I think we were about six weeks in when I got a message to report to the education centre. So off I trotted, not expecting anything untoward. Lt Cdr Brown, now Cdr Brown, was waiting for me in interview room 3. I remember marching in, saluting and taking a seat in front of a panel of four officers and a civilian. Cdr Brown asked me how training was going and I simply remember informing him how fucking easy it was; some of the others laughed but not the civilian. I remember Cdr Brown being pleased to see me and he made a comment about his visit to DECAF and how he was looking forward to my passing out parade in two weeks. I congratulated him on his promotion; he smirked and pretended not to be impressed. I think looking back we had a special relationship after DECAF, and my following up on his recommended path made room for an unofficial friendship of sorts. I don’t think it was quite normal for such easy conversations between a senior officer and a new recruit to take place as they did, but there we were like old friends, with respect keeping me chained to his every word. He would later become my handler, and as such respect needed to flow in both directions.
The room was very well organised and resembled a boardroom type arrangement. All the seats were those annoying pusser’s officer chairs, which wore those gopping (naval slang for disgusting) cream seat covers with the green floral arrangement that furnished every wardroom in the fleet. (Someone obviously took a backhander to allow such a procurement.) Mine was one of those annoying wooden seats that creaked every time you shuffled, making it all too obvious I was a little nervous. A long table centrally located with a green cloth covering like that of a snooker table dominated the best part of the room. I sat at the door end with the far quarter commandeered by way of a semi-circle of all the interviewing officers. The walls were lined with light fake wood panelling and various ship’s crests and paintings were hung between the panelling arrangements. Each painting had a dedicated wall light and green shade; I always liked that arrangement for some reason. There was a loud ticking clock that was 40 minutes late and a number of badly marked and dented filing cabinets at the far end of the room that seemed to be overflowing with obsolete documents that no one knew what to do with.
I was clocking the various characters who were all hiding behind their glasses and notebooks. I had guessed there was some assessment to be done but at the time I didn’t know they were simultaneously assessing me personally. There was a bit of brass in the room, which made me a little uneasy I have to admit, their ranks given away by the fact that a few of the hats had egg yolk on the peaks hanging on the coat hooks above the coffee station. I hadn’t become completely familiar with naval ranks at that time but it was easy to guess that these officers weren’t straight from Dartmouth. I smiled as one of the hats had the perfect coffee ring in the middle – fucking punishable by death on the parade ground to be sure. Each of the officers took it in turn to write something and then looked up and gave me a stare. I was focused on the civilian who seemed to be the one they all wanted to impress or assist, especially my man Brown. He was a tall guy, sat very upright, dressed in a plain dark suit that was too big for his body; he was so incredibly thin, he was skeletal in build. I was fascinated by his eyes set in cave-like sockets which were piercing ice-blue and almost continually obscured by overactive, fluttering, almost lash-free eyelids. He sported very proud cheekbones which exacerbated the obvious skin issue he had, as there were bright white blotches to his face, cheeks and forehead, as if the pigmentation in his skin was failing in some way. His hair was dyed black and looked overloaded with some hair tonic or cream which reflected the fluorescent lighting above. He could almost be related to Cdr Brown, who sat calmly opposite him.
Now, I remember the actual interview was really quite something. I was handed a series of documents to fill in and immediately the civilian started to speak in Russian, asking if I understood him, what I thought of the interview, did I know anyone in the Soviet Union, if so what contacts did I have and what did I think the purpose of the interview was. I replied calmly in Russian to all of the questions and then asked if the other officers were able to understand the conversation or just what the two of us were saying. He replied simply that I had 10 minutes to give an answer to that question myself and complete the initial assessment documents simultaneously. The challenge wasn’t too difficult as I simply stood up, approached each officer, swore and gave an insult in Russian to get a reaction of some description; this was met with a mixed reaction that left me nervous as hell and wondering if I’d indeed overstepped the mark. I passed back the documents to the civilian, who smiled and looked to the others in an approving manner as I delivered verdicts on them all in Russian and Arabic. The most interesting thing that followed was that I remember him saying with a little chuckle in his voice and in Gulf Arabian that I was brave to offer insults to such high-ranking officers. The prick had a sense of humour at least.
It was all smiles and then the civilian simply looked at the attending officers and said, “Recommended for further language assessment and, if successful, practical training and possible career progression.” Brown was obviously happy and quite prepared for this outcome as he had all the paperwork ready to go. I remember that making me feel quite special, that this guy believed in me and my potential even before this interview. I guess he could just see raw potential. I don’t know, maybe it was a huge gamble. I later heard that Brown was a recruiter of special talents; it was either that or he was a fucking unicorn and I was getting all my wishes at once. Or maybe the friends I’d made in Moscow were indeed of interest to the military. The civilian stood up and shook my hand; I wasn’t sure what the fuck to make of that. I think I’d actually pleased someone for the first time in my life, so it was coffee all round and a smoke. I was invited to complete the paperwork.
Brown and the civilian wanted to go over my contacts or penfriends in Moscow. We sat smoking cigarettes and they were really keen to hear about all my correspondence and who I was or had been writing to. I said I would pop some photos round for them to see the family I was writing to and sarcastically suggested I get each of them a Russian souvenir or something. It was made pretty clear right then how all future correspondence was going to take place. But Brown softened the order in so much that they wanted me to continue writing but not to mention I was in the services now.
Brown and the civilian (he never gave me his actual name at the time) played tag in the delivery of the process I would go through. I would sit three two-hour verbal tests followed by a six-hour written test at the weekend. I’d be excused church and ceremonies. This would be passed to my division petty officer as I was now a rating required for special duties. I was NOT permitted to discuss anything with anyone outside of the group that sat before me. I was to complete basic and engineering training at the Royal School of Military Engineering. (I had to have a trade or speciality, that was part of the deal, because I could always be RTUd (returned to unit).) Then on completion join a warship – name to be passed by draft order – for eight weeks to test my abilities and then report back to Plymouth and the office of CINCNAVHOME (Commander-in-Chief, Naval Home Command) and Admiral Roger Fell. I don’t think any of what was said went into my brain, not a thing. I was very excited, nervous, bewildered, unsure, a whole plethora of confusing feelings and emotions. All brought back to earth on return to my division – just a pleb again, cleaning corridors and polishing shit for the next inspection, muster or parade.
The tests on Sunday went okay. I was suddenly very unpopular as I remember everyone was getting their No1 uniforms ready for church and I just put on some 8s and bimbled (bimbling is a slow walk in naval speak) off to the education centre. I was met by a pretty little Wren who took me into one of the classrooms. She asked me if I was learning a language, to which I just smiled and said yeah. It was a small classroom with maybe 12 desks, but individual soundproofed booths and high-sided partitions all fitted with headsets and microphones. The headsets were old, heavy and uncomfortable, and the ‘press to speak’ button in my allocated boot
h was all but worn out. The room was bare brick walls, well-lit but no windows and it all smelt damp, a bit like an old bomb shelter or something.
Sitting at my work station I remember being presented with a simple page of instructions. Basically, the first three tests would be to listen and answer the questions, either on the paper or, if asked, respond verbally through the microphone. Simple enough. There was a pause button and when pressed you could request a bathroom break, or between tests a smoke and coffee break. My first two were as simple as 1, 2, 3. The third test was a surprise – it was a test of my memory to exactly what fittings, fixtures, paintings, etc. were in the interview room earlier in the week. The questions were very fast and in both Arabic and Russian, which was totally unexpected, so I had to switch between three languages quickly, and I don’t think the Russian speaker was that great to be honest, certainly wasn’t a native Russian that was for sure. Some questions asked in Arabic needed to be answered verbally in Russian and vice versa, with written responses required in English. I think in total it was maybe over 200 verbal questions. One of the questions was to describe the interview room and I took great delight in mentioning the coffee ring stain on an officer’s hat. It’s a great thing about the navy, they don’t wait around, and I got my results the next day: 100%. It was a simple call from the education centre to my divisional officer. I guess this was my introduction to the wider world of the navy – simple, no fuss sort of shit I guess. It was a bit deflating, almost a disappointment, as there was no celebration or recognition.
That was the end of it for a while. I had to get on with the basic training and pass the final tests and evaluations. Nothing too heavy. It was like the whole episode and encounter in the education centre hadn’t happened. But I guess doing the training with the lads made for a good laugh. You don’t have too many things to worry about in basic as everything is organised for you. All I had to do was to simply follow orders, and so it continued up until passing out. There were just a few final kit musters to pass and, if successful, we could all take shore leave and go to a local pub. It’s the same for every class that passes out – you were all loaded into a bus and taken to the Crown & Anchor pub in Torpoint with the instructors. I guess it was a controlled piss-up and a way of saying well done unofficially, and an introduction to alcohol for those underage recruits, which was the most common reward given in the MOB. No enforcement of the underage rule back then, no one gave a shit, and it was a guaranteed income for the landlord. Everyone was happy.
The first and last time my mother ever came to see me away from home was my passing out parade. It was a great day as both Mum, Dad and my younger brother attended with my dad’s parents. It was cool as they all saw me pass out before they passed away. How little we realise how short our time is. It’s a shame looking back as I had no one to be proud of my many achievements made throughout my career that followed. All successes were celebrated in isolated loneliness. I won an award for the best sailor and still have the official photographs. Cdr Brown presented the award in front of the whole establishment and all the families. He even took the time to speak to my parents after the parade in the NAAFI. Fucking awesome.
On completion we had weekend leave and my parents had booked a hotel in Cawsand, a place I would later take my wife and eventually live close to for some 10 years. Cornwall is a great part of the country and I would recommend it to anyone; I have so many good memories of our times there. It was a great weekend, all very nice and relaxed, good food, even my mum had a few brandies and Babychams so a very rare weekend indeed. I really enjoyed seeing her so happy. The weekend soon passed and I was on the train headed for the military engineering school.
I think at the time the Royal School of Military Engineering was probably the biggest military engineering establishment in Europe. I think it used to be an aerodrome during WW2 but all the hangars had now been converted into workshops and training facilities. I remember turning up late at night and fucking around trying to get a pass to get in, and being directed to the other side of the camp. The accommodation and the technical buildings were split into two sort of separate camps and my accommodation wasn’t anywhere near where I had turned up, so it was a hike to find the accommodation main gate. There were always fucking NPs (naval provosts) on the gate, both here and at every other establishment I attended, who would love to drop you in the shit for anything they could the next day with the master-at-arms. Wankers, the lot of them.
However, engineering training was significantly more relaxed than Raleigh and I was allowed to travel in civvies and had most weekends free. The accommodation felt like it dated back to WW1: shitty accommodation that was cold, made worse by ill-fitting sash windows, open-plan draughty dormitories in a decaying brick building. It was all very depressing and tired. Pussers’ steel-framed beds and lockers lined the dorms that were all definitely in need of replacement, or could possibly be sold on to DECAF! Only three showers and a cracked bath were provided for ablutions and the whole thing was duplicated upstairs for another class. Nothing new here, standard crap military accommodation that we all needed to get used to. The only difference being that after I had bought a portable TV with my next wage I had something to do other than study and get pissed.
Getting paid in the navy back then was a real drama that beggars belief. Usually the whole division would line up outside the regulating office and be called in one at a time by name and number to receive pay. You had to march in, salute, state your name and number followed by sir or the appropriate address of the issuing officer and then hold out your left hand. Sounds dead simple but if you were to fuck up any component of this precious and precise sequence you would have to wait and try again the next day at mis-musters in order to receive your pay. What a fucking drama that was; if it wasn’t for the money, I don’t think anyone would have bothered going back at all.
We had spare time on our hands for the first time in months and that generally led to boredom which in turn led to skylarking or drinking. Most of our spare time as recruits was spent at the NAAFI desperately trying to avoid the ID checks for underage drinking. They all knew it went on and generally turned a blind eye but occasionally there would be raids on the NAAFI in order to try and catch someone. If caught you would then be found on punishment, polishing the cannons outside the admin offices or the ship’s bell, the next day and for a week thereafter.
I think it was tolerated to such an extent because there was still the IRA threat, and terrorism was active toward servicemen, so keeping us boys on camp was easier than herding cats on the outside should there be a heightened security alert or something. The most popular drink at the time was Newcastle Brown Ale, none of those fancy Italian lagers everyone raves about nowadays. Most lads were smashed two or three nights a week, and I guess it was because part two of training was mostly boring study and revision for exams. Which, let’s face it, is what we had all failed at before joining up and was why we were all there in the first place. We all just wanted to be on board a ship and get away to sea to see the world. ‘Join the Navy, see the world’ as the old adverts portrayed. Usually a night in the NAAFI meant a takeaway and we’d get the duty bod to go get it for us.
Everyone paid regular visits to the drafting officer and filled out preference cards, all hoping for a ship that would take them on a global trip. It was known as a dream chit – you’d write down all your preferences as to what type of ship, what port you’d like to be based in, even names of ships after you had researched what ships were deploying where, and of course areas to avoid. But it was all a pointless exercise really because as a new recruit you were destined for the first available billet on the ships that needed you most.
There were occasional scraps between classes and a punchup when the blocks had an inspection. Inevitably one class would sabotage the other’s accommodation to try and look good and divert attention to secure weekend leave or the like. To be honest, cleaning those old buildings was like trying to polish a turd, fucking pointless, b
ut a clean ship is a happy ship, so I was told. The navy really did love cleaning and painting for no other reason than it kept us all busy and gave the officers something to pick fault with when there really wasn’t anything else to do.
We had to march everywhere in a platoon wearing green gaiters to show we were still trainees, so you’d get the odd officer screaming out of an office window if you were out of step who’d report you to the parade commander, who was no doubt related to the tosser in Raleigh. Same rules applied; the parade ground was sacred. We did remove the gaiters on occasion to avoid all the attention and just ‘bimble’ around the base with the other crowds of engineers who were there doing additional engineering training relating to their trade specialisations and ranks.
I never wanted to be an engineer. However, it was a ticket to the big wide world from a place I would always try to forget. I remember it all being very interesting, even fascinating in some parts, and actually relevant to the world we occupy. For theory I studied basic maths, physics, engineering theory, thermodynamics, ship’s systems, HVAC, power generation including turbo alternators, gas turbines, Y100 boilers, superheated steam systems, SW systems, FW systems, power and distribution, hydraulics and ship’s husbandry.
The Steering Group Page 9