Hugh McManners - Falklands Commando

At one point in all this confused activity, I was required on board SS Canberra to attend an Orders Group given by Lt Colonel H Jones, the Commanding Officer of 2 Para. As an unknown person amid a large group of Paras, I chatted quietly to the couple of people I did know, then stood up with everyone else when the CO arrived. He was a small, terrier-like man possessed of great energy, talking animatedly with everyone. Somebody thought to introduce me to him, but he seemed distracted, so I probably didn’t register with him. So as he swept away to attend to more urgent matters, I sloped off for a large and civilised lunch at the 148 Battery table, before returning in our Gemini to the less congenial but more familiar environment of HMS Fearless .

Despite being regularly awash with water and very crowded, 4M1 was physically more comfortable than friendly old Sir Percivale . I slept at the top of a bank of three bunks, directly above an unfamiliar naval padre who couldn’t stand the close living (and was found more congenial accommodation). The bottom bunk belonged to Brigadier Julian Thompson’s ADC (Aide-de-Camp), who was much very smarter than the rest of us (not difficult), and far more serious (also not terribly difficult), with what struck me as the most splendid name ‘Montefiori’. I was reading a comic but very disreputable book by a writer with the pen name ‘Kyril Bonfiglioli’, who I also liked. With his head by my feet, the overwhelmed padre’s replacement was a cheerful REME captain Trevor Wilkins, a computer buff who I knew from my days as an officer cadet at Sandhurst. Trevor’s wife sent him computer magazines, which he left in the wardroom for others to read. Trevor hadn’t spotted that she’d filled in the advertising coupons with personal messages – until we showed him of course. Trevor festooned his bunk with smalls, like bunting.

There was also Flight Lieutenant Dennis Marshall-Hadsell, an RAF Phantom Navigator and now the Commando Brigade’s main forward air controller. With me, Dennis formed the core of a small and very select deck-quoits-playing club, which met before tea every afternoon on the upper Sea Cat deck.

There were eighteen others crammed into mess-deck Four Mike One. It was never particularly cluttered or claustrophobic because we were all used to it, and because everything had to be stowed away for action stations every morning. When a ship gets hit, anything loose becomes dangerous, and catches fire. The stowage of kit was practised and inspected ad nauseam until it was automatic.

But an ever-present tannoy blasted forth from a loudspeaker in one corner of 4M1. It should have had a volume control, but ours, being in the officers’ mess-deck, had probably been sabotaged. Because the tannoy is a key part of a warship’s organization, it couldn’t simply be disconnected when we were trying to sleep. I taped a towel across it, which at least muted its stridency.

‘Pipes’ are broadcast from the bridge, and are made by ringing the Bo’sun’s mate, who with the permission of the officer of the watch, picks up a hand microphone and speaks to the whole ship. But like guards on British Rail commuter trains, the volume is usually too loud, and his accent incomprehensible. There were certain particularly disliked pipes that would be made many times each day:

“D’yer hear there. For Exercise, for Exercise, for Exercise. Fire, Fire, Fire.”

“There is a fire in 4M1 mess-deck space. Secure all watertight doors aft of 2 Kilo. Fire party to assemble at the base of the 2 Kilo hatch. Damage-control party stand by.”

“D’you hear there. This is the Commander speaking. There have been many useful comments about the pipes being made. I know many of you are unhappy about unnecessary pipes, and the use of irritating clichés. I’ve hoisted in the point about this. I’m going to cut out all the clichés and get straight to the nitty-gritty. But more of that later.”

“D’you hear there. This is the officer of the watch speaking. There have been far too many unnecessary pipes being made which disturbs everybody as well as cluttering up the smooth running of the bridge. I ask you to co-operate to reduce pipes to only those that are strictly necessary. That is all.”

And a particular favourite:

“Hands to flying-stations, hands to flying-stations. No more gash to be ditched. No smoking or naked lights.”

There was one particular Bo’sun’s mate who we felt did rather more than his fair share of duty, in a high-pitched ‘George Formby’ accent that particularly grated on our nerves. Hic classic pipe, repeated many times every day, was:

“The AOO is requested to go to the AOR. The AOO.”

Translated into English this reads: “the Amphibious Operations Officer is requested to go to the Amphibious Operations Room”. He is “requested” and not ordered, as the AOO is senior to the person who authorised the pipe.

After a delay, and no AOO appearing in the AOR, the Bosun’s mate would then decide to add a sense of urgency to the pipe:

“The AOO is to go to the AOR. The AOO.”

Someone on the bridge would then tell him that he couldn’t order the AOO to do anything, so we’d get a third version:

“D’yer hear there. Disregard that last pipe. The AOO is requested to go to the AOR. The AOO. That is all.”

By this stage in this oft-repeated round of pipes we’d be singing, in George Formby voices:

“The AOO’s not in the AOR, and I’m still cleaning winders.”

Lieutenant Montefiori, the Brigadier’s ADC, was also a key man – like the AOO. But the ADC had succeeded where we had failed. From the constant piping that went on for him, he must have discovered a room without a loudspeaker. We heard this pipe many, many times each day, with the Bo’sun having no qualms about expressing his irritation:

“Lieutenant Montefiori is to report to the Brigadier’s day cabin. Lieutenant Montefiori.”

These were the sounds of HMS Fearless at war.

The easiest way to forget these cramped and uncomfortable circumstances was to slip into a routine. The day would begin with the pipe: ‘Call the Hands’; which actually sounded like this: “Call Thee ’Ans, Call Thee ’Ans, Call Thee ’Ans.”

We would get up in relays to use the row of washbasins, pack up bedding, and stow the clutter. Breakfast entailed quite a long journey, up two ladders, along Fearless’ main side passage and up another ladder. This took you past the beer-smelling door of the chief petty officer’s mess, and the gunroom – a mess-room traditionally for the junior officers, which was now sealed up and guarded, housing the intelligence cell.

After breakfast and the 8 a.m. World Service news, the morning would be taken up with whatever work was needed. Lunch and more BBC news, then in the afternoon a very comprehensive PT session on the flight-deck, or the Sea Cat deck aft, or the steep metal ramp down to the tank deck and dock. FO1 would normally do that together, although for variety John Rycroft often came and took the session to give us a break from me.

We were getting quite good mail with very little delay from the UK, so I did a lot of letter-writing. The mail came at 1830 and was the high point of the day. The ‘postie’ always had plenty of helpers to sort the contents of the bulging blue sacks that after a delivery would block the narrow gangway past his office.

In the evenings the wardroom was jammed and we ate in two sittings: the more junior of us between seven and half past, and the senior ones after that. For some doubtless traditional reason that escapes me, the bar closed until they’d finished eating. The beer was terrible and sometimes the ice machine broke, so decisions about what to drink were far from easy. When the Pimms ran out, the situation became serious. It was very hot even with air-conditioners going flat out. For historical reasons, the restrictions on drinking that applied to the other ranks (in theory two or three cans per night), did not apply in the officers or Petty Officers’ Wardrooms. But the end result was much the same for everyone – drink enough to seem impaired and you were in serious trouble.