Bernie Howard - Rum Bum and Baccy

After six weeks in the Annexe we marched with our kitbags on our shoulders to Ganges itself where Rodney 16 Mess was to be my home for the next forty-six weeks. Our new home had to be kept immaculate; the bins and floors were literally like mirrors and in any spare time we were kept busy polishing with boot brushes. Our mess was on Long Covered Way which was like a road covered with mess decks either side. I can imagine it about a quarter of a mile long. This also had to be immaculate and was kept so mainly by misfortunates with toothbrushes scrubbing away for hours on end and being punished for talking or having spots or some other crime.

Our days were now kept busy by school, instruction, drill, sport, seamanship, rowing, kit maintenance, numerous inspections including arseholes and foreskins. This I can’t make out to this day. About once a week we had to stand in pyjamas at the end of our beds with kit laid out for inspection. As the Officer and Chief PettyOfficer passed you dropped your pyjama bottoms, pulled back your foreskins, turned around and opened your cheeks. Our embarrassment must have been their pleasure.

Ganges used to hold a cinema in the gym. I think it was on a Wednesday and films were advertised on the side of the Parade Ground. The cost was around sixpence, a fortune to those of us who only earned fifteen shillings a week – seventy-five pence in today’s money. After being in Ganges for about six weeks we were told we could go to the cinema.

A friend and I queued up in the rain for two hours to see a Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis comedy. On paying, we sat on one of the many forms laid out for the show. The Chiefs and Petty Officers were at the back on more comfortable chairs all chatting away whilst us boys had to keep complete silence. The film had only been going for a few minutes when Jerry Lewis started his antics and a boy two rows back from us started to giggle. A petty officer stormed down and kicked six rows of us out. Apparently you mustn’t laugh at a funny film.

There were many types of punishment at Ganges, the most severe being cuts. Cuts was a form of the birch and I was to taste it to a very painful ordeal. I had been on weekend leave to Swaffham where, at a Youth Club dance, in a fight I injured a lad from Kings Lynn, and got arrested. The next day I was escorted back to Ganges where I was put on Captain’s Report and awarded six cuts. To receive your cuts you had on your works trousers inside out. This enabled you to lean over the bench, a patrolman to pull on one pocket one side and another patrolman to pull on the other. A third patrolman who was about twenty stone had the cane and delivered the strokes. After each stroke your ass was inspected to make sure you’d been cut and that the strokes didn’t cross. It was impossible to lay on your back or sit down in Instructions for a few weeks after this. Later, upon leaving the Royal Navy, the Master of Arms who oversaw this took a pub in Swaffham called the White Lion on Station Street and he became a very good friend of mine. Tony Meredith was his name and I had great respect for him.

After a year you left Ganges a “TROG” which you’d be ’til the day you die. TROG quite simply means Trained Rating Of Ganges. Ganges had been very tough and even cruel, but for me if helped me to deal with life afterwards, facing as you do many a tricky situation.

Junior Mess – HMS Ganges

My first draft on leaving HMS Ganges was to HMS Raleigh, in Torpoint, Devon, just over from Plymouth, which was an engineering training base for those that were older than us, most being eighteen to about twenty-four. Also at HMS Raleigh was a Wrens’ training section. The idea for us being there was a bit more training whilst waiting for a ship. We had all been looking forward to meeting the Wrens for a bit of female company after being with two thousand two hundred boys for the past year. As it turned out, the Wrens were unavailable. There was a bridge over to their quarters which was guarded twenty-four hours a day. It was strongly rumoured that two ratings had broken in a few years previously and had been wanked to death. This did not stop the plans at tea breaks on how to break in. The most popular methods were tunnelling or making friends with a para. One thing about the Wrens which I couldn’t get my head around was when it was the Wrens’ time of the month they had to walk instead of march. The unfortunates would either walk ahead or behind the marching squad which told all and sundry of their predicament. This led to a lot of catcalls and remarks from simple sailors.

HMS Raleigh had a mascot which was a very badly behaved goat called Walter. Whilst I was on one duty watch, I had the pleasure of cleaning out Walter’s stable and feeding him, but the best part was still to come. Walter also drew his fag rations – twenty a day to be fed after his meal. He wasn’t lucky with me but I gave him ten and enjoyed the other half of the dessert myself. It was great to see Walter on parade on special occasions. He would be dressed in his mascot colours and some unfortunate would have him on a lead but he’d go berserk and was uncontrollable.

Another memory of HMS Raleigh was a boxing tournament which I entered. In this tournament, if successful, you would have three fights in a day. In my first bout I stopped my opponent in the second round: in the second fight I got a bye for some reason, and in the final I was beaten up by a coloured lad. I collected my Runner’s Up prize from a Wren Officer. This was a bit of cloth with writing on it. When entering the Changing Room, I pushed this into my pocket to look at later on my own as my eyes were sore and swollen. After changing and showering I went for a few drinks and forgot all about my prize until the next day when I discovered that, for being runner up in the finals, I’d won a bit of navy cloth which somebody had roughly sewn “Boxing” across. Years later I trained amateur boxers who, on their very first fight after losing, would get a statue or a cup.

It was also whilst at HMS Raleigh that I got my first tattoo and earring. Earrings were allowed but frowned upon and on morning parade a chief petty officer noticed how a few of us were sporting our new purchases. “Gypsies, homosexuals and thieves wear earrings and as the Royal Navy enlist none of these, get them out you travelling thieving queers.” In my first ship I put my earring back and have worn one since.

The tattoos we scarred our bodies with were absolutely terrible. I can’t believe that after getting one we were daft enough to go back every pay day for more. Professor Zeta was the name of the tattooist. He was fat and unkempt and always proud to show you his nipples, with rings in. This was unheard of at the time. The first tattoo I got was of a Japanese sailor girl with Japan spelt out underneath. The sailor girl was nothing but a smudge and luckily I’ve been to Japan a few times since. I then got the signs for playing cards but he managed to put the spade upside down. These were followed by a snake’s head that looked like a doberman and a butterfly which could have been anything. Never mind. I was now ready and waiting for my first ship.

Portsmouth in the sixties and seventies was one big playground for sailors. There were enough pubs on every street for a pub crawl and enough sailors to fill every pub.

One of my favourites was the Alderman – it was always full of unforgettable characters. “Gypsy Pete” was a gay who would mince in and sit on a high stool at the bar so he could see himself in the bar mirror. After getting his first pint he’d start to preen himself in the mirror, combing his hair and pouting his lips. This would continue for a few pints when he would start to fall out with himself, ending up in a full-blown argument where he would be calling his reflection every expletive under the sun. “Big Silve” was another regular never to be forgotten. Silve was a large lady of the night or in her case a lady of twenty-four hours. Not a person to mess with as she could and would fight like a man. Apparently she had tattoos at the top of both of her legs – one saying, “Sailors Rest” and the other one saying, “Pay Before You Enter”. I was enjoying a drink one summer dinner time when, apart from sailors, there were a lot of holidaymakers in the pub. As Silve walked in she shouted across to me saying, “Get us a pint of scrumps love, I’m just going for a shit.” No, Silve wasn’t the type to take home and meet mum but she had a heart of gold.