H.M.S. Illustrious

by HMS Illustrious (retail) (epub)

  We arrived at Portsmouth as planned, and the most important news of the whole day is that my leave starts at 1200, so by 1201 I expect to be somewhere other than on board Illustrious.

  The Westlant Deployment, 1984

  Thursday 19th January 1984

  With a good deal of tugging and pushing and foaming water at the stern, Illustrious reluctantly quit her comfortable berth on the north-west wall at Portsmouth dockyard at about 1230. Nobody seemed particularly enthusiastic about sailing, not even the normally quite keen fish-heads, and I think quite a lot of people were rather hoping that something nasty and prolonged (or perhaps even terminal) would happen to an engine or two…

  Using that inspired illogic which is the mark of the Royal Navy, I was invited, using the word in its loosest possible sense, to attend a formal lunch with the Bishop of Buckingham. As the only atheist on the ship, I suppose that made exactly the same kind of good sense as was applied when I was selected to act as the newspaper caterer – I don’t read newspapers. The lunch was good, although prolonged, and the Bish wasn’t too hard going, if a little unworldly.

  The ‘Hands to Flying Stations’ pipe brought a smile to Commander (Air)’s face in the early afternoon, and his beloved Sea Harriers (five of them, of 800 Naval Air Squadron) arrived shortly afterwards, giving a flying demonstration to our visitors as they did so. We will be collecting 814 NAS and 824 ‘B’ Flight from Culdrose tomorrow, to make up our full air group for the deployment, though we are only really giving a lift to 824, as they will be disembarking in New York or thereabouts.

  With the Sea Harriers on board, the ship then made tracks to the west, to the Portland areas, for a series of calibrations of various sorts that would last most of the evening. On the air side of the house, we gave 800 NAS our usual fixed-wing briefing on our procedures, though they’d heard it all before, and then called it a day.

  I was the Air Officer of the Day (by choice, as it was only really a half-day duty), so I did rounds at about 1900, had dinner, and then retired to the Wardroom for an evening of bridge – one of the last opportunities before we start playing war games in earnest.

  Friday 20th January 1984

  Quite a busy day, one way and the other. We came to anchor in Carrick Roads, just outside Falmouth harbour, at around 0730 this morning, with the intention of embarking 814 and 824 ‘B’ Flight Sea King aircraft. All eleven arrived on board with no problems, with the result that the Wardroom is now filled to overflowing, and people are having to sleep more or less wherever they can find a flat surface. The hangar is fairly full, too, with the five Sea Harriers now joined by eleven Sea Kings.

  We pulled up the pick just before lunch and started off for the wilds of America, though by a long and rather tortuous route. We will be mucking about off the Cornish coast until Saturday afternoon or evening, in fact, as we have a fair number of visitors on board who will have to be dropped off at Culdrose before we finally start heading west. I have also been advised that the ship’s planned track will take us as far south as Bermuda before we reach New York, but I haven’t yet had that confirmed.

  The Sea Kings stopped playing as soon as they were tucked up neatly in the hangar, but the Sea Harriers carried out a fairly full flying programme during the afternoon, getting practised at CCAs (Carrier Controlled Approaches) with Paul Harvey, before finishing just after 1700. Commander (Air) got me to organise a briefing for the rotary wing crews, just to remind them of the way we try to do things on board, and also to sort out a ‘meet and greet’ for the Captain.

  That lot doesn’t sound like very much work, but all the running about kept me off the streets for about two hours. He also gave me a rather nice job, to prepare a script for him to use on CCTV on Flight Safety, and which is the kind of thing I really rather enjoy doing.

  Saturday 21st January 1984

  We were still within television and radio range of Cornwall, which pleased a number of people, as they were able to watch the big rugby international match during the afternoon. We also had a very full flying programme, getting the Sea King pilots, in particular, used to operating from a deck again, and most of the afternoon was spent teaching them the esoteric art of landing backwards, rather than forwards. That might sound a bit Irish, but it’s a fairly simple technique – instead of the ship steaming into the wind, it steams away from the wind, or downwind, but keeps its speed sufficiently low that the wind is still above ten knots in strength, but coming from directly astern. The aircraft then land facing aft instead of forward.

  I took over in Flyco for a couple of hours while all this was going on, and was delighted to see a school of small whales appear quite near to us. I’m not sure exactly what they were, as there was a fair amount of other activity which was diverting my attention, but from their general shape and colour, they looked like pilot whales. Unfortunately, they were proceeding in an orderly manner in the opposite direction to us, and so we quickly lost sight of them.

  I had a look for interest this morning at a map thing (what these nautical chaps refer to as a chart) which has confirmed our tortuous route to New York, New York. We are basically hacking south-west until we get almost to the Azores, and then west as far as Bermuda (where we are due to both land and receive mail, if all goes well). And from there we strike directly for New York, where we will be tied to the wall at Manhattan Island. I think.

  The flying programme carried on throughout the day, and I took over from Mickey Brock (our new Lieutenant Commander (Flying)) at about 1930, after dinner. To my surprise, he reappeared at a little after 2230 and took over again – a distinctly friendly gesture for which he will, no doubt, be rewarded in heaven. I retired for a coffee and chat in the Wardroom before retiring to bed.

  Sunday 22nd January 1984

  I heard this morning that Mickey Brock probably had a rather longer day than he had bargained for, as there was a fairly urgent HDS in to Culdrose a little after midnight last night, carrying a compassionate case, so I don’t think he could have got to bed much before 0200. Life, as they say, in a blue suit.

  Today was a Maintenance Day, which meant that there was no flying and very little activity of any sort, in fact. That was probably just as well, because the sea was running a long, heavy swell, and the ship’s motion was quite severe, and might well have made flying quite difficult and hazardous.

  We have now moved well out of range of shore-side radio and television transmissions, so we are out of contact except by signal, and starting our own internal entertainment programme. I am hoping to put a show or two together myself if I can, but at the moment I am far too busy sorting things out in the Office and continuing with work in my cabin. Having looked at the outline flying programme for the next few days, I doubt very much whether my ruggedly handsome (it says here) face is likely to grace the CCTV screens before we get to New York, but we shall see.

  The ship’s home-brewed entertainment system got off to a fine start this evening with a showing of the film M*A*S*H, which was much appreciated by all who saw it. Probably fortunately, it clashed with a squadron ‘run’ in the Wardroom (a ‘run’, in this context, means that everyone stands around drinking until they fall over; an activity which I have always found more than a little pointless), so there weren’t too many people watching.

  Monday 23rd January 1984

  The morning was enlivened by lousy weather (the ship is well out into the Atlantic Ocean, and it certainly feels like it, with a very heavy swell and high winds, making even walking along a passageway a fairly entertaining exercise), and by an Exercise Emergency Stations. The latter event we hope will never occur, because it implies that the ship is in such a parlous state that sinking, collision or other nasty is both imminent and unavoidable. Basically, the entire ship’s company is mustered in certain strategic locations and everyone is confirmed present or accounted for. For the officers, this was not a particularly onerous exercise, as, in view of the lousy weather, we were mustered in the Wardroom for about an hour, drinking coffee a
nd reading periodicals. That’s the kind of exercise none of us mind doing!

  The weather worsened gradually throughout the day, and the planned CASEX (Controlled Anti-Submarine EXercise) which had been programmed to start at 0100 was cancelled. A good decision, I thought, as it meant that I didn’t have to get up at midnight. Instead I went to bed at midnight, which seemed a rather more suitable action.

  Tuesday, 24th January 1984

  We went to Action Stations this morning, but it was a fairly painless exercise, as no ‘nasties’ were thrown in to make life difficult and I took the opportunity to sit down in the Air Office and finally crack all the signals which have been piling up like leaves in autumn.

  The weather was much improved, though the ship is still bouncing around a fair amount, and flying was not disrupted as it had been yesterday. After lunch I retired to bed, in preparation for a fairly long evening and night in Flyco, and despite three idiot phone calls and the fairly violent motion of the ship I was able to get about four or five hours’ sleep. I went to the helicopter briefing at 1945, and we started flying at 2100.

  All went well until a little after midnight, when one of the Sea Kings made a ‘Pan’ (emergency) call with a smell of burning in the cockpit, necessitating a Precautionary landing after an immediate recovery. That was no real problem in itself, as he landed safely, but unfortunately the pilot then found he was unable to fold the main rotors, as he couldn’t move the drive into the Auxiliary position from Flight Drive. The Sea King drives its own rotor blades into the parked position using a hydraulic pump, but this can only be activated in the Auxiliary position. Unable to fold the blades, we were stuck with this damn aircraft blocking up a substantial portion of the flight deck, and no easy way of moving it. The saga continued until flying finished at around 0430, by which time all blades except one had been folded using an external hydraulic power pack, and the aircraft had successfully been tucked out of the way on 5 spot, behind the island superstructure.

  Then I went back to bed.

  Wednesday 25th January 1984

  With the exception of a steward, who was apparently incapable of either reading or comprehending the large ‘Do not disturb’ notice I put on my door, and who asked me brightly if I wanted tea at 0700, I had an undisturbed sleep until my alarm went off at 1200. At lunch I was inordinately pleased to discover that flying had been cancelled, the aircraft reverting to Alert 75 (ready to fly in seventy-five minutes), in view of the extremely rough weather. My delight was not so much in view of the weather, which is bouncing this ship around like a ping-pong ball at the moment, but because the lack of flying means a normal night’s sleep tonight. More gales, please.

  I think the present weather is probably the worst this ship has ever been through. At dinner tonight we rolled very heavily indeed, with the result that the three diners sitting at one end of a table fell in a most undignified heap on the floor, closely followed by two jugs of water, three unfinished meals and a liberal supply of condiments. In complete contrast to the rest of the Wardroom, the three unfortunates saw nothing funny in their predicament. They were aircrew, of course.

  In the Anteroom a remarkably similar event had apparently, with a couple of HODs (Heads of Department) tumbling like clowns, and a third only just managing to keep his balance – ‘It’s the skiing,’ he said, when things had subsided.

  On a slightly more serious note, one of our 600 lb bombs came adrift and rolled merrily across the flight deck and into the port catwalk, where it alarmed a sentry to a considerable degree. Fortunately it was only a practise bomb, but if it had landed on his head it would certainly have given him a pain that copious doses of aspirin would have had trouble shifting.

  Thursday 26th January 1984

  To Action Stations again this morning at 0900. I maintained a low posture in the Air Office, only emerging when declared safe to do so and to sample the dubious delights of Action Messing. This activity is used when there is insufficient time to prepare proper meals, and we all eat in the nearest convenient dining area (in the case of officers, the petty officers’ dining room). The menu tends to be a little on the standard side – stew, stew or stew, plus fruit for afters, with a very nasty looking bilious green juice stuff to drink – but adequate, I suppose. Life returned to normal at about 1200, when I went to bed, as night flying looked very definitely ‘on’ for a change.

  Unfortunately, I was quite unable to sleep at all during the afternoon, for no readily apparent reason, and so the night which followed seemed very long indeed. Fortunately, the flying programme ran smoothly, with no irritating snags, though the ship was ‘torpedoed’ by the submarine Valiant (in company with us, as are Broadsword, Sirius, Cleopatra, Avenger and the fleet tanker Bayleaf) in the early hours of the morning. Other than that, a quiet night.

  Friday 27th January 1984

  I needed no help to sleep this morning, falling into bed after a quick breakfast, but unfortunately I was not recumbent for quite as long as I would have liked, as I had to get up to relieve Mickey Brock in Flyco just after lunch. However, four hours is better than no hours, and after the coming night’s series of flying exercises we have a break for a couple of days, so I will be able to catch up on my sleep then.

  In fact, it didn’t matter a bit, as flying finished at around 1930, just before I was to have taken over. The reason, officially, is that the submarine is now too far away from the rest of us to make it worth the transit flight to try to find it. Unofficially, the story the Americans have lost contact with a Russian Whiskey-class and have requested that Valiant finds it for them – nothing is good at finding a submarine as another submarine – though this is, of course, an unconfirmed story. Regardless of the real reason, the break from sitting on my backside in Flyco for twelve hours was very welcome indeed.

  Saturday 28th January 1984

  A very gentle morning’s flying was planned, all of it, moreover, to be handled by Mickey Brock, which was nice. Reality, as usual, differed, and we had a Casevac (Casualty Evacuation) to take care of as well. We received a fairly garbled message that a Saudi Arabian ship was in our area, and that one of her crew had a very badly broken arm and was in need of urgent medical help. The ship’s position was given, and we duly launched a Sea King to collect the crewman, having, of course, informed the ship of our intentions.

  The only problem was that, as we might have expected, I suppose, the position given by the ship was a little way out. When the helicopter reached the stated location, there was certainly a ship there, but not the one we were looking for. So he returned to us, took a suck of fuel, and then headed off in the opposite direction to his first sortie, with the hope that the second position would be rather more accurate than the first. This proved to be the case, and he successfully found the vessel. The last report I had was that the helicopter was waiting to collect the injured man, and I presume that by now he is safely on board and tucked up in the Sick Bay.

  On a far more interesting note, as far as the ship’s company was concerned, was the fact that today is not only really a Saturday, but also a Saturday as far as the Royal Navy is concerned, so everyone has been given the afternoon off. Everyone, that is, except those who will be needed for the RAS with Bayleaf later this afternoon. And that was an unprogrammed addition to the day as well, due to the fact that we (that is to say, the group of ships) are now going to split up and proceed independently to our various destinations in America, and it was thought that a final suck of fuel was a good idea – money in the bank, so to speak.

  We are separating now as we are going to be running into sea and into wind from now on, and if we tried to stay together it would be unlikely that we would all be able to make our destinations on schedule.

  This decision, we hope, means an end to some of the flying and other various silly exercises we have been recently enduring, which is good news. The slightly less good news was that we will probably not now be either collecting or delivering mail at Bermuda, as we will be too far away, but as a so
p, we did get a very small delivery of mail today, by courtesy of RFA Resource, a solid-stores ship, which joined us yesterday.

  The other good news is that as we are now quite a long way south the weather is good, and very warm (we are about 200 miles to the west of the Azores), so the flight deck will this afternoon be turned into a sports field for the enjoyment of those physical chaps among our number.

  Subsequent investigation has revealed that my suspicions concerning the American request for the use of Valiant were substantially correct, but for ‘Whiskey’, read ‘Delta’.

  Sunday 29th January 1984

  Sunday, for a change. No work (or very little, anyway), and a good deal of hilarity about the ship as a consequence. There was a service in the chapel (for those that way inclined, which isn’t many), sports on the flight deck, and they even turned the Wardroom into a sort of surrogate pub for lunch, complete with a group. The group consisted of selected members of FOF3’s Bootie Band (or Flag Officer Third Flotilla’s Royal Marine Band, as they are more formally known), and they were very good, too. Unfortunately, I’m not all that struck on pubs even on dry land, and so I didn’t stay for longer than to have a cup of coffee.

  The ‘no planned flying’ idea went for a fairly comprehensive ball of chalk during dinner, when He Who Must Be Obeyed (Commander (Air)) came on the ship’s broadcast to announce that flying would commence a little after 2100 and continue indefinitely, all to do with a search for a Certain Submarine, more than which I cannot say. So instead of the leisurely dinner and gentle evening of bridge that I had tentatively planned, I was up in Flyco by 2100, and I stayed there until 0730 the following morning.