in Bremerton.

Here again we were treated with a cacophony of sound. The ships in the docks showed their appreciation to a damaged ship coming in from the war zone. Every one had stopped working to gaze at the wounded veteran as she berthed alongside the dock. As soon as convenient the gash along her side was covered with tarpaulins and a rope barrier was erected to prevent the curious sightseers from getting too close. On the other side of the jetty was the giant USS Washington, resting with a suspected fracture of her turret.

Life in the dockyard was reasonably easy. Security for us was pretty lax and going in and out of the dockyard gate was no problem. On my first visit ashore I had a mission to accomplish. One of the U.S. Marines in Honolulu had given me a letter to deliver to a young lady in Bremerton and it was to be delivered personally. Leaving the dockyard I acted like a true Englishman, I asked a policeman. “Excuse me officer can you direct me to the Admirals Rooms”.

For a moment he was speechless, he weighed me up and down and finally realised what I had said. At first I thought that he was just being awkward, but eventually he smiled and said. “ I know you Limey Marines get around a bit, but I didn’t realise that the Admirals Rooms in Bremerton was that famous”.

He then gave me the directions, and as I left, he said, “You may have to keep ringing the bell, it’s the only brothel in town and I doubt if the girls will be up yet”. No wonder he was surprised. I waited until the street was reasonably clear, then I slipped the letter in the letterbox and made my way back to the main street.

Standing on the corner I was joined by a buddy, Jack Hylton and we decided that we would count up to ten and board the first bus that passed. Our money was refused and we asked to go to the end of the line and took our seat. After about ten minutes, the driver shouted out that this was the terminus. As we stepped off the bus he asked us if we would like to go back to town, surprised, we asked why. “Well, I guess after a long sea journey you boys will probably like a drink, and you are right in the middle of a “Quaker Town”, there’s no booze here”.

We had no intention of getting drunk, but it would be nice to have a few beers, so we thanked him and returned to our seats. Back in Bremerton it was a lot better. The news had spread and as we stood on the sidewalk (Pavement) we were the centres of attraction. The girls were out in force, after all it was a Naval port and I suppose that even here they had their “Dot and Dolly’s”.

We soon learned the drill; the girls were mostly mobile and travelled in pairs, honking their horns as they slowed down to pass. We decided that we would be a little particular when it came to choosing a car. The favourite was to be a Packard with white wall tyres, and providing that the occupants were attractive enough we waved them in. It was all good clean fun.

Our first choice took us home to meet Mom and Pa, they lived a few miles out of town in a large wooden hacienda and Pa had a ‘still’ out in the back, perhaps not a ‘still’, but a large barrel of “Apple Jack” foaming and bubbling away. With a large ladle we had to move the scum to one side and as Pa said, “Dig deep boys.”

The girls joined in the fun and with food provided we had an evening to remember. It was quite late when we said Good night and the girls took us back to the dockyard gate, kissed us and waved us off. I was looking forward to more of the same treatment but the next day; there it was, on the notice board in big black letters, CHX1219 B. Hallas. Posting to U.K.

It was with mixed feelings that I received the news. Disappointed that I would not be spending the next six months as a guest of these lovely people but at the same time happy that within a few weeks I would possibly be home on leave. But first we had to get there and the journey we had to undertake was out of this world. Arriving at the railway station some four hundred of the Ships Company, sailors and marines, entrained on The Canadian Pacific Express.

It was six days and five nights of luxurious travel. Full Pullman service all the way. Two ratings per four seat berth, one to sleep in the lower berth and one in the pull down upper berth. We had clean sheets every night and in the dining car, and one attendant to every two tables. Wine or beer with every meal and at the rear of the carriages, a specially refrigerated car stocked with beer, all paid for by “Lease Lend”. At frequent intervals the train stopped and it was surprising how the news travelled. At every station there were local residents waiting to greet the British visitors to their country.

One young couple in Medicine Hat, a very small community, were so happy to meet us that the young husband stood by while his wife threw her arms round the lucky ones and planted a big kiss on each and every one of us. The smiling husband explained that his young bride was a teacher and they had left England only six months previous and she was still a little home sick. When we arrived at the larger cities, Calgary, Winnipeg, Etc, we stopped well out of the town.

For obvious reasons, it had not been unknown for sailors to “Jump Ship” and get lost in the crowd. To this end, no one was allowed to leave the train and Royal Marine sentries were posted on the doors of the carriages. For the most of us it was sufficient, just to sit back and enjoy the scenery. Going through the Rockies had been an experience that I shall always remember.

Looking back through the windows as the train went round the mountainous bends, the rest of the train looked for all the world like a small “Hornby” toy against a magnificent background.

The journey was over too soon and the train was pulling into the main street of Philadelphia, where we detrained and loaded on to lorries and made our way to the dockyard to join our transport home, and lo and behold, it was an old friend. Lying alongside, having some minor repairs was my old ship of the Spanish Patrols, HMS Resolution.

Making my way down the familiar ladders to the Barracks I was surprised to see that there were still a few friends remaining who had been on board way back in the old days. Jimmy Brunt from the Elephant and Castle, the fleet Welter weight Champion, who was considered good enough by the Americans to be employed as a sparring partner to Fritzi Civic, the welter weight champion of the world was just one of them.

It was a nice surprise to be told that we would be in port for at least two weeks before leaving for the United Kingdom.

Jack Hylton my buddy from Bremerton was still with us and together we went ashore on our first liberty. Again we roamed the “Main Drag”, sampling one or two bars en route. The popular beer was Budweiser and if you bought a pitcher, you received five pints for the price of four. Again we made friends with various locals and on one trip out, we, Jack and I, made for Camden Town in New Jersey.

It was there that a rather portly, well-dressed gentleman, who asked, very politely, if he could sit at our table in the bar, approached us. At first we were a little cautious, we had both met some very queer people in our time in the navy. This time however there was no problem, opening his jacket he sported a large gold coloured shield and informed us that his name was George Roundey and he was the Governor of Camden County ‘Jail’. He was more than pleased to meet us and enjoyed listening to our British accent.

It would please him a great deal, he explained, if we would go home with him to meet his wife and join them in a Sunday lunch. Of course we accepted and after he had put a case of drinks in the car we set off for his home. It was most enjoyable and the first of many more visits.

Chapter 11b - Heaven over the Horizon (Cont.)

On one such visit, he asked us what we would like to do in the evening and jokingly we said that it would be nice to have a ride in a police car. To the Governor of the local prison this did not appear to be a problem and picking up the telephone he asked the local precinct to send the nearest patrol car to his home. It duly arrived and we were introduced to the driver, a rather tough looking gentleman by the name of Patrolman Fisch.

We set off and as we went over the very large bridge in Philadelphia he explained that we would have to request permission to go through the city, as we were not a part of the city police force. During the journey, the radio announced that the police were looking for two Columbian sailors who had robbed a Gas Station. Our host thought it would be a good idea if we called in the nearest police station and handed us over as suspects.

It went all wrong Patrolman Fisch marched us up to the charge desk, The desk Sergeant instructed him to put us in a holding cell until he could deal with us and that was that. Eventually with smiles all round, George Roundey, who was apparently very well known, told the Desk Sergeant that it was all a bit of fun, for the British Boys benefit and we were returning to his home for dinner “I’m afraid it will have to be for breakfast” said the Sergeant “The holding cell you have put them in is on a time lock, come back in the morning”.

We held our breath, fortunately, it had been for our benefit and the door was duly opened and shaking hands all round, we very thankfully returned to our transport and went home for a very pleasant dinner. On our next visit, our Host had a very pleasant surprise for us; he took us for a trip around the prison. It was well organised and we were joined by two very burly warders.

It happened to be mealtime and we watched as the inmates marched smartly into the dining area and took their place at the tables. At each corner there was a Warder, heavily armed and it was pointed out to us that the holes in the ceiling contained Tear Gas bombs, should they be required. Not a very nice place to be in. After our visit we made our way to the Sheriff’s office where we were sworn in as “Special Deputies” and presented with a badge and a certificate of enlistment, all most enjoyable and unexpected.

On our return to the ship we showed our badge of office to our very young Royal Marine officer who asked if it would be possible to obtain one for him, we promised to try. After talking it over with the Warden, He promised to do his best and in due course we were successful and our young Lieutenant became a fully-fledged Deputy. Needless to say Jack and I were in very good books from then on. It was not all play however, we had to take our share of duties and one of them was the Shore Patrol. I was duly assigned to a United States Marine unit and we attended the entrance of a very popular bar, a haunt of American sailors called “The Boulder Bar”.

From the street level you walked down a polished wooden slope directly on to the dance floor. I was minding my own business, chatting to one of the American patrolmen when a very angry young woman stepped in front of me and said “You, you Limey Bastard, you arrested my boy friend last night” and without further ado, swung a very heavy hand bag in the direction of my head. I would not have known how to handle the situation.

In a Royal Naval canteen with a drunken Sailor it would not have been a problem, but in a foreign country with a tipsy ‘Lady’ I was lost. Fortunately, the U.S. Marines were not. Before the bag landed, a back handed blow from a six foot P.F.C. (Passed First Class) sent the attacker sliding down the approach and into the feet of the dancers.

Her sailor friends were not amused. Three or four of them surged forward to retaliate. The patrol stood shoulder to shoulder, brandished their batons and the sailors backed off and rejoined their party. The incident soon passed over.

The next day we spent exploring the town of Camden. It was a town famous for it’s Tomato industry and from early morning the main streets and all the side streets were full of trucks delivering their loads of tomatoes to the canning factory. Entering the factory you could help yourselves to natural juice from two taps. One was normal and the other was iced it was quite pleasant and if we had had transport we could have had as many cases as we wanted.

Time was running short; we had to explain to George Roundey that every day could be the last and that if we were unable to say goodbye on the day. (Dates of sailings) were still top secret, we would at least write as soon as possible after reaching home. Come the day, there was no advance warning and boats were brought inboard very discreetly.

As usual there was a leak of information and friends were gathering at various vantage points to wave their last farewells. All the American workers had now left the ship, booms on the seaward side had been recovered and all ladders brought inboard. We were now to all intents and purposes ready for leaving.

Steam had been raised and the Executive officer was on the bridge. The orders to cast off were relayed to the dockside and the huge hawsers were removed from the bollards. Our last link from the good old U.S. of A had been severed. Slowly the huge engines came to life and we reversed away from the dockside. Once we were clear, it was ‘Slow Ahead’ and we were once again on our way.

As we left the main harbour we could see the huge convoy spread over the sea, Royal Navy destroyers were marshalling the various ships into position and shouting their instructions over their loud hailers. It would be a long and dangerous crossing. To keep some semblance of order, all ships would travel at the same speed and that speed was the speed of the slowest ship. Here we go again, poetry is the best way of committing to memory.

Convoys
Our Convoy steamed slowly northwards
And soon would be turning east,
And hiding in the depths below
Slid a sleek and ferocious beast.

The “U” boats were silent and deadly
They prowled the seas in packs,
Looking for Tramps and Tankers
Betrayed by the smoke from their stacks.

The speed of the Convoy, is the slowest ship,
If one falters, when doing her best,
Then she is left to fend for herself
So as not to endanger the rest

As the Convoy steamed on its zig-zag course
A tramp was left far astern,
A long way from where she was going
But too far out to return.

In the periscope of the trailing ‘Sub’
The Tramp has come into view,
A perfect strike for the surface gun
And practice for the crew.

The eager ‘Sub’ now leaves the pack
And lines up for the kill,
Nothing to fear from the stricken Tramp
Just a routine drill

The range is perfect the target is hit
How can one miss almost touching the hull
Shell after shell, burst on her decks
The sea boats are swamped because they’re too full.

Somewhere a machine gun chatters,
Fingers gripping the ‘Sub’ let go,
Then suddenly the Tramp rears up
Only the barnacles show.

Boats and floats are pulling away
To get clear of the suction field,
One more lurch, and down she goes
Her fate now finally sealed.

The ‘Subs’ Commander clears the bridge
“Flood one and two fore”, he cried,
Down went the ‘Sub’ to periscope depth

Aboard the Tramp as she slid down to the deep
A Morse key kept tapping away,
A W/T had stayed at his post
And sent out his last ‘May Day’.

Just over the horizon, a sleek grey shape
From the North Atlantic fleet,
Steamed one of the ‘Working Greyhounds’
Out on a submarine beat.

The Commander had just read a signal
“Full speed ahead”, he cried,
“All hands to action stations”
And the ‘Greyhound’ broke into her stride.

Soon, reaching the scene of the slaughter
With boats lowered over the side,
She slowed and picked up survivors
As well as those that had died.

And then she went a’ hunting
Increasing the circle each round,
Until the ‘Asdic’ finally pinged
The quarry, a ‘Sub’ had been found.

The control then worked out a pattern
The depth charges hurled into the air,
Then dropped in a diamond formation
To trap the beast in his lair

It was during the fourth or fifth ‘Salvo’
That the white frothy spume turned black,
A submarine’s hull reared out of the sea
Rolled over and then slid back.

The Tramps survivors stood up and cheered
But most stood silent, head bowed,
For sending a ship with her crew to the depths
Was not something of which to be proud

You can only think of the deeds she has done
Performed in ‘The Fuhrer’s name,
And say, “ They have only been paid the wages of sin”
It’s all in the luck of the game.

Eventually, after many alarms, some false and some unfortunately only too true, we arrived in home waters. We had had our casualties and watched helplessly as merchantmen paid the price of their sacrifice, but most of the convoy arrived with their much-needed supplies and were diverted to their various destinations. Eventually we arrived at ours and made our way up the Clyde to Greenock.

Once again it was a stampede when the Postman came down to the barracks, and once again there were the welcome letters from families and loved ones, as usual I had my fair share and this time there was no time to answer. The next day I received my marching orders.

The Royal Marine Barracks at Chatham. I was back where I started, but for how long, that was always the question at the back of every ones mind. After settling in, we were informed that we would be going on leave as from a.m. the next day and I would be issued with my free travel warrant to my home town. I have never mentioned before about my arrival in Manchester, which was always my destination, after which I would get a bus to wherever I wanted.

I had always thought of myself as an expert at finding my way around my home city, but in wartime I was finding myself in difficulty once I had left the station. Every where was blacked out, traffic moved slowly with dipped slits in their headlamps, signposts had either been obliterated or removed, not just to confuse me, but to confuse the enemy if they ever got this far.

As always, my first objective was the bus for Rawtenstall and the house in Burnley Road that I now considered my home, I had been away for a very long time And I was eager to see that lovely face once again. What can I say about being back home, it has already been said many, many times and it gets better each time you say it. It was a repetition of visits to friends and relations and just the joy of being together was all that we asked for. We knew that nothing would ever come between us and to prove it, if ever we were walking, hand in hand, as we always were and we came to some obstacle, Ruth would never let that obstacle come between us and so it was for the remainder of our life.

All good thing must come to an end and after a very happy leave I was now back in Chatham, and was expecting to be back on another leave before very long. It was not to be, the gunners curse had struck again. It was my unfortunate duty to be posted back to the Warspite.

Captain Terry, o/c of the ships detachment had specifically requested that I should be included in the replacements on draft to his ship. Apparently he did not feel up to training a new Captain of the Royal Marines turret, so it was off to sea once more.

The only difference being that this time I would be a passenger on board a Liner. Life would be a little easier. I would be going c/o the RAF, on board their troopship, which transported thousands of ratings to Canada for training and their ultimate return to the UK. The ship was the French liner the Louis Pasteur and was manned entirely by the RAF Police.

On the first day it was chaos of the first order, almost four thousand bodies crowding the promenade deck to be served in the small canteen that only opened for a limited number of hours each day.

Fate must have been on our side. That night, it was reported that one of the many ‘Lascars’, (Merchant seamen, from the East Indies), all at the lower end of the Merchant Navy, had molested one of the female service women and escaped back to his berth down in the forward steerage compartment.

The RAF police were unaccustomed to travelling with ‘Lascars’ and had no idea how to cope with the situation. The ships Captain knowing that he was carrying Royal Marines on his manifesto had the answer. Sending for the senior Royal Marine officer, he requested that it might be in the best interests of his ship if the Royals would be so kind as to form a patrol and bring the unhappy affair to a satisfactory conclusion.

No sooner said than done. Myself as one of the seniors and three other stalwarts, all Blanco-ed up and wearing official Royal Naval arm bands made our way down to the steerage where some two hundred coloured seamen were berthed, encouraged on our way by the RAF, “This way, Marines, down there Marines”, it was fairly obvious that they were only to eager to transfer the responsibility to some other body.

Entering the smelly hold, we asked to be taken to the headman. Lascars are well used to the ‘Ship’s Police’ as they call us and have the greatest respect for us, after all we are members of a sea going fraternity and understand them, the head man was friendly, he knew who the culprit was and ordered him to come forward. There was no great show of strength, we merely pointed to the main hatch and he followed the two leading marines. With two more of us following we took him one deck down and placed him in one of the vacant cells. We then reported back to our C/O and he in return reported to the ships Captain.

It was now his responsibility to feed his prisoner and make arrangements to hand him over to the authorities. Our ‘Reward’ for this small service, was to retain our official police arm bands, to be served at the back door of the canteen and to have reserved seats at the front for the twice daily cinema show, and the personal thanks of the ships Captain.

It was going to be a most enjoyable trip. After it was discovered that I was returning to the Warspite, the young Officers going to their first ship, wanted to know all about their new Commanding Officer, Captain (Major) Terry, all Royal Marines Captains are given the rank of Major when appointed to a ship, it affords them some seniority amongst their naval counterparts.

Obviously, when asked, I embellished a little on his work on board ship and I painted him in a favourable light. I did not want anything I had said to get back to the Major. I could not in any case have said anything detrimental about him, he was a first class officer and I had always found him fair and a good listener.

Arriving in The good old US of A, once more I was looking forward to the forthcoming trip on board the Canadian Pacific with its Pullman service. It was just as I remembered it. The same clean beds every night, and the same wine with meals and the beer wagon at the rear. There was to be only one difference. On the previous journey we had been going home and every one was only interested in getting there as soon as possible with no problems.

This was a completely different ‘Kettle of Fish’. We were going back to pick up a fully repaired ship and setting off for parts unknown in the war zone. Not a pleasant outlook. It was therefore essential that the Train Marshal arrived back with a full complement.

Consequently, before arriving at any station where we were due to stop, and before the train had slowed down, our ever-faithful Royal Marines marched through the train, (to the usual friendly boo’s) and posted sentries at the entrance of each carriage.

Winnipeg and Toronto were beckoning, for some it was too inviting. When we arrived at our destination, we were four bodies short. They had squeezed out of the windows. After a short bout of freedom, local police in various parts of America apprehended them all.

Chapter 11b - Heaven over the Horizon (Cont.)

On one such visit, he asked us what we would like to do in the evening and jokingly we said that it would be nice to have a ride in a police car. To the Governor of the local prison this did not appear to be a problem and picking up the telephone he asked the local precinct to send the nearest patrol car to his home. It duly arrived and we were introduced to the driver, a rather tough looking gentleman by the name of Patrolman Fisch.

We set off and as we went over the very large bridge in Philadelphia he explained that we would have to request permission to go through the city, as we were not a part of the city police force. During the journey, the radio announced that the police were looking for two Columbian sailors who had robbed a Gas Station. Our host thought it would be a good idea if we called in the nearest police station and handed us over as suspects.

It went all wrong Patrolman Fisch marched us up to the charge desk, The desk Sergeant instructed him to put us in a holding cell until he could deal with us and that was that. Eventually with smiles all round, George Roundey, who was apparently very well known, told the Desk Sergeant that it was all a bit of fun, for the British Boys benefit and we were returning to his home for dinner “I’m afraid it will have to be for breakfast” said the Sergeant “The holding cell you have put them in is on a time lock, come back in the morning”.

We held our breath, fortunately, it had been for our benefit and the door was duly opened and shaking hands all round, we very thankfully returned to our transport and went home for a very pleasant dinner. On our next visit, our Host had a very pleasant surprise for us; he took us for a trip around the prison. It was well organised and we were joined by two very burly warders.

It happened to be mealtime and we watched as the inmates marched smartly into the dining area and took their place at the tables. At each corner there was a Warder, heavily armed and it was pointed out to us that the holes in the ceiling contained Tear Gas bombs, should they be required. Not a very nice place to be in. After our visit we made our way to the Sheriff’s office where we were sworn in as “Special Deputies” and presented with a badge and a certificate of enlistment, all most enjoyable and unexpected.

On our return to the ship we showed our badge of office to our very young Royal Marine officer who asked if it would be possible to obtain one for him, we promised to try. After talking it over with the Warden, He promised to do his best and in due course we were successful and our young Lieutenant became a fully-fledged Deputy. Needless to say Jack and I were in very good books from then on. It was not all play however, we had to take our share of duties and one of them was the Shore Patrol. I was duly assigned to a United States Marine unit and we attended the entrance of a very popular bar, a haunt of American sailors called “The Boulder Bar”.

From the street level you walked down a polished wooden slope directly on to the dance floor. I was minding my own business, chatting to one of the American patrolmen when a very angry young woman stepped in front of me and said “You, you Limey Bastard, you arrested my boy friend last night” and without further ado, swung a very heavy hand bag in the direction of my head. I would not have known how to handle the situation.

In a Royal Naval canteen with a drunken Sailor it would not have been a problem, but in a foreign country with a tipsy ‘Lady’ I was lost. Fortunately, the U.S. Marines were not. Before the bag landed, a back handed blow from a six foot P.F.C. (Passed First Class) sent the attacker sliding down the approach and into the feet of the dancers.

Her sailor friends were not amused. Three or four of them surged forward to retaliate. The patrol stood shoulder to shoulder, brandished their batons and the sailors backed off and rejoined their party. The incident soon passed over.

The next day we spent exploring the town of Camden. It was a town famous for it’s Tomato industry and from early morning the main streets and all the side streets were full of trucks delivering their loads of tomatoes to the canning factory. Entering the factory you could help yourselves to natural juice from two taps. One was normal and the other was iced it was quite pleasant and if we had had transport we could have had as many cases as we wanted.

Time was running short; we had to explain to George Roundey that every day could be the last and that if we were unable to say goodbye on the day. (Dates of sailings) were still top secret, we would at least write as soon as possible after reaching home. Come the day, there was no advance warning and boats were brought inboard very discreetly.

As usual there was a leak of information and friends were gathering at various vantage points to wave their last farewells. All the American workers had now left the ship, booms on the seaward side had been recovered and all ladders brought inboard. We were now to all intents and purposes ready for leaving.

Steam had been raised and the Executive officer was on the bridge. The orders to cast off were relayed to the dockside and the huge hawsers were removed from the bollards. Our last link from the good old U.S. of A had been severed. Slowly the huge engines came to life and we reversed away from the dockside. Once we were clear, it was ‘Slow Ahead’ and we were once again on our way.

As we left the main harbour we could see the huge convoy spread over the sea, Royal Navy destroyers were marshalling the various ships into position and shouting their instructions over their loud hailers. It would be a long and dangerous crossing. To keep some semblance of order, all ships would travel at the same speed and that speed was the speed of the slowest ship. Here we go again, poetry is the best way of committing to memory.

Convoys
Our Convoy steamed slowly northwards
And soon would be turning east,
And hiding in the depths below
Slid a sleek and ferocious beast.

The “U” boats were silent and deadly
They prowled the seas in packs,
Looking for Tramps and Tankers
Betrayed by the smoke from their stacks.

The speed of the Convoy, is the slowest ship,
If one falters, when doing her best,
Then she is left to fend for herself
So as not to endanger the rest

As the Convoy steamed on its zig-zag course
A tramp was left far astern,
A long way from where she was going
But too far out to return.

In the periscope of the trailing ‘Sub’
The Tramp has come into view,
A perfect strike for the surface gun
And practice for the crew.

The eager ‘Sub’ now leaves the pack
And lines up for the kill,
Nothing to fear from the stricken Tramp
Just a routine drill

The range is perfect the target is hit
How can one miss almost touching the hull
Shell after shell, burst on her decks
The sea boats are swamped because they’re too full.

Somewhere a machine gun chatters,
Fingers gripping the ‘Sub’ let go,
Then suddenly the Tramp rears up
Only the barnacles show.

Boats and floats are pulling away
To get clear of the suction field,
One more lurch, and down she goes
Her fate now finally sealed.

The ‘Subs’ Commander clears the bridge
“Flood one and two fore”, he cried,
Down went the ‘Sub’ to periscope depth

Aboard the Tramp as she slid down to the deep
A Morse key kept tapping away,
A W/T had stayed at his post
And sent out his last ‘May Day’.

Just over the horizon, a sleek grey shape
From the North Atlantic fleet,
Steamed one of the ‘Working Greyhounds’
Out on a submarine beat.

The Commander had just read a signal
“Full speed ahead”, he cried,
“All hands to action stations”
And the ‘Greyhound’ broke into her stride.

Soon, reaching the scene of the slaughter
With boats lowered over the side,
She slowed and picked up survivors
As well as those that had died.

And then she went a’ hunting
Increasing the circle each round,
Until the ‘Asdic’ finally pinged
The quarry, a ‘Sub’ had been found.

The control then worked out a pattern
The depth charges hurled into the air,
Then dropped in a diamond formation
To trap the beast in his lair

It was during the fourth or fifth ‘Salvo’
That the white frothy spume turned black,
A submarine’s hull reared out of the sea
Rolled over and then slid back.

The Tramps survivors stood up and cheered
But most stood silent, head bowed,
For sending a ship with her crew to the depths
Was not something of which to be proud

You can only think of the deeds she has done
Performed in ‘The Fuhrer’s name,
And say, “ They have only been paid the wages of sin”
It’s all in the luck of the game.

Eventually, after many alarms, some false and some unfortunately only too true, we arrived in home waters. We had had our casualties and watched helplessly as merchantmen paid the price of their sacrifice, but most of the convoy arrived with their much-needed supplies and were diverted to their various destinations. Eventually we arrived at ours and made our way up the Clyde to Greenock.

Once again it was a stampede when the Postman came down to the barracks, and once again there were the welcome letters from families and loved ones, as usual I had my fair share and this time there was no time to answer. The next day I received my marching orders.

The Royal Marine Barracks at Chatham. I was back where I started, but for how long, that was always the question at the back of every ones mind. After settling in, we were informed that we would be going on leave as from a.m. the next day and I would be issued with my free travel warrant to my home town. I have never mentioned before about my arrival in Manchester, which was always my destination, after which I would get a bus to wherever I wanted.

I had always thought of myself as an expert at finding my way around my home city, but in wartime I was finding myself in difficulty once I had left the station. Every where was blacked out, traffic moved slowly with dipped slits in their headlamps, signposts had either been obliterated or removed, not just to confuse me, but to confuse the enemy if they ever got this far.

As always, my first objective was the bus for Rawtenstall and the house in Burnley Road that I now considered my home, I had been away for a very long time And I was eager to see that lovely face once again. What can I say about being back home, it has already been said many, many times and it gets better each time you say it. It was a repetition of visits to friends and relations and just the joy of being together was all that we asked for. We knew that nothing would ever come between us and to prove it, if ever we were walking, hand in hand, as we always were and we came to some obstacle, Ruth would never let that obstacle come between us and so it was for the remainder of our life.

All good thing must come to an end and after a very happy leave I was now back in Chatham, and was expecting to be back on another leave before very long. It was not to be, the gunners curse had struck again. It was my unfortunate duty to be posted back to the Warspite.

Captain Terry, o/c of the ships detachment had specifically requested that I should be included in the replacements on draft to his ship. Apparently he did not feel up to training a new Captain of the Royal Marines turret, so it was off to sea once more.

The only difference being that this time I would be a passenger on board a Liner. Life would be a little easier. I would be going c/o the RAF, on board their troopship, which transported thousands of ratings to Canada for training and their ultimate return to the UK. The ship was the French liner the Louis Pasteur and was manned entirely by the RAF Police.

On the first day it was chaos of the first order, almost four thousand bodies crowding the promenade deck to be served in the small canteen that only opened for a limited number of hours each day.

Fate must have been on our side. That night, it was reported that one of the many ‘Lascars’, (Merchant seamen, from the East Indies), all at the lower end of the Merchant Navy, had molested one of the female service women and escaped back to his berth down in the forward steerage compartment.

The RAF police were unaccustomed to travelling with ‘Lascars’ and had no idea how to cope with the situation. The ships Captain knowing that he was carrying Royal Marines on his manifesto had the answer. Sending for the senior Royal Marine officer, he requested that it might be in the best interests of his ship if the Royals would be so kind as to form a patrol and bring the unhappy affair to a satisfactory conclusion.

No sooner said than done. Myself as one of the seniors and three other stalwarts, all Blanco-ed up and wearing official Royal Naval arm bands made our way down to the steerage where some two hundred coloured seamen were berthed, encouraged on our way by the RAF, “This way, Marines, down there Marines”, it was fairly obvious that they were only to eager to transfer the responsibility to some other body.

Entering the smelly hold, we asked to be taken to the headman. Lascars are well used to the ‘Ship’s Police’ as they call us and have the greatest respect for us, after all we are members of a sea going fraternity and understand them, the head man was friendly, he knew who the culprit was and ordered him to come forward. There was no great show of strength, we merely pointed to the main hatch and he followed the two leading marines. With two more of us following we took him one deck down and placed him in one of the vacant cells. We then reported back to our C/O and he in return reported to the ships Captain.

It was now his responsibility to feed his prisoner and make arrangements to hand him over to the authorities. Our ‘Reward’ for this small service, was to retain our official police arm bands, to be served at the back door of the canteen and to have reserved seats at the front for the twice daily cinema show, and the personal thanks of the ships Captain.

It was going to be a most enjoyable trip. After it was discovered that I was returning to the Warspite, the young Officers going to their first ship, wanted to know all about their new Commanding Officer, Captain (Major) Terry, all Royal Marines Captains are given the rank of Major when appointed to a ship, it affords them some seniority amongst their naval counterparts.

Obviously, when asked, I embellished a little on his work on board ship and I painted him in a favourable light. I did not want anything I had said to get back to the Major. I could not in any case have said anything detrimental about him, he was a first class officer and I had always found him fair and a good listener.

Arriving in The good old US of A, once more I was looking forward to the forthcoming trip on board the Canadian Pacific with its Pullman service. It was just as I remembered it. The same clean beds every night, and the same wine with meals and the beer wagon at the rear. There was to be only one difference. On the previous journey we had been going home and every one was only interested in getting there as soon as possible with no problems.

This was a completely different ‘Kettle of Fish’. We were going back to pick up a fully repaired ship and setting off for parts unknown in the war zone. Not a pleasant outlook. It was therefore essential that the Train Marshal arrived back with a full complement.

Consequently, before arriving at any station where we were due to stop, and before the train had slowed down, our ever-faithful Royal Marines marched through the train, (to the usual friendly boo’s) and posted sentries at the entrance of each carriage.

Winnipeg and Toronto were beckoning, for some it was too inviting. When we arrived at our destination, we were four bodies short. They had squeezed out of the windows. After a short bout of freedom, local police in various parts of America apprehended them all.

Chapter 12a - Back on board

As I hoped it would be the commanding officer was still Capt’ Terry, marching down the ranks he singled me out. “I’m pleased to see you back Hallas”. “Thank you Sir, I can’t say the same”, it was very pleasant in Chatham barracks.” He smiled and said, “I am sure you will soon get back in the same old routine. See me on board”. After settling in, I reported to his office and he asked me what sort of a trip we had had, and then I dropped the news.” You will no doubt find out when you go through the records sir, that, included in your new intake you have a Complete ‘King’s Squad straight from their passing out parade.

There was no time to split them up and send them to their various divisions.
He was so delighted, “On Friday, Hallas, we are having a drill display with the United States Marines, you could not have brought me better news ”. For the next few days, hidden away in the aircraft hangar the ex King’s Squad were drilled, until they reached that peak of perfection for which they are renowned.

Come Friday the arena was crowded. The U.S. Marines were, as the hosts, first on parade. They marched in from the corner gate led by their band and gave a very commendable display of arms drill and marching, the crowd were very generous with their applause and they marched off to the tune of their regimental march, “From the shores of Montezuma”. It was now the turn of our King’s Squad. In full ceremonial wearing the world famous white helmets and led by the Royal Marine band, they marched in from the opposite corner to the strains of 'A Life on the Ocean Wave'.

They put their hearts and souls into the following thirty minutes of immaculate drill and marching, without orders, and the crowd went crazy. Seats and cushions were thrown into the arena, as they marched off the parade; unfortunately it had its repercussions, for the few remaining days, (for some reason or another) the sentries on the dockside gates suddenly became over officious and worked to the letter of the law.

Something or somebody had upset the U.S. Marines establishment. We couldn’t have cared less. The population of Bremerton were still giving us a wonderful time. The following day, we received a message that an absconder was under arrest in Victoria, Being one of the oldest serving members two others and I were despatched to go on the overnight ferry and collect the body. Reporting to the local police, we were told that as it was Christmas Eve, he would not be releasing his prisoner until noon on Christmas Day.

He suggested that we went to the Bank in the Main Street and join in the party. Arriving at the Bank, we discovered that although open, it appeared to be empty, and the only sounds of revelry was coming from behind the huge circular door of the safe. Making our approach we peered into the interior and was immediately grabbed and pulled in by a bevy of bank ladies. The Sheriff had had the presence of mind to phone through and explain that some English Marines were in town and lost. We had a marvellous time; it was here that a young lady taught me how to make a “Tom and Jerry”.

You first take a warm mug, add a measure of rum a measure of whisky a large tablespoon of Castor Sugar the White of an Egg and cover with very hot milk (not boiling) and then cover with a sprinkling of nutmeg. When the party broke up, I don’t know when that was; we were taken to different homes and found beds. The next morning, after a hearty breakfast of oatmeal pancakes covered with molasses, washed down with plenty of hot coffee, we said goodbye to our newfound friends, collected our prisoner and hung around until it was time for the all night ferry back to Bremerton.

To the Canadians it was still festive time and no one appeared ready for bed as the ferry prepared to leave for America. What to do with the prisoner? The only solution was to take him with us to the bar, which was a large square bar in the centre of the ship, so, having obtained his promise to behave himself and waiting until we were well out in midstream, we grabbed four seats and sat down for a pleasant voyage.

In line with the generous hospitality, which we were used to, the first round was ‘On the House’. We were well into our second round of drinks when “Lo and behold”, who should walk into the bar but my ‘Nemesis’ the Commander. No, that is the wrong word to use, at no time in the past had he used his position to exact retribution for my innocent relaxation of my official duties. It was just that he always appeared at the wrong moment and made me feel guilty. As usual, he just looked directly at us, looked away and as far as taking any direct action, forgot all about it. That, once again was Sir Charles Madden, (And it was Christmas).

We were now almost ready to proceed back to the war zone. As part of our repairs we had taken the opportunity to replace our gun barrels that had become worn in our many operations, it had been a long, carefully planned operation, our spare barrels had been dispersed to many different dockyards for safety reasons and had to be collected and transported to the most convenient port. There, they were, because of the high risk involved and the size and weight of each barrel (100 Tons) carried on three different ships to Norfolk in Virginia. The United States Government provided special trucks to transport them to Bremerton. That in its self had been a tremendous undertaking. However, they all arrived safely and were quickly installed, too quickly for some of us.

The repairs now complete it was time for us to resume our wartime activities. Sadly making our last farewells, the day of departure arrived. All the dockyard workers had left the ship, dozens of small boats determined to follow us out of the dockyard had to be cleared out of the way by the river police and all of the hawsers connecting us to the shore had been cast off. Slowly we made our way to the main channel. It was difficult to hear the necessary orders with the noise of the farewells. Once again, sirens and ships hooters were sounding off and saying “Goodbye and Good luck” to a ship that the Americans had taken to their hearts.

It seemed that the whole population had turned out to line the sea shore. The parting had been transformed into a ceremony. The ships company lined the decks, the Royal Marine Band played “Should Old Acquaintance” and the townsfolk sang their hearts out. Gradually, the sounds faded into the distance as we slowly entered the main channel and made our way Northwards up Puget Sound and into Canadian waters, where once again as we passed Vancouver Island the Canadians shouted their “Goodbye’s” as we entered the Pacific Ocean and made our way back to the war zone.

Escorted by two Canadian destroyers we spent some time on exercises as we made our way towards Australia and our ultimate destination in the Indian Ocean. Our stay in Australia was not to be a pleasant one, the Australians were now feeling threatened by an advancing Japanese Force and we had to accept the fact that while we had been enjoying our brief stay in Bremerton we had tended to overlook the fact that the Japanese had carried out the murderous attack on Pearl Harbour and in consequence America was now at war with the Axis and mainly with Japan.

Australia wanted her troops brought back from the Western desert to fight for their mother country and accused us of loafing around while their boys were fighting, I for one was glad to leave. During the course of this bad feeling there were the odd skirmishes in the bars and sometimes these turned out quite serious.

In one particular incident one of our ships company was forced to defend himself and to the dismay of the locals he made a very good job of it. After disposing of his attackers it took the local police force to restrain him, had they only known it they had picked on the wrong man. Having survived the attack on the ill-fated battle cruiser, the Prince of Wales and eventually joining the Warspite, Johnny King, the well-known and popular Bantam Weight Champion, was in a very mean mood.

A few days later we were once again on the move making our way to Ceylon. Escorted by the ever present Canadian destroyers we hoisted the “Flag”’ of Admiral Sir James Somerville and rejoined the Fleet then we sailed South West and eventually assembled in Addu Atoll, one of the Maldives which was to be our secret ‘Hidey Hole’.

Beside us Somerville had four very old battleships, three aircraft carriers of varying sizes and a small force of cruisers and destroyers. It was not an impressive force when we later compared it with what the Japanese had at their disposal in the waters around India and Ceylon. During the weeks of April and May 1942 this force struck wherever they wished with the minimum opposition.

On April 5th their bombers attacked the naval base of Colombo and sank one of our Destroyers H.M.S. Tenedos and an armed Merchant Cruiser the Hector at the same time other units attacked and sank two of our Cruisers the Dorsetshire and the Cornwall in that attack alone more than 400 men died. Three or four days later a further attack by more than 50 strike aircraft pounced on the Aircraft Carrier H.M.S. Hermes and her escort the Australian warship H.M.A.S. Vampire.

In less than half an hour the Japanese planes dropped 40 500lb bombs on or near the carrier and fatally wounded she went down with all her guns firing, a matter of minutes later the Vampire also succumbed and disappeared beneath the surface of the Indian Ocean another 300 seamen died.

A few miles over the horizon the British Merchantman the S.S. British Sergeant was bombed on to the rocks of Elephant Point and a Corvette and R.F.A. Ship, the Hollyhock and the Athelstane were two more victims, fifty-two men of the Hollyock went down with their ship.

It was a sad time for the Royal Navy. While this mass destruction was being carried out, the British battle fleet was fortunate enough to be hidden away amongst the Maldive group of islands and thus escaped the attention of a much superior Japanese Force. It was decided that this was to be the centre of our operations in the Indian Ocean.

Addu Atoll as its name implies is a horseshoe shaped collection of islands, South West of Ceylon (Sri Lanka) and almost on the equator. It’s shape and location was ideal as a future Naval Base and Their Lords of the Admiralty ordered the MNBDO, (1) Mobile Naval Base Defence Operations (1) to the area to do the conversion. Mainly comprised of officers and men of the Royal Marines.

They did a first class job. The islands were joined together by a concrete runway, suitable for use by Aircraft and the mouth of the horseshoe was protected by a boom defence system. The enclosed area was large enough to hold the Fleet that we had at that time. However, as in all things, snags were encountered during the construction. As the palm trees were uprooted to clear the way, the inhabitants of the trees, small furry creatures that resembled marmosets were captured and kept as pets by the Marines.

Little did they know that they were holding potential time bombs in their hands. To a new visitor the islands would appear as small pieces of paradise floating in the Indian Ocean. Mile after mile of golden beaches, swaying palms and from the waters edge as far as the eye could see, a warm blue sea so beautiful it took your breath away, but to many of those Royal Marines working on the islands it was their “Last Port of Call”.

Their so-called pets were carrying what could only be described as a deadly plague. It was only after a number of suspicious deaths that the Admiralty despatched a hospital ship to the islands and HMHS (Her Majesty’s Hospital Ship) Maine anchored off shore and provided some degree of safety for the troops.

For some it was too late, at a rough count it was stated that some thirty plus officers and men died on the island itself, and in various hospitals in Ceylon and Southern India.
In the published Roll of Honour “Bid Them Rest in Peace” the official list of all those who died in the service of the Royal Marines each man is assumed to have died in action, except where the entry is categorised with one of the following letters, i.e. (N) Natural causes… (O) Other reasons… All the deaths of MNBDO (1) are categorised as (O) Other reasons, which leaves no answer to the question “What other reasons?”

Was there really a plague on the islands and if there was, is it still there waiting for the unwary traveller to “The Paradise Islands”. We may never know the answer. We can only go by the evidence of the men who were there and who are now slowly dying off.
Later that month we sailed for Bombay and a few days shore leave.

One of the most beautiful of Indian cities it was spoiled by the vast number of beggars lying about the pavements, most of them crippled in one way or another and continually pleading for alms. It was explained to us later that ‘Begging’ in India, although necessary, due to the extreme poverty was also, organised and was big business. Children in rags and more often as not deformed in one way or another were hired out to the professional beggars to create a more sympathetic attitude amongst the passers by. Once again it was necessary to provide the brothel patrol only this time it was an entirely different system. The girls were displayed in shop windows.

One girl per window and in the corner separated by a curtain a ram shackle bed. As the prospective purchaser chose his ‘Victim’ he approached on of the many pimps who opened the small door, which separated each window and the client, entered. The curtain was drawn and it was left to the imagination as to what transpired.

I have no idea as to the truth but it was said quite openly that some of the girls had been sentenced to a fixed period of time in the council run brothel as a means of paying off their parent’s debts. If this was true then once again the British Empire had something to be ashamed of. It was in Bombay that one of our military leaders; General Wavell who was the Commander in Chief, India came on board and gave the assembled ships company some idea of what was happening. As he was one of the instigators of the fall of Singapore, it didn’t go down very well.

It was while we were still in Indian waters that we heard of the magnificent victory of the American Marines at Midway Island. Important to us because it now meant that the Japanese Fleet were confined to the Pacific and would no longer be a major threat in the Indian Ocean. No doubt this was one of the reasons that prompted the Admiral to take the Fleet to Mombassa and give some well-deserved leave to his ships companies. Situated on the East coast of South Africa, Mombassa was not at that time very impressive and as there was not a lot to do on shore the executive officers arranged various sports fixtures one of which was the famous cutter race.

Chapter 12b - Back on board (Cont.)

I shall try to describe the famous “Cutter Race” as it was at the time.

We were anchored off the coast of Mombassa
The crew were painting ships side,
We were having a rest from “The Aussie Run”
And were anchored, Kilindini side.

For months we had been living with tension
And now we had nothing to do,
So the Commander ordered a cutter race
He said, “It will be good for the crew”.

So the Top men, Foc’sle and Quarterdeck
Old ones and some in their teens,
Trained alongside the Signals and Stokers
And of course, the Marines.

For the Royal Marines it was blood and sweat
For they were always expected to win,
So every morning, while others slept
They were getting their training in.

Now there are two cutters on every ship
For racing and provisioning with stores,
The one for provisioning is built like a tank
The racer is light, with light oars.

The bye’s and ties were soon over
The final race is on,
The Foc’sle and the Royal Marines
Will decide, which is the one.

In a three mile race, “The Racer”
Was better by five or six lengths,
But the heavy “Provisioning Cutter”
Would tax even Hercules strength.

On the day the Marines were unlucky
They had drawn the heavy boat,
And the Foc’sle crew kept a fairly straight face
It was hard for them not to gloat.

Mombassa went quiet as the crews lined up
All tense at the starting gate,
The gun was fired we strained at the oars
To a well timed ‘Twenty Eight’.

After two miles we were neck and neck
Our “Tank” was holding it’s own,
But slowly, ever so slowly
The “Racer” went forward alone.

On top of the Warspite’s turret
The Major could see his crew’s plight,
That the weight of the heaviest cutter
Was taxing even their might.

He changed the drum beat to “Thirty”
The drummer increased the time,
And we in the boat strained our hearts out
To reach that finishing line

The “Racers” crew were now hard put
Some extra strength to find,
And the Royal Marines just crossed the line
A bare half-length behind

Meanwhile the Resolution
Had timed the winning boat,
And knowing that their time was faster
Sat back with a bit of a gloat.

They sent a challenge with five hundred pounds
To race the Warspites boat,
And please “Would the Warspite cover it”
Said the rather demanding note.

The Captain asked the Foc’sle crew
As the champions of the ship,
If they would take on the “Reso”
And stop them from giving their ‘Lip’.

The Foc’sle crew thought long and hard
And then said as one man,
Sir, if we had had the “Provisioning” boat
We’d have been an ‘also ran’

So please accept the Reso’s bet
And cover it note for note,
But let “The Royals” take up the glove
And give them “The Racing Boat”.

We will not give up the championship
But, for the honour of the ship,
Just this once we’ll all stand down
And the “Royals” can make the trip.

So the day of the challenge came round at last
The crews lined up at the flag,
“We’ll tan the arse off the Flagships boat”
The Resolution started to brag.

But then they saw our colours
The yellow, green, red and blue,
“We’re not racing the Foc’sle boat
It’s a bloody Bootnecks crew”.

The gun fired, we all strained backwards
The beat was again Twenty-Eight,
It didn’t take half of the three-mile course
For the Reso’ to work out their fate.

Ten lengths ahead on the finishing line
The Reso’s crew truly beat,
And to rub it in, on the Warspite’s mast
We were flying “The Cock of the Fleet”.

They towed our boat back to the Warspite
To the Major containing his pride,
The Foc’sle crew came and shook our hands
“It was nothing” we said, “We just tried”.

That night we went to the Naval canteen
Each man had to stand a round,
And thirteen bottles is a hell of a load,
To keep your feet on the ground

Our rival Marines on the Reso’
Just to join in the fun,
Invited us back to their Sergeants mess
To make a hole in their rum

We came back to the ship quite ‘legless’
All this because of a be
And not able to walk up the gangway
They hauled us aboard in a net.

The Officer of the Watch was astounded
“My God, what have we here,
A net full of drunken Royal Marines
It’s Commanders report, I fear”.

But “The Major” brought down from the Wardroom Mess
Turned out really “True Blue”,
He said “Scrub out the charge and put them to bed
They’re my Racing Cutters Crew.

After all the excitement had died down we were informed that we were losing the status of being the Flagship and that we were to proceed to Durban. We were delighted, not that we were losing the Flag, but that we would be spending some time in a very popular port. Most of the ships company had friends ashore from previous visits. We were to be given one week’s leave to each watch and free travel to where ever we chose to go. I chose to go to Eshowe the Capital of Zululand, it would give me the chance to see the lovely Joy Bishop, Joy was a white South African and the post mistress in Eshowe, The capital of Zululand. She was the official Miss Zululand 1940 and was a really outstanding contender.

Mrs Poynton with whom I had spent a previous week’s holiday introduced her to me. One day after lunch she asked me to go to the local post office and ask for seven postage stamps. I entered the small office and there was the Post Mistress. I was lost for words but eventually managed to say, “ could I have seven stamps please”. She gave me a gorgeous smile and said, “Hello, so you are the boy that is taking me to the dance tonight, Mrs Poynton told me on the phone that my escort would be coming in for seven stamps, I’ll be ready about Seven Thirty” from that moment on we became very good friends and all in all we spent a wonderful week.

Life could be very difficult in those dark days of the war. I was engaged to Ruth in England and Joy was engaged to a soldier in the South African Army who was a prisoner in North Africa. It may be very hard to believe but we both honoured our commitments, well, nearly. Both Mrs Poynton and Joy Bishop sent food parcels to Ruth and her Mum and for a short time they became pen pals.

The short stay in Eshowe in Zululand was very pleasant but we were all keen to get home, myself in particular. I had planned this as a very special leave. I knew that both Ruth and I were in favour of getting married and in anticipation of the event I had had my banns read out on three consecutive Sundays, I knew that there was a problem for Ruth and that she would have to get a special licence or an affidavit from the Bishop, but I also knew that she would cope with the situation. The journey home only took a few days and I had already given the Pilot of our swordfish airplane a telegram that he would send when he arrived in Glasgow. It was plain and to the point, It simply said “Arriving home Friday, wedding Saturday, Love Bernard.

I later learned that she coped only too well. The affidavit was obtained, the Vicar cajoled into an emergency service, buying her own wedding ring and making all the invitations and the one hundred and one things that go into the planning of a wedding. For my part I could do nothing but wait. After a few nights ashore in Greenock, Friday duly arrived and I was on my way. Arriving in Manchester, late afternoon I found it was too warm and took off my overcoat. In transferring the contents of my pockets I discovered that I had no wallet. Where or how I had no Idea. I had spare cash in my pockets but I knew that I would need more. I had a policy with Sun Life of Canada and I had an account with a Naval Tailor, Cooper’s of Harwich and I was able to contact them both and explain my dilemma.

They were both very helpful and forwarded me enough ready cash to see me through. But as yet I am still on my way to see my future wife and duly caught the bus to Crawshawbooth. Arriving at the house, once again I was almost knocked off my feet by that five foot three of loveliness, tears and all, but they were tears of happiness.

Uncle Fred came out to carry my kitbag but was not prepared for the weight and almost dropped it. I had had no time to tell him that I had filled it with several seven pound tins of emergency rations from the lockers on the sea boats, (I knew that they would be replenished before we went back to sea). Before I had really got settled down I was informed that, much as we both disliked the idea, we only had a few minutes together. It was due to the old fashioned idea that you did not stay in the same house as your intended bride and you did not see her until she arrived in church.

Uncle Fred to the rescue again, “Come on lad, there’s a do laid on for us at the Calico Printers Club”, And so there was, and it was an enjoyable evening, after which, I went back with Uncle Fred and slept in their spare room.

Chapter 12c - Back on board (Cont)

The next morning it was up bright and early and the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast. Then it was out cleaning gear and polishing up the uniform ready for the ceremony. Arriving in plenty of time at St Johns,Crawshawbooth I sat with my best man, my eldest Brother Jim. I had received my instructions. Do not look back when the bride walks down the aisle, it’s considered unlucky.

At this wedding no one was going to depend on luck. There was a hush as the organ started to play “Here comes the Bride”, I couldn’t help myself I turned round and just looked straight into those lovely eyes, and I remained, looking at her until she stood by my side. There are many lovely Brides and no doubt there will be many more, but at that moment in time, Ruth was the loveliest Bride that ever breathed. We took our vows and kissed and we were convinced that “Until Death did us Part” we would both be as one and so it was for over 57 years and so it will be until we meet once more. After the ceremony we left the church and found that our cars were held up by a military parade in aid of “Wings for Victory”.

The Parade Marshal seeing that I was in uniform opened a space in the formation and ushered our driver into it. The band immediately struck up with “Roll me over, lay me down and do it again” and to the cheers of the crowd we were escorted into the town centre. Eventually we arrived at the Liberal club and our refreshments. Friends had arrived from Manchester and further a field.

We had the usual speeches and cutting of the cake and then settled down for an evening of enjoyment. At some time in the evening I did hear my new Mother in Law say to my ‘Wife’ “Well, you have made your bed, now you have to lie on it”. Taking Ruth on to one side, I told her “It won’t be too bad, so long as your mother doesn’t try to get into it”. Her mum looked quite puzzled when her newly wed daughter ran laughing all the way to the toilet. As always, these things come to an end and everyone made their way home.

The Ribble bus company laid on a special bus to take most of the locals home and my eldest half brother gave his usual rendering of a very sick George Formby on his banjo. The remainder of the week we spent between my brothers house and the sea front at Blackpool. It was everything that I had dreamed of and I never wanted it to end. But unfortunately it did and at the end of an unforgettable week I was once again saying a fond farewell to my loved one. In no time at all we were once again on our way to the Mediterranean Fleet.

This time to cover the invasion of Sicily, standing by as watch dogs was not to the liking of our Captain who approached the Admiral and stated that we would be better employed doing a spot of gunnery “Sicily is a big island Sir, and I’m sure that if I tried I could hit it”. The Admiral smiled, saying “I doubt it, Warspite was always the worst gunnery ship in peacetime” .Our doughty Captain was quick with his reply, “And in wartime Sir”. The Admiral was just as quick, “She never missed, and she is one of those all right on the night ships”.

The very next day, Our Captain received a very much better answer. On the 17th of July the Warspite received orders that in company with HMS Valiant, they were to bombard to the North of the Sicilian town of Catania, unfortunately, before receiving the orders, in entering the Maltese harbour of Marsaxlokk, the Valiant fouled the nets of the boom defence and became entangled.

Timing was of the essence so we had to travel on our own and at maximum speed to arrive at the target area on time. Shortly after 1830 pm we commenced firing. Because of the heavy smoke covering the area, we were unable to see the fall of shot, but the gunnery officer who had the whole section marked off in squares seemed to be quite happy with the result. Compared with previous engagements it had been a short action, but nevertheless it was quite active in our own area. A destroyer came in to attack us and was chased off; we were machined gunned by FW 190’s.

We were constantly closed up throughout the night and the AA guns were firing at close intervals until the early morning and about 0700 hrs we were safely back in Malta. The “Flagship” had duly noted our burst of speed and a signal from Admiral Cunningham read, “Well done, when the old lady lifts her skirts she can run”.

That signal from the Admiral put a tag on the Warspite that remained with her until the end of her service, “The Old Lady”. It took just over a month for the allied troops to occupy the whole of Sicily, we found out at a later date that in manpower the invasion of Sicily was on a much larger scale than the invasion of Normandy.

The French landings comprised of five divisions and the Sicilian landings were more than six divisions. The overall total of the Normandy landings however were far in excess as the Naval forces involved were much greater. Now, preparations were in hand to invade mainland Italy. Once again the deadly twins Warspite and Valiant were detailed to bombard the southern end of Reggio and to engage a six-inch gun battery on the coast. For more than half an hour we poured fifteen-inch shells into the area, the fall of shot being reported by our own Swordfish Bi-plane.

The pilot by the name of Webb was so excited; he forgot the formal routine for spotting and shouted over the radio. “ O.K. O.K. You got ‘em, give ‘em the works”. I spoke to him later in the Wardroom and he said it was the best time of his life. The whole of the operation had been a resounding success and there had been no real retaliation from the Italian forces.

Little did we know that shortly, on our next mission, we were to get the biggest and most upsetting shock of the war. It is now the 8th of September and the British and Allied forces were to land on the beaches of Salerno. Accompanied by three other Battleships and our two carriers we sailed up and down the coast in close support.

Immediately we became the target for squadrons of German aircraft. As soon as it was dark, except for the moonlight, they attacked with both bombs and torpedoes. In one instance if it had not been for the prompt action of Captain Packer one of the torpedoes would have blown our stern off. The next day, we were still alive and kicking and received instructions to proceed, along with our faithful; consort, HMS Valiant to the port of Bone.

Accompanied by our escort of destroyers we preceded to the appointed map reference and waited, we were to accept the surrender of the Italian fleet. At breakfast time on the 10th of September the first of the Italian ships came into view. Just in case, we were closed up at our action stations, our guns were trained fore and aft, but as a precaution all the gun loading cages were ready for instant use. First came our old enemy, the 15-inch battleship the Vittorio Veneto and the battleship the Italia, followed by five cruisers and nine destroyers.

Warspite and Valiant took up position ahead of them and led them towards the island of Malta. The Commander in Chief, Admiral Cunningham came out in a destroyer to watch the surrender, as he passed Warspite he sent the following signal. “Glad to see my old Flagship in her proud and rightful position at the head of the line”. To which, Warspite replied, “The Old Lady will look after them all right”. On the 11th September At 0900 hrs we reached Grand Harbour and Cunningham sent his famous signal. “The Italian Fleet now lies at anchor under the guns of the fortress of Malta”. On the evening of the 12th we set off to collect two more Italian ships, one of them was the ship we had hit with such devastating effect at Calabria way back in 1940, the battleship Giulio Cesare.

We escorted them both to join the remainder of the captive Italian fleet. It was now decided that the “Old Lady” had come to the end of a rather busy part of her life and it was now time to give her a rest and a major refit and to go into dock for an overhaul and accompanied by the ever present Valiant and the carrier HMS Illustrious we sailed for home. By now the good news was common knowledge and the ships company were jubilant.

Imagine then if you can at 20:00hrs on the 18th what their feelings were when the bridge received a signal via a Catalina that our services were urgently required back at Salerno. The American 5th Army were bogged down under intense fire and a bombardment from battleships at sea was required to relieve them. Among the ships company there were many expletives directed at our American cousins as we turned full circle and turned back.

Chapter 13a - We Bombard Salerno

Once again I shall have to return to the “Poem of the Day”

Salerno, September 1943

We had flown our flag all over the world
For the war had caused us to roam,
But now things were better, or so it would seem
And we were on our way home.

The heights of Spain lay to starboard
Morocco stood off our port beam,
Once we were clear of the Straits of “Gib”
We were home, our long hoped dream.

But before we were clear, high up in the sky
An Aldis lamp flashes like mad,
A Catalina was transmitting in code
We guessed that the news would be bad.

The words “Hard to port”, were passed to the wheel
“Hard to port” the wheelhouse replied,
We turned half circle and made our way back
To a man, we bloody near died.

The tannoy crackled, “This is your Captain” It said
“You’ll have guessed what it’s all about,
Our forces on land are in a bit of a fix
And we’re going to help them out.

Soon Sicily was way astern
And Salerno lay ahead,
The harbour was jammed with landing craft
A fix is right, we said.

The Germans were holding the high ground
The passes too, they controlled,
The only way to dislodge them
Was to do something really quite bold.

So the Warspite entered the harbour
And bombarded the enemy tanks,
We plastered the heights and North of the pass
And cleared a way for the Yanks.

The American 5th army swept forward
British Commandoes took care of the pass,
For the moment the danger was over
They were now advancing, en mass.

Suddenly, as of old, “Aircraft Red” was the cry
Three planes came out of the sun,
The centre plane was really a bomb
In that harbour, no way could we run.

The bomb hit us almost amidships
The damage was bad we could tell,
For the water rushed in and we listed
Our steering had gone as well.

We had always been the victors
Except for that one-day at Crete,
And to be at the enemy’s mercy
Was really not up our street.

Every submergible pump was in use
And parties were baling below,
With fear in our minds, but not in our hearts
Thinking, this is no way to go.

We manned our guns but dare not fire
The list we had was severe,
What would happen when the bombers came?
Was our one and only fear

Two American tugs were struggling
To keep us on the go,
Our lights were out we worked in the dark
But to our stern there shone a faint glow

The Enemy bombers saw the glow
And came in for the kill,
But what they found was a fighting ship
That didn’t quite fit the bill.

When the dawn came, the bombers withdrew
No damage had they done,
For the ‘Glow’ astern was the Valiant
Showing lights to lead them on

For seeing ‘Her Sister Ship’ crippled
She had swung astern in our wake,
And steaming along with her lights switched on
She had taken, what we couldn’t take.

The straits of Messina were dead ahead
We were swinging into the rough,
The American tugs were doing their best
But it seemed it wasn’t enough

Then as the morning sun rose high
And the sea mist disappeared,
The ‘Oriana’ and the ‘Nimble’
Two London tugs appeared.

With expertise they cast their lines
Their hawsers took the strain,
And so, with the Americans giving their help
We were picking up speed again.

No water, no sleep, with a five-day beard
And the island of Malta in sight,
We relaxed and took our second breath
It appeared everything now was all right

Only too soon, we were towed into place
The hawsers screamed their protest,
But the cables held fast to the side of the dock
Where she shuddered and then came to rest

Every ship in the harbour was now sounding off
The Maltese, First cheered, then cried,
For rumour had spread all over the isle
That the veteran “Old Lady” had died

The Captain, Thanked us “For bringing Her home”
We thanked him in return “For the ride,
Then he ordered the bugler to sound off “Secure”
And we dropped where we could and just ‘Died’

You can probably guess, that was one journey we could very well have done with out but it had one redeeming feature the “Grand old Lady”, Flagship of which ever fleet she was serving in at any particular time was now out of the war for some time. She was no longer an active member of the fleet. But that did not stop the Grand Old Lady from taking action against her enemy once she had been repaired.

Some months later with one boiler room and one fifteen inch turret out of action she took up her position as a bombardment ship with the rest of the invasion force.

Arriving at Sword beach she provided covering fire for the army as requested, moving from target to target as required. Villerville batteries were engaged and Gonneville-sur-Mer rerceived it’s fair share of one-ton shells after which Villerville was once more re-engaged. Then it was the turn of Benerville and enemy transports on the roads approaching or leaving the coastal areas.

By this time Warspite had fired 314 fifteen-inch shells. 133 armour piercing shells on the forts and 181 high explosive shells on the concentrations of enemy troops and transports.

It was now time to return to Portsmouth to re- ammunition the ship. After a short stay repairing superficial damage she set sail once again to the Normandy beachhead as the American bombarding ships were running out of ammunition. The targets were enemy guns and 96 15-inch shells were dropped on these targets and were rewarded by a complimentary signal from the American commander.

On June 11th her presence was requested off Gold beach to engage enemy tanks hiding in the wooded area and her accurate firing drove the tanks out into the open. Once again she was congratulated by the Commanding Officer of the 5th Division. By this time Warspites gun barrels were worn out and she was ordered to Rosyth for replacement barrels.

Once more the Old Lady’s luck ran out, on the 13th of June just off Harwich she became the victim of an enemy mine. 1500 lbs of explosive caused extensive damage to her hull. Her speed was affected and she arrived off Rosyth on the 14th of June. All the warships in the vicinity of the Forth Bridge cleared lower deck to cheer the battered ‘Old Lady’ as she passed by.

After two months of extensive repair. On the 24th of August she went back to war, there was no keeping this fighting ship away from the action. 40,000 German troops were cut off on the Brest peninsular protected by a ring of old French forts. These were to be Warspites next targets.

The American troops were bogged down and could not move. It was a reminder of Salerno and once again it was HMS Warspite to the rescue. Of the five targets, the first was Kerringar (11” Guns) This fort became the recipient of 57 one-ton shells. In quick succession, over a period of 2½ hours the remaining four were attacked.

Les Rospects, (6” Guns) received 47 shells, Toulbroch Fort Received 32 rounds, Minour Fort received 51 shells and Montbarey Fort received a final salute of 26 rounds. It was then that the control on shore signalled that Warspites time was up. It had not been a complete success, as the Old Lady turned seawards, 11” shells from the Keringar battery fell so close that shell splinters splattered her upper deck. In all, Warspite had fired another 213 shells. The results had been disappointing; most of the forts had remained intact and could still fire on the advancing troops.

It must seem obvious that the old Lady was beginning to fail and those of us who were at Narvik through to Salerno could notice the comparison. It was on record that at Calabria, Warspite had damaged an enemy Battleship at a range of over 15 miles. That was some shooting. It was still not the end for this wounded warrior, on the 10 September 1944 she sailed from Portsmouth to Le Havre. Six targets of enemy gun batteries were engaged and a further 304 15” shells were expended, firing at maximum range some 35,000 yards.


It was now time for a short rest and after eight weeks in Portsmouth it was off once again to the Dutch Island of Walcheren. In this attack, mainly to take pressure off the Royal Marines this now tired Old Lady fired a further 353 one ton shells and at that moment in time her ships company did not know, that at last her mighty guns had fallen silent for ever. She set course for Portsmouth and this once proud ‘Flagship’ was anchored to the specially prepared “Reserve Fleet” buoy and remained there from February 1945 until August 1946 when she was taken to Portsmouth main harbour and relieved of all; her heavy Equipment. Her huge 15” gun barrels alone weighed in at 100 tons each.

Before her ultimate destruction there were many requests that this most famous of all Battleships should be saved for posterity, but the powers that be never having served on her, showed to the world that they had no soul and no national pride and she was sent to the scrap yard. “Or was she”. It took more than seven months to strip her of her glory and on the 12th March 1947, the skeleton of this still proud ship was towed out to sea. Metal Industries were going to make a fortune.

Fate however had decided otherwise and the prayers of all who had sailed the seas were about to be answered. Fifteen miles off Land’s End, the sky suddenly turned black, a storm arose which took command of the situation and after a long struggle overpowered the tugs and drove Her Majesty’s Ship Warspite on to the rocks at Prussia Cove. This then was the final answer to the world that “The Grand Old Lady” was defiant to the end.

Chapter 13b - We Bombard Salerno (Cont.)

That was the story after Salerno. We can now return to Malta where our heroine is fastened to the dockside with cables, not knowing of the glorious end to her career. It now meant of course that most of the ships crew would be placed on draft to the United Kingdom to be re allocated to other ships, but first, they would have to be re kitted out and that meant we would have to be sent home, and so it was.

We, the Royal Marine detachment, were given our marching orders to proceed to the Royal Marine barracks Chatham. In charge of us was our Sergeant Major, Colour Sergeant ‘Snaky’ Snelling who very much respected. On board HM Ships, like officers, the senior non commissioned officer was always referred to by one rank higher and was always, the Sergeant Major. After a few days we were paraded on the dockside of the Grand Harbour and marched on board a rather scruffy Merchantman bound for the U.K. It was a change for us to be escorted home instead of being the escort but so long as we were on our way no one was going to complain.

Unfortunately, the bomb had flooded the Marines locker flat and we lost all our uniforms and more important we lost all of our personal items and souvenir’s. We looked as rough a lot as was possible. Arriving in Plymouth we were loafing around on the platform of the dockyard station and across on the other platform wearing the uniform of a Commodore was a huge dejected looking officer walking slowly with head down as if he had all the cares of the world on his back and he sported a huge beard. We recognised him at once.

The last time we saw him was when we went to the Battle of Narvik. It was Captain Victor Crutchley. (V.C) R. N. Colour Sergeant Snelling couldn’t resist it. In his best parade ground roar, he shouted, “HMS Warspites Detachment, Attention” and saluted”. A very surprised and delighted Commodore came over to his old ‘Shipmates’ and shook every one by the hand.

In the conversation he disclosed that he had been given a shore job as Commodore, Plymouth and he was not a happy man. No doubt he became a lot happier when later he was appointed as an advisor to the joint command in the Pacific. Eventually we said goodbye to the Commodore and joined our train for London and then the usual, change at Bromley and Swanley for Chatham.

Here I must leave my story to enlighten the reader about the procedure of a Sunday morning in the R.M. Barracks. Every Sunday the parade ground of the Royal Marine barracks is to say at the least, “The Holy of Holys”, Every scrap of paper is removed by hand, all the windows visible from the square have been cleaned and polished and woe betide the man who is caught peeping out. The Battalion is formed up in full ceremonial splendour. The Band of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, immaculate as always is on the left of the Battalion.

Outside the Officers mess in the corner of the parade ground the senior Officers are assembled in all their splendour. The central figure is of course, the Adjutant, fully booted and spurred and mounted on a magnificent, usually chestnut stallion. He is superb, it is his day and when all is ready, he orders the main gates to be opened and invites the citizens of the town to enter and admire the spectacle.

Then it happened, entering by the guard room gate and marching across the front of the assembled battalion marched a bedraggled body of men, in an assortment of articles of clothing that had to be seen to be believed. Led by a sergeant in khaki trousers, a duffle coat and a very crumpled forage cap, it was not a pretty sight. By their bearing they gave the impression that not so long ago, they too had been immaculate and gloried in the applause of the crowd.

The battles had been long and bloody. They had left behind them, comrades who would never again see home. They were weary, the glamour of the occasion left them unmoved, but they marched tall, they were home. Let us once again leave it to our poet to describe.

THE RABBLE COMES HOME.

We were remnants off our damaged ships
And we were homeward bound
We possessed what we stood up in
Some begged some borrowed, some found

We changed our train at London
Where we sometimes took over “The Guard”,
But today we faced the stares of the crowd
Like something dug up in the yard.

Arriving at Chatham our H.Q. Base
We marched in columns of threes,
It was only five minutes to the barracks gates
But please God; let us get there please.

On the square the battalion paraded
In full ceremonial blues,
Their brasses gleamed in the morning sun
And the band played softly, “The Blues”.

For Sunday was the day for creating moral
When the Adjutant led his men,
Around the town to the parish church
And then smartly back again.

But this Sunday was certainly different
For, to the Adjutant’s dismay,
A shower of scruffy, unshaven marines
Marched in to spoil his day.

In the presence of this gleaming parade
We felt dirty, soiled and undressed,
And sensing the importance of the occasion
Not a little depressed.

The Adjutant stretched up in his saddle
And let forth an explicit tirade,
“I do not know who the hell you are
But get that Rabble off the parade”.

Our sergeant stopped us in our tracks
And, in a voice so ‘Sweet’,
Said, “This Rabble, Sir, are Royal Marines
Survivors from His Majesty’s Fleet”

The crowd were moved a ripple of applause
Sounded around the square,
It was heard quite clearly at the Officers Mess
And by the Commandant standing there.

The Brigade Major standing by his side
Was moved to take a hand,
He turned to the tall Drum Major
And ordered him “Call up the band”.

The band were called to ‘Attention’
The Adjutant now serene and staid,
Said “Sergeant, march of your Royal Marines
And march them across the parade”.

To the strains of our Regimental March
“A Life on the Ocean Wave”,
We stretched ourselves to six foot six
And all of our best we gave.

The crowd were there to witness
The Battalion marked the route,
And we proudly marched past our Commandant
And “The Rabble”, returned his salute.

Needless to say, after that we were rushed off the parade taken to the dining room and given an early Sunday dinner. There were no duties all that day but the following morning we paraded outside the Quarter Masters stores for a complete-issue of kit, with the exception of our own personal weapon, our rifle.

It had always been instilled into us that, if possible your weapon had to be saved at all costs and fortunately the rifle racks had not been damaged in the attack on the ship. Kitting us out took about four days and of course we had informed our loved ones that we were in England and would soon be coming home. They made us wait until the Friday and wearing our new uniforms we were issued with travel warrants and given 14 days leave.

Ruth was delighted, once again we spent all day and every day together and this time we both knew that I would not be going back to sea, at least not in the foreseeable future. The two weeks passed very quickly and to be perfectly honest I was keen to get back. I had been told on the quiet that I was to be promoted and would have to go through the promotion school which would keep me in England for a short while at least, and although it meant that I would be leaving Ruth for a short time, she would be able to come to Chatham on visits.

The Company office wasted no time in organising the promotion class and we left for Deal exactly one week later and as I walked around the old haunts I could see no change.
The course was very much common sense; it was merely a repetition of what I had been doing for the last couple of years. Royal Marines are trained to be individuals and most Marines can take over a position of authority if the occasion demands. I had no qualms about finishing the course and obtaining my ‘Pass’ certificate. What I did notice was that the walls of the Marines mess were covered with photographs of R.A.F. Training squads.

It was explained to us that early on in the war, Marines guarded all the airfields in Britain. This was an impossible situation, due to the high cost of putting a Royal Marine through 12 months of intensive training, including 3 months of Naval gunnery.

It was decided by the war office that the R.A.F. should guard their own airfields. To this end, a selected body of men from the air force were sent to the Infantry training school at Deal and trained as military training instructors.

They then returned to their depots and the nucleolus of the Royal Air Force Regiment came into being. The result of this specialised training can be seen today in the spectacular performance given by the “Queen’s Colour Squadron” of the Royal Air Force.

After the course, I was promoted and presented with my two stripes. I was now a full corporal (passed) and I could now enter the sacred portals of the Non Commissioned Officers club. One of my first details was to proceed to Greenwich Naval College and to report to the Commander of the College for instructions.

It was a nice surprise to find that it was my old Commander of the Warspite. He said he was pleased to see me, and that while I was on duty at the College I could dine at a small table in the corner of the Painted Hall. The Naval cadets of course would dine at their own large dining table in the centre of the hall.

Also, that I was to be my own boss, arrange the watch keeping of the sentries and he did not expect to see me again until I finished my duties. These duties involved guarding a senior Officer who had been placed under arrest for desertion. It turned out that he was the captain of a destroyer who had been transferred to a shore job and he was not very pleased. He walked out and obtained a position as a Merchant Navy Officer and went to sea again. Unfortunately he was recognised by Naval Officers in Durban, South Africa and turned over to the Naval Police. Through some service technicality, after three weeks he was found not guilty and he returned to the Navy. The sentries who had guarded him were of course disappointed.

The officer’s ‘Cell’ had been a cabin in the main building of the college on the top floor and the whole of the block was occupied by some 400 W.R.N.S. They had been having the time of their lives; left to the sentries the poor chap would have been given “Life.”

During the three weeks I had asked Ruth to come down to Greenwich and we stayed with mutual friends in Clapham Common. Our friend, Cristopher Kistorian was a Greek who had moved from Manchester and now owned two restaurants in the common. One was a really first class establishment, where we stayed; the other was a bit on the shady side, frequented by the ‘Ladies of the Night’. Although we were having a good time, it was a blessing when I had to return to Chatham and I saw Ruth safely on her return journey.

The V.1. Rockets, which were commonly known as ‘Doodle bugs’, were coming in thick and fast and I saw no point in Ruth staying in the area.

On my return to Chatham I was disappointed to find that I had another posting. It would appear that the powers that be did not like to see a new corporal kicking his heels when there was a war on, so consequently my name once again was posted up on the company notice board. B. Hallas. H.M.S. Chinkara, Ceylon. I was to take charge of a roving Royal Naval patrol and would be stationed in the Patrol House, a bungalow on the sea front at Colombo.

To a certain extent I had a free hand, The Provost Marshall was not even on the island. He did have an assistant by the name of Bannister, a Lieutenant Commander. R.N. I can only remember seeing him once in my whole stay in Colombo. Providing that we were seen to be doing our job, i.e. keeping ratings out of the hotels reserved for Officers, ensuring that the female services wore trousers after sunset and keeping an eye on the few canteens. Every so often my patrol would be moved around Ceylon and southern India to keep an eye on the ‘Holiday’ camps.

It was to these camps that they sent the crews of the hard working destroyers who, because of their many commitments spent a lot more than their fair share at sea. Obviously, the instructions passed down to me, was that there had to be a minimum of restrictions.

The inhabitants of the camps knew this and they played up to them. At times they were insulting to the members of the patrols, especially after a few drinks. This in turn led to bad feeling between the men under me and myself. Following orders I had no alternative but to turn a blind eye to their misdoings and my patrols were under the mistaken impression that I was not giving them the backing that they expected. There were times when I fervently wished that I were back in the peace and quiet of my turret on board ship.

There was some compensation however, a few trips around the island, visits to the spectacular city of Kandy and the occasional invitation to the ‘Wrennery’, (the camp set aside for the members of the Women’s Royal Naval Service).

They too had periods of leave from their duties in Admiralty House in Colombo. All in all, life was not too bad. After a few weeks I was posted, with my patrol to Southern India, we were to go to Wellington barracks, high up in the Nilgiri Mountains, another leave camp and more canteens.

It was there that I met Petty Officer (Jock) Wilson and his patrol of seamen. Life here took on a different aspect. There was a small but wealthy Indian community and at the weekends they liked to entertain on a grand scale. As the only visible sign of law and order in the area, Jock Wilson and myself were invited to these weekend parties and accepted as equals among the very wealthy guests.

On the tables were tall silver replicas of the F.A. Cup, or so they seemed. Each was filled with various spiced meats, chicken, lamb, etc, and there were salvers of rice spread around the tables. It was a case of take a plate, help yourselves to ladles of food and then cool your self down with whatever drink you fancied.

Meeting the local businessmen also led to other small perks. Whenever we visited the local stores to replenish the liquor supplies, it was invariably free. (Gin was the equivalent of four shillings a bottle). It was in Wellington barracks that I lost the chance of making a few spare pounds. Stepping out of the patrol truck I picked up a ball of what I supposed was a black pitch. I assumed that some youngster, as they did at home, had collected it and rolled it up.

Like an idiot I showed it to one of the Army Senior N.C.O. s and he immediately took it and put it in the Orderly Room safe, and then informed me that quite soon there would be a lot of searching by the natives. It was not often that they lost a large quantity of Pitch Blend Opium. Some one’s head was going to roll.
It was obvious that this state of affairs was not going to go on forever and I was ordered back to Colombo and our comfortable bungalow.

Life was beginning to get tedious and we had to find ways and means of amusing ourselves. Apart from catching turtles after they had come up the beach to lay their eggs, and selling both eggs and turtles to the Tamils, we used to wait until the watch changed at midnight. Next door was the Admiralty building and at five minutes past midnight the beach, which was out of bounds between sunset and sunrise became quite popular with the female staff from the Naval offices and any of the male staff who felt so inclined.

All ranks were equally guilty and for some time it had become an accepted thing. It came as a great surprise when, five minutes after settling down, their antics were disturbed by Royal Marine Naval Police suddenly shining their torches and clearing the beach. We were not very popular. Then again, after sunset we patrolled the railway station and invariably found female members of the armed forces in company with young officers, wearing skirts instead of the regulation trousers, which were compulsory after sunset. They were not too pleased when we broke the partnership up and escorted them back to their billets.

Chapter 13c - We Bombard Salerno (Cont.)

It was also part of the patrol’s duty to work in conjunction with the local police and to walk around ‘Slave Island’ a rather salubrious part of the town, and be picked up by the Pimps and taken to houses of ill repute. Two minutes after entering, the doors would be smashed open and the police would arrest everyone on the premises. (There’s not a lot you can do in two minutes). We usually finished up having a cold beer in the local station.

I knew of course that the life of ease that we were enjoying could not last forever and eventually I would come down to earth with a bump. While travelling round from camp to camp I was actually listed on the books of HMS Suffolk and it was from there that I received my postings. I was now ordered to leave the R.N. Patrol and proceed to Ilimbi Camp, somewhere in the wilds. It was rough, and it was where people who had been on ‘Soft’ duties were brought back to reality and trained in jungle warfare.

On our first exercise away from camp, we returned to find that all of the mosquito nets, normally suspended from above the beds had been cut down and removed. The local police were called in and inspected the scene of the crime. On one of the beds where the intruders had entered through a window was a large dirty footprint. After a discussion between the inspector and his sergeant it was disclosed that they knew whose footprint it was. I myself was a little sceptical but as one of the duty corporals I accompanied them to a small village a few miles away.

After asking the Headman where a certain man lived, the police entered his rather ramshackle hut and immediately dug up the earth floor. There they were, our mosquito nets had been recovered. It would appear that just as we in England rely on fingerprints for evidence, the Indian police rely on Foot, or toe prints. On another occasion we had to do a bit of underhanded work our selves. Actually it was a rather unlawful exercise.

While we were living in rather frugal conditions, a well-established Army camp a few miles away had everything, including a field dynamo to provide lighting etc. We decided to take it, and made our plans accordingly. At the back and some way off from our huts, we dug a large pit, big enough to hold the dynamo.

From the Marine engineers we obtained a suitable crane mounted on a lorry and the necessary wire ropes complete with eyebolts. On the appointed night we made our way to the back of the army camp and leaving the dynamo still connected, hoisted it on to the back of our lorry.

When we were ready to move off being satisfied that we had completed the job, we made a quick disconnection and went hell for leather to our own camp. The dynamo was lowered into the prepared hole suitably protected and covered over and camouflaged, we then returned the transport to the Marine engineers who were of course in on the act and then sat back and waited.

There was the usual Hue and Cry, the military police searched the area and of course found nothing. It was weeks later that we dared to connect up and provide our own lighting.

There were other moments of light entertainment to relieve the boredom of camp life. On one exercise we were taken in closed lorries and dropped off many miles away in the dark and told to find our way to the beach at Kilindini. We were lost.

As dawn came on the second day, our scout climbed the tallest tree in the area and to his delight saw the sea shimmering about a mile away. We decided that we would finish the exercise by breaking cover and opening fire with our Bren guns and rifles on any suitably safe target that appeared in sight.

On breaking from the scrub, all that we could see was a long finger of rocks extending from the beach to about thirty feet out to sea. This was to be our ‘enemy’. We let fly with everything and splinters of rock flew in all directions. Satisfied with our result we made our way homewards and reported a successful exercise. But all was not well.

Two days later, the N. C. O.’ s were called into the C. O.’ s office, where they were confronted by a very irate Ceylonese official who informed us that the local fisherman had set off for their fishing grounds and as was their practice, assembled round their local shrine to pray for a good catch only to find that some infidels had blasted it to pieces with their guns. They were very angry indeed and it was only the intervention of our C.O. who pledged that ‘We’ the offenders would, fork up the equivalent of a good days catch, prevented an international incident. At least we were not involved in the war.

I received my letters regularly and replied to them. It was difficult finding things to say, always being aware that some young officer was waiting there with a large pair of scissors. to shred your letter. On one of the visits of HMS Suffolk I did get posted aboard for a short time. It was a relief to get back to gunnery routine and I did get a chance to land at Ramiree on the Arakan Peninsular.

General Slim and his Fourteenth Army were advancing southwards from Rangoon and required advance airfields in the Arakan region. By clearing the scrub and laying down large rolls of steel netting these were hastily built. In order to do this the engineers had to clear the minefields that the Japanese had left behind and in some areas there were still suicide bombers squatting in holes, holding percussion shells between their knees and ready to detonate them when and if required. A grenade dropped into the hole was the easiest way out of the rather difficult and dangerous situation.

Back in Colombo it was back to policing the streets and the bars. Certain hotels were out of bounds to the troops and the few Australians who were passing through did not appreciate this.

One of the main hotels had large palm fronds in tubs in the main entrance and beyond the main entrance was the dance floor. It was not uncommon for the Australians, after being told that they were not allowed in, to use the large tubs and skate them across the polished dance floor and bowl the afternoon ‘Tea dancers’ over.

As they were usually in transit, to place them under arrest would have caused more trouble than it was worth. They were simply driven to the docks and handed over to their own officers, who no doubt sympathised with them and let them go. Shopping had its better moments, out on patrol we would call in a shop wearing our naval police arm bands and enquire the price of an article.

If the owner refused to lower his price we would leave the premises and return with an “Out of Bounds” notice, which we placed outside his premises. The next time we called in he was more cooperative. Out East on the war front, things were looking far better, by now the Japanese were in full retreat and the inmates of their infamous prison camps, that is, those that they left alive, were finding their way back by various routes to the United Kingdom.

The most popular route was via Australia, where they were first hospitalised and brought back to some semblance of their former selves before being shipped home. Others found their way to Colombo. As they arrived on their transports the docksides were crowded with hundreds of uniformed female members of the services waiting to help them down the gangways and to give them some semblance of a heroes welcome. It was a pitiful sight.

As I attempted to help one of the worst off the gangway, he stumbled and trod on my foot, I hardly felt it as he looked at me and said “Sorry Mate”, I suppose being a hard bitten Marine I should have been immune, especially after some of the events on board our bombed ships, but standing there, listening to a man who has survived more than three years of humiliation, deprivation and starvation saying “Sorry Mate”, for standing on my toe, and with memories of my Brother being in the same condition, if he was still alive, I had to hold back the tears. These were the men who had been abandoned in Singapore.

Let me revert back to a poetic explanation.

It was a bastion of Far Eastern Empire
Described as the “Countries Last Ditch
The home of remittance men and planters
Bankers and sons of the rich,
There were lots of hard working colonials
And those of the posh upper class,
Who lived a life of comfort and ease
As did the army’s Top Brass.

The army of course could protect them
But the rank and file could not mix,
For ‘Raffles’ and establishments like it
Were the playgrounds of the rich

Not all the places were restricted
The brothels, dance halls and bars
Rang up their tills with the soldiers pay
And the cash of the visiting ‘Tars’

But not forever would this snobbery last
For ‘War Talk’ was well to the fore,
And once again it would be “Tommy”
As it was in the days of yore

The Seventh Heavy Battery, out on the point
Found out to their dismay,
That their guns would only face seaward
A stupid mistake, one could say.

But stupid mistakes by Government
Like Norway, Dunkirk and Crete,
Were explained away by the powers that be
As a strategic and planned retreat

Eventually some of the guns turned round
To attack an advancing foe,
But having no High Explosive shells
The result was a bloody poor show

Armour piercing was all that they had
For sinking ships out at sea,
But for concentrations of enemy troops
High Explosive it had to be.

So another mistake had come to light
Once again brave men had died,
Their artillery was changed for rifles
But too late to stem the tide

Given a chance and given the tools
Those men could have saved the day,
But the keepers of our Empire
For years had led them astray.

The Governor who was too late with his warning
The city that was left brightly lit,
Providing a target for Japanese bombs
That succeeded with hit after hit.

It really should never have happened
The Japs were outnumbered, outclassed,
But their leaders were well-trained fanatics
And unfortunately, we lived in the past.

They were ferocious, vindictive and cruel
Like animals, out for the kill,
They neither asked for, nor gave any mercy
They murdered and tortured at will

They were ‘Given’ our troops as prisoners
The surrender was given too soon,
For some it were better to have fought and died
Than to dance to the Japanese tune

The Death Camps’ were not just at Changi
The ‘Railway of Death’ took its toll,
And they beat them from Java to Kokopo
And starved them to death in ‘The Hole’.

They worked them till they were skin and bone
And those that spoke up were defiled,
Then thrown out to die in the jungle
And be the prey, of anything wild.

There’s no forgiveness for treatment like that
Yet, they were not even punished by law,
And to look at their inscrutable faces
It was hard to believe what we saw.

But now their day is over
“The Rising Sun” has set,
The prison camps are empty
But we’re not home as yet.

We took our emaciated comrades
To Colombo, St Joseph’s and bed,
And not wanting to kill them with kindness
A notice saying, “Not to be Fed”

It took days to prepare them for travel
But the girls in the forces were grand,
They treated those skeletons like the heroes they were
And took them for walks, hand in hand.

They talked gently of their loved ones
Of those they had left behind,
Not a word of what they had suffered
It was all in the back of the mind.

But they will never forget those Singapore Men
The horrors and sights that they saw,
But they will never buy anything “Made in Japan”
Those “Far Eastern Prisoners of War"

Chapter 13d - We Bombard Salerno (Cont.)

By now my time was up and I was posted back to Chatham barracks.
I boarded a troop ship and met an Officer that I had last seen in nineteen thirty-six on board H.M.S. Resolution. It took some time to really convince myself that he was indeed the very first Young Royal Marine Officer that I was to look after way back in 1936 when the two of us went to sea for the very first time.

Lieut. D. L. Peyton Jones. Now a Captain, he looked a bare shadow of his former self. After we had said hello, how are you, and the usual small talk, he looked as though he didn’t want to discuss anything else and wandered off. I met him only once more during the trip. I had developed a large sceptic swelling on my thumb, I think that it went under the name of a “Mother in law’s blessing” and it was sheer agony. Fortunately my ex Officer took me to the cabin of a young army doctor who was taking passage and he had a very sharp scalpel. One quick slash and it worked wonders.

The trip home was uneventful, after all the war was at an end, true there was a lot of mopping up to do in the Pacific, but here at sea, the dangers had ceased to exist. I eventually arrived in barracks and immediately went home on leave. We did all the normal things that young married couples do and had a wonderful two weeks together.

Reluctantly I returned to Chatham and once again started the dull routine of guard duties, fatigue parties and taking the squads of recently joined recruits to drill. I could now look back at the more interesting aspects of life at sea. There was the time when we were closed up on the six inch guns and we received an order to “Train all guns on the beam” I immediately ordered the trainer to train the gun to seawards, that is, at a right angle to the ships side, within minutes the order was rescinded, “Train all guns fore and aft”.

We returned to our secure position. As we did so, there was a roar from the Commissioned Gunner who had just arrived in the battery. “My last order was, train all guns fore and aft”, he bellowed. ”Standing around like a lot of useless bastards”. I didn’t bother to explain that we had received another order, I was so angry. I left my crew in charge of my number two and approached the Sergeant gunnery instructor.

I was fuming, “I want an apology off the Commissioned gunner”, I managed to get out. “I want to be taken in front of the Captain of Marines”. Sergeant Russell was all in favour and we went to the Royal Marine office where I made my request again to my C.O, Captain Terry. He was a little put out by my unusual request. “You can’t do that Hallas, Commissioned gunners come up from the ranks, it’s the way they are when reprimanding ratings”. I was adamant, I insisted. “Very well Hallas, Commanders, at 0930 tomorrow”.

The next day, all bright eyed and eager I stood in front of The Right Hon’ Sir Charles Madden and stated my case. He listened intently and said, “Yes, I agree, the Commissioned Gunner will apologise to you at 0900hrs in the Starboard battery, with your gun crew, tomorrow morning.

At the appointed hour, our gun drill was halted and we were stood face to face with an obviously unwilling Gunner. “Corporal Hallas, I apologise to you and you crew for my remarks in the Starboard battery”, My reply was a short “Thank you sir”, upon which he turned about and accompanied by the Chief Gunners Mate, marched off to the mess, no doubt to have a stiff drink.

That night I was checking the magazine keys with the sentry, at the same time as the Gunner and as he marched away I heard him say, “I’ll get that bastard yet”, I decided to let the matter lie. However there was a very unusual sequence to it.

In the next letter from my loved one, she was full of news. “We have moved, Mum and Dad have bought a small drapers in Offerton, and guess what, the lady next door has just told me that her husband is on the Warspite, and he is the Commissioned Gunner”.

That was just one of the memories that I can look back on; there are others not so pleasant. As I have stated previously my duties as Corporal of the watch consisted of patrolling the ship in the night watched. It was tedious walking around the decks in the dark with only a faint glimmer from the security lamps. I had to enter all the toilets to ensure that there was no funny business going on and I can assure you that in all my years of duty I never saw anything untoward.

Except for one unpleasant incident concerning an officer. As part of my duties connected with the Ward Room (Officers Mess) I had to enter certain cabins and on one occasion I called on the cabin of the Ships Chaplain. To me he was an unpleasant person who gave the impression of being a cross between the actor Peter Lorre and that other obese character Sidney Greenstreet.

Thinking he was at dinner, I knocked and entered the cabin. He was standing by the bunk interviewing one of the very young boy seamen that we had on board. Nothing peculiar in that, except that the chaplain was wearing a very loose dressing gown and the bunk was covered with dozens of Pornographic post cards of the very worst kind.

I left the cabin leaving the door open and waited outside. The young seaman followed me and went below decks as fast as his legs could carry him. I chose not to return to the cabin and decided not to do anything further. I think the Chaplain was a very worried man; he always avoided me whenever he could and I did likewise.

Going back to the incident concerning the Commissioned Gunner fortunately we never met on leave. Ruth’s parents moved again before I next went home. Back to reality, life in barracks was beginning to get more comfortable. I was offered and accepted the position of Commandants clerk. A 9 to 4 job and no more guard duties.

Responsible for keeping the records of all serving marines it was a job that I could really get my teeth into and providing that I could afford the travel I could get a week-end pass whenever I chose to do so. Ruth’s mum was quite helpful and the odd postal order would find it’s way in our correspondence.

After a time, it was obvious that we had to make some sort of a decision. Ruth would not leave her parents and live with me in married quarters and I was probably a bit hard on her. She became more and more upset as time passed and I finally decided that if I was to save our marriage I had to leave the Marines.

As I had not completed my full 12 years, I would have to apply for “Discharge by Purchase” The Adjutant was not very pleased, He tried to convince me that I was already a ‘Passed’ Corporal, upon my re-engagement for a further nine years I would automatically be promoted to Sergeant and of course on completion, I would receive a pension. I had already completed the hardest part of my service, I had survived the war and it would be a shame to throw all this away. It was a big decision and one that I have regretted ever since, but I took it and I can say honestly that I never blamed any one only myself for taking it. Ruth was certainly very happy.

What can one say about life in ‘Civvy Street’, For a time we owned and ran a small café, It was not my cup of tea and I made the decision that with help Ruth could manage the business and I would go out to work. I obtained a job at Metropolitan Vickers and became so efficient at building electric motors; I was transferred to maintenance and travelled the country repairing them. To Ruth this was as bad as my being in the Marines. It was apparent that she was a home lover and to her that meant the two of you being together and doing everything side by side. I tried to compromise by leaving and obtaining various positions that would give me more time at home. Eventually I settled down in the supply department of Imperial Chemical Industries (I.C.I.) where I stayed for the next twenty years.

As an outlet for my surplus energy I joined my local party and became their secretary and even offered my services as a candidate in the local elections. For three years I tried in a ‘Ward’ that was controlled 100% by the opposition and although I managed to reduce their majority I was not very successful in obtaining a ‘Seat’.

I served for a time as a School Manager for three of the local schools and for a time was accepted on the Civic List, leading of course to invitations to the Mayor’s dances and luncheons, which both Ruth and I enjoyed immensely. But, what should I do with my spare time?

I decided that it would be better for the community if I became a Special Constable and duly enrolled in the Manchester City Police. Some years later having left Manchester I transferred to North East Cheshire and it was at the very small section house in Hyde Where I was stationed that The prisoner Ian Brady “The Moors Murderer” was first charged.

The “Tapes” were brought in and everyone was horrified. Once or twice I accompanied volunteers to the Moors to search certain prescribed areas with probes. On my visits we were not successful, it was a miserable and thankless task.

The happiest time of our life together was when Ruth gave birth to our Daughter, it had to be another Ruth, and she was beautiful, we were both extremely proud. Studying hard, young Ruth made it to her ambition of becoming a teacher and eventually to the Headship of the Upper School in our local school.

My lovely Wife has now left me. August 19th 2000 will always remain in my memory as the day my life split into two. I still have the love of a Daughter who cares and I have many friends .So with my interest in the Royal Naval and Royal Marine Associations and at this moment in time the oldest P.R.O. in the business, I keep my interests going.

There are still some memories that I cherish. On the Special parade for the forgotten fleet, held in Portsmouth, all spick and span and standing with the Naval veterans, I was wearing my medals, all eleven of them and they attracted the attention of H.R.H. the Prince Philip, who is the Captain General of the Royal Marines.

“That’s a nice show of medals”, he said “Where were you on V.J.-Day?” (Victory over Japan) I replied that I was in the Indian Ocean “Were you indeed ”said H.R.H. “But that’s a long way from the Pacific and I see you are wearing the Pacific Star ”, With that rather demeaning retort, he turned, and with his hands clasped behind his back, walked away. I was fuming. The Admiral of the Fleet “Jock” Slater asked me what was the matter. I couldn’t contain myself. “If that ignorant prig had asked me where I had earned my Pacific Star I would have told him that while he was in Tokyo Bay protected by the largest air armada ever formed and the largest fleet ever assembled, I was in the Pacific when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour, and when he was in short pants I was landing with my detachment during the Spanish Civil War”.

However, much later when the story was brought to life in a Royal Naval news letter, His Royal Highness was decent enough to write me a personal letter, explaining that at the time he was not aware that there were any British warships in the Pacific in 1942/43. I have attended many more parades since and I have fulfilled an ambition to write a book of poetry, under the title of “Soldiers of the Sea”. On the inside of the cover there are comments from Major General Whitehead Royal Marines, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Roy Newman Royal Navy and other senior officers, all of whom have read the book and praised it’s contents.

That then is a somewhat brief outline of my life. A life during which I have both loved and been loved and that is all any man can ask for.

On the fiftieth anniversary of the War the President of the Greek Republic awarded me the Greek war medal. The Commonwealth Office has approved two other Medals recently awarded. The Russian Convoy Medal And The Malta Defence Medal, I received the Malta Medal from the Maltese Consul in London.

In contrast to the latter two medals being approved, the Greek Medal has not been given the same consideration and Veterans have been told that they can accept it but they cannot wear it, which I consider a stupid state of affairs.

As the Publicity Officer for the Royal Navy in York and Districts I am at this moment in time fighting for it’s recognition. On the many occasions that we parade in York I am proud to wear the 39/45 Star, the Atlantic Star, the Africa Star, the Italy Star, the Burma Star, the Pacific Star (Clasp) the Defence Medal, the Malta George Cross Medal, The Spec, Constabulary Medal and the Victory 39/45 Medal, the Greek Medal I am Holding in abeyance. Until I get the letter giving me permission to wear it.

Chapter 14 - I ‘Find my Brother’

It was about this time in a conversation with a member of the Royal Artillery that the capture of my Brother cropped up. I was asked where he was buried and I had to reply that I had no idea. Nothing further was said, until about three weeks later when a sergeant in the Royal Air Force who had been contacted on the ‘Internet’ rang me up and told me to beg, borrow or steal a copy of a book by Alfred Baker with the title of “What Price Bushido”. After a short search I eventually obtained a copy from the York branch of ‘The Far Eastern Prisoners of War Association”.

I started to read, all about 600 men of the Royal Artillery who had been taken from the Japanese prison at Changi, Singapore. With Colonel Bassett at their head they had been forced on board a cargo ship and packed in the holds like sardines. Standing shoulder to shoulder they were unable to move and had to answer the normal calls to nature where they stood. This unnatural state of events lasted for ten days until they reached the island of New Britain.

There, 100 men were forced ashore at bayonet point and marched through Rabaul the main port to a camp at Ko Ko Po. The 500 men remaining on board were taken to the island of Balliol where it was intended to use them as slave labour, digging underground tunnels from one end of the island to the other. It was unfortunate for the prisoners that at the same time, the eastern end of the island was at that moment being attacked and taken over by Australian troops.

The Japanese had to retreat and true to their code they could not leave live prisoners behind. Standing them by huge pits, they shot and bayoneted all 500. It was recorded as the Balliol Massacre. At a later date when the war was over, the bodies were recovered, transferred to Port Moresby in New Guinea and re-interred in a communal grave. A single plain plaque reads, “Here lie the bodies of 500 men of the Royal Artillery, their names known only to God”.

Returning back in time the story tells of the terrible treatment meted out to the 100 who had been taken off the ship at Rabaul. Over worked digging tunnels, and fed only on scraps of food with no medical supplies, they succumbed one by one and were buried in a corner of the camp which had been given the name of “Death Valley”.

The author of the book had appointed himself with another gunner as “Camp Doctor” and did their best as far as possible to alleviate some of the suffering.

He ‘ Blackie Baker’ kept a history of the inmates and as they died made a record of the day, the month and their name and regimental number and at the back of the book formulated a ‘Roll of Honour’. By this time I was now going down the list and towards the end I saw my Brothers name. Albert Edward Hallas. Gunner. R.A. 8515853. I contacted the author who by now had taken ‘The Cloth’ and was a practicing Minister of Religion in Plymouth’.

I applied for and received my Brothers medals and offered them with the story to the Royal Artillery at Woolwich. The Master Gunner, General Farndale invited me to Woolwich Barracks and asked me to bring the author of “What Price Bushido” with me.

In conclusion The Master Gunner promised to put the story of the “Balliol Massacre” in volume 2 of the history of the regiment, which he was at that time producing. Sad to say that the last few to be buried were not recovered and neither the War Graves Commission nor I have any idea where my Brothers grave is. The only record that he ever existed is his name on column 14 of the Singapore Memorial.

Again, in conclusion I have to say as I come closer to the end of my story that after the death of my lovely Wife It was only the love and attention of our Daughter and a few selective friends such as Ken and Margaret Coser and my involvement in the affairs of the Royal Naval Association that has enabled me to carry on with a life that at first seemed to be coming to an end. To them, I say, “Thank You, I am more than grateful”.

A quick resume of my (To me) interesting life would be as follows.
Aged 15/16 Joined 8th Manchesters. Territorials
17 transferred to Royal Marines.
18/20 served HMS Royal Sovereign.
HMS Resolution landed to protect British nationals in Spanish Civil War
HMS Warspite. Mediterranean Fleet
2nd battle of Narvik, (8 German Destroyers sunk)
Bombarded North Africa.Escorted HMS Illustrious to attack Taranto.
Battle of Matapan, damaged Italian Battleship and sank three Cruisers.
Battle of Crete. Fought off 400 bombers. Royal Marines battery hit by bomb and destroyed.
To America for repairs
Pacific Theatre. Bombarded Islands Landed on Arakan Peninsular, Ramiree
Bombarded North Africa, Sicily, Messina, Accepted surrender of Italian Fleet.
Bombarded Salerno. Hit by 1000 lb bomb, towed to Malta.
Home for re-Kitting.
Joined HMS Suffolk Indian Ocean appointed NCO in charge of Royal Naval Police unit in Ceylon and Southern India.
Travelled around Indian Royal Naval Units and leave camps

Returned home - My war was over…