There was no escaping it; I was bored. I had been a junior inventory clerk at John Dickinson’s Croxley Paper Mills for nearly a year, and just couldn’t see myself staying for much longer.

I pulled my battered old bike out of the bike shed after work, and began the three-mile, uphill ride along Rickmansworth Road, back toward our house in Westland Road, within spitting distance of the Railway station, Watford Junction. I rode almost automatically, dodging in and out of the traffic, wishing for the millionth time I could find enough money to replace the fixed wheel, for another set of derailleur gears.

I’d had my heart set on joining the Royal Navy, but after three failed attempts at the colour test, my chances of going to sea had seemed negligible. My mind wandered back to the Naval Officer who had tried to cheer me up after failing the test for the final time.

“Cheer up lad.” He said, “Your colour vision isn’t all that bad. It might not be good enough for the Royal Navy, but there’s always the Merchant Navy. Why don’t you give them a go?”

I hadn’t been aware that there was any other sort of Navy, and at the time, his words of consolation could neither lighten my load, nor re-establish my sea-going ambition.

I was half way around the Town Hall roundabout when I made my decision. I would have to act sharpish as I remembered that the maximum age for acceptance was sixteen and three quarters, and I was already almost sixteen and a half.

I leaned my bike against the silently rotting back fence, and strode into the house.

“Mum, I’m bored stupid at work, I’ve decided to try for the Merchant Navy.”

“I wondered how long it would take you,” she said, as she went through the house toward her bedroom, “I’ve got something you need.”

She returned to the kitchen with an application form for the Merchant Navy. “You’d better fill this out, and post it tonight,” she said, handing me the form. “That officer at your last test gave it to me, I’ve been holding onto it for you.”

I filled out the form and ran to the letterbox in time for the six O’clock post.

There were two weeks of disappointment for me as I raced home every night, hoping for a return letter. I had all but given up hope, when one evening I came in through the back door and Mum said, “There’s a letter for you, looks official.”

My heart raced as I ripped open the envelope with shaking fingers. I could hardly focus as I tried to read.

“Yahoo, Mum, I’m in, I’ve been accepted, and I’m off in September.”

There was a tear in Mum’s eye as she said, “that’s nice son, and tea will be ready at five.”

I had six weeks to wait before I was due to report to the National Sea Training School Vindicatrix in Sharpness, Gloucestershire.

I could hardly wait to get back to the office, and hand in my resignation. I’d had my fill of dusty old offices full of dusty old people. Adventure beckoned.

 I had absolutely no idea where Sharpness was or how to get there. I studied atlases and made a nuisance of myself at the enquiries counter at Watford Junction, though I needn’t have bothered as my rail itinerary was posted to me.

After several train, and line changes, I finally disembarked at Gloucester station, distinguished from all the previous stations only by name. A furtive, casual look around confirmed that the two or three other likely lads I’d seen in the train, had disembarked with me, and were, like myself, trying to look like they were on top of their situation.

We had about twenty minutes or so to wait for the bus. Some sat on their new cardboard suitcases whilst others listlessly kicked imaginary stones or leaned against the station walls, having a cigarette. Nobody spoke in case they were wrong about the assumption that we were all headed for the same place. Eventually a single decker bus pulled up, and a man in Naval Officer’s uniform got out, clipboard in hand. He had a couple of lads with him, both of whom were in Navy blue, battle dress uniforms.

“All right you lot, anyone here for the Vindicatrix?”

It was the first time I’d heard anyone manage to get the word out, without tripping over his tongue. I made a mental note of the pronunciation.

The officer called out our names, and once called, we entered the bus, heads down, trying not to make eye contact with anyone who may take offence. We were entering an alien world, and had to discover the lay of the land as best we could, hopefully without falling foul of anyone who could make our lives miserable. Once settled into a seat near the rear of the bus, with my suitcase beside me, I was able to study the other passengers around me. One of the lads near me was wearing a sports jacket and an open neck shirt. His neck and hands were covered in tattoos, and he was sporting an earring. He had nasty eyes, and a belligerent manner, the type you meet in pubs, and just know they are looking for trouble. I decided that I would keep well clear of him.

Once settled on the bus, our officer called out that we could smoke if we had them. Immediately, the two uniformed lads with him turned to the closest of the boys and asked for a fag, saying that they had left theirs at camp. Most of us lit up. At least no – one would be trying to prevent us from smoking.

As the bus lurched off down the road, we settled in, and some of the lads started some small talk. Conversation didn’t come too easily, so not much more was spoken during the half hour or so we were traveling. I suppose we were all wondering what our fate would be, “have I made a mistake?”

The bus ground to a halt in a dirt road at the corner of the camp gates, and we were ordered out by our officer. I looked around. We were at a distinctly military looking camp, if somewhat run down. Two boys in uniform were on guard duty at the gate, they were smiling, though they didn’t appear too friendly.

“Hey new boys, you’ll regret it, you ain’t never going home”.

The officer called us to gather around, and having gained our attention he said, “Welcome to the Vindicatrix, life here is going to be different to anything you’ve known before. You will be treated as adults, and we expect you to act as adults. Misdemeanors will be severely punished. If, at any time, myself or any other officer feels that you cannot or will not accept the discipline, you will be sent home, and that will be the end of your seagoing career. If any of you feel that you might not be able to handle the severity of life here, you had better leave now. Be advised though, that should you take this course of action, you will never be accepted for sea duty again.”

He paused and looked around at the young, white faces

 “Any of you want to quit while you’re ahead?”

A few lads looked as worried as I felt, but I looked inside the camp, and saw lots of boys with their heads sticking out of the windows of various buildings, jeering us, laughing, and generally having a good time at our expense. There was no way I was going to return home with my tail between my legs. I decided that the “old boys” were no better prepared than I for this life, and it didn’t look like they were beaten too often. I decided to stay. Besides, I didn’t know the way back to the station.

We were taken into the camp, past the jeering guard piquet, and told to form a queue outside the gatehouse.

Inside the gatehouse, and at the head of the queue, our officer had sat himself at a desk, a large, ledger type book in front of him. As each boy came to the head of the queue he gave his name, the officer checked the name off, and asked for the pocket money we had been told to bring. I handed over my two pounds. My money disappeared into a cash box, the sum written in a column against my name, and I was ordered to,  “ Sign ‘ere.”

Duly stripped of our wealth we were ordered to fall in, in two ranks outside in the roadway. Another officer ensured that any escape would be noted.

In due course, the queue into the gatehouse evaporated, and the two ranks in the roadway swelled. The last boy emerged from the gatehouse, the officer behind him, clipboard in hand.

The new officer cleared his throat. “As I call your name, I want you to fall out of this squad, and form yourselves into another squad, five yards distant.”

About half the names were called, and those of us left in the original ranks were told to close up. Our original officer said, “The rest of you should all be Catering boys. Is there anybody here who should be in the Deck department?”

Having checked our names off again, and sorted the deck boys from the catering boys, the officer turned to us catering boys and informed us that in four weeks time, the final draft of catering boys would walk through the camp gates. He looked at the deck boys and told them that they were, the very last intake of deck boys.

The new officer took control of the deck boys who were given the order, “left turn, quick march” and led them off up the road, into the camp, some of the smaller boys having difficulty marching whilst carrying their worldly possessions. I was pleased to see the boy with all the tattoos, in amongst the deck boys.

Once the deck boys had marched into camp, we too were on our way.

“Squad, left turn, quick march.”

Try as we may to keep in step, the ungainly baggage was a definite hindrance to fluid motion, so we struggled up the slope as best we could, and before anyone had fallen out of the march, we arrived at our new home. Hut B2

“Squad, halt.”

We shuffled to an ungainly stop, those not paying attention bumping into the boy in front.

“Alright you lot, when I give the order for you to fall out, I want you to go inside the hut, find yourselves a bunk, and get settled in. Squad, fall out.”

We wandered inside; some of the lads rushing to get the best spot, though no one knew where that was. Eight double decker bunks stuck at right angles from the walls on both sides of the billet. I chose a bunk about halfway down from the left. I figured it would be best to be in the middle of the hut, rather than closer to either door. A tall lad took the top bunk.

“Alright?” I asked trying to break the ice.

“Aye, not so bad, ahm Archie, an ahm from Cumbria, wot’s yor name?”

“Bill, I’m from Watford. Not much of a place this, is it?”

“Ah well, it’s only for eight weeks so it can’t be all that bad.”

We dumped our kit, and walked around the billet, there wasn’t a whole lot to see.

Between each pair of bunks, two grey, steel lockers stood side by side. Other than the bunks and lockers, the billet was bereft of furniture. The concrete floor was dark brown from layer upon layer of floor polish. Our entire mob was housed in the one hut.

“Right you lot, dump yer gear onto a bunk, and form up outside.”

We hurried out again; keen to please.

Being tallest, I was designated as right marker, and the boys formed up on me, in two ranks. Only a few boys had previous experience of foot drill. Some had been in Scouts, and fewer still Army, Sea or Air Cadets. Having almost totally exasperated our officer, we were finally ready for a right turn, and off we marched, in column of blob, every third boy hopping and skipping as the boys in front changed step.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you lot. I can see we’ll have to put a lot of work in on your drill before we can let you loose on shore leave. You there, second from the front, no-one said you could talk, shut it.”

”Left wheel, squad, halt.”

We had arrived at a whitewashed hut pretty much the same as all the others, except that this one was almost empty. Two straight-backed timber chairs stood about ten feet apart, and facing a wall. Two straight-backed barbers stood behind the straight-backed chairs.

“First two, move in quickly.” Called out the officer.

There was a feint buzz of electric clippers, and within a couple of minutes the first two lads came out of the hut, running their hands over their very unfashionable heads. It was not a style that would be sought after by the fashion victims amongst us. Very 1942ish.

“You two, fall back into the ranks, next two, fall out and get a move on.”

“Jesus, does my hair look as bad as yours?” The first boy asked while running his fingers around his ears.

“Well, I don’t know what mine looks like, but if it’s anything close to looking like yours, I’m not going out ‘till it grows back.”

“That barber must be a sheep sheerer as his full time job, Wales is only over the river you know.”

“All right you lot, no-one told you to have a mother’s meeting, shut yer gobs.”

Once all the boys had gone through the barbers’ tender administrations, and were all back in the ranks, our officer put out his fag, and gave the order, ”right turn, quick march.”

It was only a few paces to our next stop.

We had been halted at the end of another hut. Above the door was a sign signifying that we had arrived at the stores. The guys from the deck intake were at the other end of the hut, having already received their issue.

As we were formed into a single line, snaking into the stores, the deck boys struggled past us, arms outstretched, blankets piled on top, bulging kitbags over the shoulder. Some of the smaller boys had very large berets on their heads, almost obscuring their view entirely, whilst some of the larger heads, sported very small berets.

We filed into the hut, and found that a long bare timber counter ran the entire length. We were informed that we were to travel along, in front of the counter, stopping briefly every couple of feet, where a body piled another load of kit into our outstretched arms. It was in one door and out the other end. A marvelous example of the Ford Factory assembly line.

“Kit Bags, one, next”

“Trousers, 34” Navy, Battle Dress, one, next.”

“Blouse, 36” Navy, Battle Dress, one, next.”

“Dungarees, Trousers, Navy, Two, next.”

“Piss Jackets, Striped, Two, next”

I stuffed all the clobber into my new kitbag and staggered along the line, collecting my blankets and sheet sleeping bag along the way.

Being piled up with so much kit, we were steered by voice command, back to our billet, where we dumped everything onto our bunks and collapsed on top.

The officer followed us in. “Now listen up. As you’ve already been told, discipline here is strongly enforced. Should any one of you be told that you are ‘under the clock’; it means that you have just been put on a charge. The following morning, immediately after breakfast, you will present yourself to the wardroom, and await further orders under the clock outside. The Captain will have you called in individually to hear the charge and serve out punishment.

 Any questions? No?  Right, you’ve got half an hour to square your kit away and form up outside, in your dungarees, then we’ll march you down to the ship for tea.”

We still hadn’t had a chance to get to know anyone, and apart from the occasional wisecrack, no conversation of note had taken place. This was soon rectified when we began to change into our dungarees for the first time.

“Ere, this bleedin’ jacket don’t fit. It’s too bleeding small.”

“I’ll swap you mine, there’s room for two in ere.”

It was like sale night at Marks and Sparks, everyone trying to find something that fit better than the article issued. If nothing else, it helped to break the ice and we were all soon babbling away, and forming friendships.

I was whistling the popular hit of the day, Winchester Cathedral and on the strength of that, I was nicknamed Winchester. Unfortunately no one really knew if it was supposed to be Winchester or Westminster, so I answered to both.

 We had accents from all over the British Isles, and we soon knew each other by either the town or county from whence we had come. Devon was a big hulk of a lad with a slow turn of speech and a big, lazy grin. Archie came from Cumbria. I’d never heard of it. One lad came from a village in Yorkshire, so far removed from the main stream, that he almost spoke Olde English and said thee and thou. I’ll bet that every intake had it’s own Geordie, Taff, Jock, Brum, Paddy, and Scouse. Our intake was no exception.

Someone started up a conversation. “Did you see that big lad with all those tattoos?’

“Yeah, Christ he can’t be older than seventeen or he wouldn’t be here.”

“I sat next to him in the bus, and he reckons he’s already been at sea for a year on the fishing boats out of Hull, but now he wants to go deep sea, so he’s had to come here.”

“Well, I’m glad ‘es not in our ‘ut, ‘e went orf wiv ‘em deckies.”

I became friendly with a Scot, Roy Chazinski, who hailed from Banff. From that moment, Archie, Roy, Devon and I stuck together. I never asked, but assumed that Roy’s father must have been a Free Pole from either the Air Force or the Army, who had declined repatriation after hostilities were over. “Hey Archie, where the hell is Cumbria?’ Roy answered for me. “It’s on the border.” Geordie said Cumbrians weren’t English; they were half-baked Scots, Archie countered by saying that Geordies were Scots with their heads kicked in. Roy wasn’t having any of it, and denied Archie any Scottish heritage, neither baked nor half-baked. We ended up deciding that Cumbrians must be mongrels, who took up nationality depending on which way the wind was blowing on the day.

It was all good-natured ribbing and no offence was taken. It helped to forge friendships, and break the ice.

“Come on lads,” I said, “times up, we’d better get ourselves outside, ready to march down to the ship, or we’ll all find ourselves under the clock.” We were beginning to get the hang of the camp lingo.

Now that we all wore the same clothing, we looked more like we were supposed to be there, apart from the obvious newness of the dungies. We discovered that for some unknown reason, the grey and white striped, dungaree jackets were commonly referred to as ‘piss jackets’ and were looked down upon by the deck boys who wore navy blue ones.

Our officer reappeared. “Attention. Left Turn. Quick march.”

I found myself at the tail of the short column, marching toward the far end of the camp, to a footpath cut into the hill, and leading down toward a lock-gate, which crossed a dirty looking canal.

As the column reached the brow of the hill, the boys in front looked down, and viewed the Vindi for the first time.

“Bloody hell, what a hunk of junk,” said a voice.

Soon it was my turn to reach the brow of the hill, and as I looked down I saw a black hulk, moored in the canal, and looking quite out of place. Canal barges were dotted around, looking much more at home in their captive waterway.

She was, without doubt, by far the ugliest ship I had ever seen. True, I hadn’t seen a whole lot of ships close up, but in the Vindi’s case, you didn’t need to be an expert. Her masts conspicuously missing, and with an additional deck running the full length of the hulk, she was forlorn rather than the majestic ocean goer she had once been in a former life.

“Way aye, that’s it then?” said Geordie sounding somewhat pained and confused.

“That’s her boys,” we were told, “ she’ll grow on you.”

We continued down the path, and across the bridge. A concrete and stone towpath had been constructed between the River Severn and the Canal. A small toilet block and a lifeboat davit were the only attractions on the towpath.

“Keep going, up to the second gangway, and halt before you go up.”

We were all in line, the deck boys having joined us on the way down.

All in all, I think we were mostly under whelmed by the magnificence of the Vindi.

“Do yer reckon it still floats?”

“Oh aye, see it’s moving look you.”

Before too long, other boys began to emerge from the ship, exiting from the second gangway, and joining our queue at the rear.

“Stick it New Boys.”

Only two more weeks for us, but you won’t ever go home.”

“Four more Popeyes”

“Can I get a fag off you?’

“Anyone from Hartlepool?”

“Anyone from Bushey?’

I looked around, “Who called out Bushey?”

“I did, why, you from there?”

“Nah,” I said, “but I’m from Watford.”

We stood talking about our hometowns, and schools for a few minutes, and I discovered that my new mate was a deck boy, from the previous intake. As the deck course was one month longer than the catering course, we would be marching out together.

Within a few minutes, the doors at the top of the gangway that gave access to the ship, opened and another new officer stood glaring down at us.

“In a few minutes, when I give the order, you will walk, do not run, up the gangway, file in and get your tea. You will take all food offered, even if you don’t want it. You will not waste time at the serving hatches.”

Up we went. At the top of the gangway we turned right and came upon a serving counter of stainless steel. Half a dozen boys in dirty dungarees stood on the other side, each behind a huge pot, ladles at the ready. The lads serving our fine repast seemed deaf to our requests.

“Not too much gravy please,” One dollop of stew, swimming in greasy gravy was whacked onto the plate.

“Ooh, can I have lots of potatoes please?” One dollop of spuds splashed next to the stew.

“No carrots thank you.” one spoon of carrots plopped next to the spuds.

New plate. “What’s that?”

 “Vindi Roll mate.” Whack, in it went, the last boy sloshing runny custard over the top of the Vindi roll, the side of the plate, and a generous portion of his hand. He wiped the excess custard off his thumb, onto the lip of the plate. The remaining custard became part of the greasy stain on the front of his piss jacket. He sniffed, ran his newly cleaned finger under his runny nose, then down the seam of his dungaree trousers. The necessities of cleanliness satisfied, he grabbed another plate.

The officer on duty was acting as this evening’s Maitré ‘D’, and he led us into the dinning area. Rows of timber tables confronted us and the officer started filling the table at the top left hand corner first. Twenty to a table, sitting at bench seats. He pointed down toward the galley bulkhead, and showed us the tables upon which were large urns of tea. Stacks of half pint mugs next to them. There was a choice of white sweet tea, or go without.

We sat where we had been directed, most boys looking unbelievingly at the food in front of us.

“Christ, I thought I was hungry ‘till I got this.” Said Roy, “I hope this is the worst the food is going to get.”

One of the “older” boys was waiting nearby and immediately offered to take the meal off Roy’s plate.

“Go for yer life mate,” he said, “I’ll never get that down.”

Without waiting for Roy to change his mind, the older boy swapped plates.

“Cheers mate,” he said, “You’ll soon get used to it, and this is the best you’ll get while you’re here.”

“Christ, there’s a bloody cockroach in me dinner.”

“Don’t worry about it son, it won’t eat much.” The duty officer answered. Obviously a cockroach in one’s meal was not something so unusual around here.

 “And while I have your attention, I’ll tell you about supper.”

Not having come from a wealthy family, supper was something I’d only read about until now, so the prospect of a jam buttie and a cup of cocoa later tonight was something to look forward to. It was only later that I learned that the cocoa was named antiwank due to the rumour that it was laced with bromide. I never really knew if the rumour was true or not, though if it was, it didn’t seem to work.

After tea, our time was our own. We wandered back along the towpath, toward our billet.

“Cor, look at all those old dinner plates in the mud in the river.”

Sure enough, the tide was out, and for about fifty yards into the mud, hundreds of dinner plates shone whitely out of the ooze. I wondered if one poor demented Vindi boy had run amok one day, disposing of the entire stock of dinner plates, whilst screaming,” No more, no more.” After all, no one likes washing up that much.

Back at our billet, we put away our civvies, and spare uniforms. We had shoulder flashes to sew onto our Battle Dress blouses. I don’t suppose many would have wondered why we were told to bring a sewing kit with us, so this was another first for some. No mother to “do for us.”

Whilst we were squaring our kit away, a P.O. came into the billet to inform us that every morning, immediately following reveille, two boys were to present themselves to the galley on the ship, and bring back a Dixie of tea. This onerous task was to be shared, on a rostered, daily basis. The two boys in the bunk nearest the door were nominated as first two volunteers. I figured it would be four days before it got to be my turn.

Supper was served at 1900 hrs, and so we began to wander back down to the ship at about 1840. Truth is we were fairly bored, and this seemed like a way of passing some time.

At a little after 1900 hrs, the door at the top of the gangway opened, and the boys at the front of the queue charged up. At the serving counter, a couple of lads each stood in front of flat, bakers trays, watching the uncut jam butties disappear. It seems their job was to switch empties for full trays, without damaging anyone. As at tea time, large urns stood next to stacks of mugs on tables against the back of the galley bulkhead.

“Careful of the antiwank New boys, it’ll ruin yer fer life.”

Despite the helpful warnings from the older boys, it seemed that they themselves were either immune, or already ruined, as they all helped themselves to the Devil drink. Devon took a few tentative sips, the antiwank was declared to be, “fair enough,” and from that moment, we didn’t allow the rumour of mood altering chemicals worry us.

By about 1930 hrs we were on our way back up the hill to the camp. The evening was becoming quite cool. Summer was on its’ way out.

Lights out was at 2130 hrs, and we lay in our bunks laughing and telling stories and jokes until the Bosun of the night piquet came around, and gave us a sound bollocking.

We settled down for our first night in camp, and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

The door crashed open and the lights came on. Bang crash. The P.O. was using what appeared to be a three-foot length of rounded timber to hit the steel bunks.

“Wakey wakey, rise and shine,

Out of bed by the count of nine,

Eight nine you’re under the clock!

Devon opened one eye and stared blankly. Devon was not a morning person, and it was clear for all to see that, although he had one eye open, and his lights were on, there was obviously no one home. The P.O. was leaning over Devon’s bunk, his face getting more and more beetroot, whilst he hammered away at the steelwork. The noise should have been enough to waken the dead, but not Devon. More direct action was called for, so the P.O. tipped Devon, blankets and mattress out onto the deck. Fortunately, Devon was in the bottom bunk.

“Get up you bloody shower, didn’t you hear the bugle? Don’t you know what reveille is? You’ve got two seconds to start moving, before you are under the clock. I’m not yer bloody mother sunshine, get up, the sun’s burning yer eyes out!”

I didn’t think it was the right time to contradict the P.O. It was in fact, still quite dark outside, daylight just struggling into the sky itself. However, the tea had just arrived, and nature called.

“You two stay behind for billet cleaning, the rest of you outside in five minutes, singlets, shorts and sandshoes.”

Blimey, this was a bit of a surprise. The signs were looking ominous. Even at sixteen, I knew I was allergic to P.E.  I could never see the point of it all. Why would you bother to climb up a rope, over a bar, and then climb down another rope, when you could easily walk underneath?

Once on the parade ground, we were formed into billet groups, this being one of the few times of day that the entire camp was assembled.

There was a low mist on the ground as the sun began to warm the asphalt, and to help the warming process along we were encouraged to run on the spot.

“Right, down on the deck, and give me twenty press ups, Go.”

“Did he say twenty?’ I asked incredulously.

“Yeah, the bastard.” Answered Devon.

“He’ll be pushing to get twenty out of me, I’ve never managed more than five.”

Because the instructors apparently found it too stressful to keep count, we were to call out the number of the press as we came to the top of the cycle. Fortunately, the mist was in my favour, and I managed to get away with only four, moving once every time the rest of the parade was on the fifth.

“One, Five, Fifteen, Twenty.”

It must have been funny as a circus watching three or four hundred heads pop out of the mist at regulated intervals, screaming out numbers as they reached the top.

“Right, stand up and we’ll do arm swings.”

“Thank Christ for that, I can handle those.”

After another five minutes of similar activity, we were given the order to fall out. I silently thanked “’im upstairs,” upon discovering that our morning’s physical jerks was not to include a three mile run through the countryside. After all, I figure if you are going to travel that far, you should take the bus!

I made a mental note to volunteer for billet cleaning as often as possible, to ensure that Physical Education was something that other people did.

After a wash and spruce up, we were taken back down to the ship for breakfast. Our honoured status as new boys had gone up in smoke, and we were at the rear of a seemingly endless queue.

To pass the time whilst waiting for the galley to open, the old boys walked up and down the line, begging smokes, and matches. New boys were easy meat, prime pickings, it was a few days before we realised that smokes were legal currency, and that five bob per week pocket money wasn’t going to last too long if we were going to give it all away. The freebies soon dried up as the new boys toughened.

Gradually, as the new intake wised up, the request for a light became the opening point of negotiations for the disposal of the cigarette.

“Got a light mate?’

“Got a fag?’

“Nah, I’m right out, I’ve only got this, it’s me last 'un.”

“Give us arf.”

“Piss off, I told yer, I’ve only got this.”

“No fag, no light mate, give us yer butt.”

“OK.”

“I want it now.”

“I haven’t lit up yet.”

“Don’t care, I want the butt now.”

The fag would be ignited and the boy with the light given the first quarter of the smoke. Plain cigarettes were the preferred option as while ever you could stand the pain, you could continue your smoke. Most boys carried a pin or needle so that they could pierce the stem of the remaining smoke, and drag the last, until the heat burnt the lips. Even then, smokes were not to be ground out, and the butts were saved to be re-rolled into a Rizla paper later on.

We walked up the gangway to a repeat of last nights’ performance in the delicate art of food presentation. It was always a delight and wonder to see what our cooks had done to that fine raw produce they started with.

Burgoo was unceremoniously dolloped into a soup plate. We passed along the line and collected fried egg and bacon, which looked like it had been cooked the day before, and a piece of fried bread. The bottom of the plate swam in a coating of congealing fat.

Our first lesson after breakfast was foot drill, so we wandered back up the hill toward camp. We had twenty minutes or so to kill before we were to meet our drill instructor.

“What’s dhobi?’ Asked Roy.

“Dunno mate, why?”

“Cos tomorrow morning after breakfast, our first lesson is dhobi.”

“Well I guess we will have to make sure we have our notebooks then.”

At nine o’clock, the drill instructor arrived, and ordered us all out onto the parade ground. The new deck boys were already there, formed up into a double rank Once more I was the designated right marker, and the catering boys formed up into two ranks on me. The drill instructor now had two squads. He paced up and down the ranks and then stood ‘at ease,’ in front of us.

“Any of you lot been in the Cadets or Scouts.” He asked.

About six of us put up our hands and we were ordered to fall out and reform in front of the two squads. The new intake’s demonstration squad had been formed.

“Squad.” We stiffened.

“Squad ‘shun.” We sprang to attention, each of us slamming down our right foot; five separate and distinct crashes rang out, only two of us managing to get it together.

Our drill instructor was walking around in tight circles, hands on hips, shaking his head. We heard him mumbling. He straightened, and after some effort, called out in a pleasant voice, “Oright, not too bad for a first attempt. Next time; think of yer timing. Stand at ease and we’ll do it again.”

In order to demonstrate to the rest of the intake, the six of us were drilled in each movement. Having shown the others how to carry out a particular order, we fell in with the rest of the squad, and the whole set was repeated. It was never intended that Vindi boys would ‘troop the colours’, though the Red Duster did come out on Sundays for Church Parade, and it was deemed necessary that we be proficient enough to enable the officers to move us around in some semblance of order. We were to spend two hours, twice per week, marching around the parade ground, and practicing our left turn, right turn, fall in and fall out, right dress and open and close order march routines.

“You boy, front rank, third from the left. THE LEFT, you dozy bugger, yes you, who d’ya think I’m talking to, someone in the gatehouse? Eyes front, don’t look at me; you’ll turn to salt. Do you know that of all the hundred or so recruits on parade, you’re the only one in step? Yer bloody muvver might love yer, but I don’t. Stand still that man, where d’ya think you are, waiting for a bus? Cor what a bloody shower.”

After a mind numbing two hours, our first drill lesson was finally over. We were dismissed and marched off the parade ground, our dark blue columns disintegrating once we got to the grass verge. Reforming into a more casual, and laid back mob, we wandered back down toward the ship for our next lessons.

“I thought that bastard was going to explode, he was that red.” Poor old Smithy had attracted the attention of the instructor and had spent the better part of two hours being personally encouraged.

“Yeah, well you can’t blame the poor sod,” I said, “how come you can’t march?”

Smithy was one of those poor unfortunates who was able to walk quite naturally, however, whenever he was required to march, his co-ordination went entirely to pot.

We had no sooner been given the first order to march, when our instructor found something very wrong with what Smithy was doing. Smithy was pulled out of the column and handed over to another officer who was assisting in our instruction.

“Oright, yer walking proply nah, just straighten yer back a bit ’n stiffen yer arms.”

Smithy did as he was bid, both arms magically swinging together.

“Not like that you dozy bleeder, wotz wrong wiv yer, it’s not that bleedin’ difficult, just walk, and then straighten up.”

Once more, the unfortunate Smithy carried out the instructor’s bidding, this time, swinging his left leg, left arm, right leg, right arm.

“Cor blimey, I get one every intake. Did your muvver send you ‘ere to annoy me? Have I done sumfin to upset ‘er? This ain’t rocket science, I just want yer ter walk straight fer Christ’s sake.”

As we shuffled down the hill we felt a little sorry for the crestfallen Smiffy.

“Never mind mate, he’ll pick on someone else next time, you’ve gotta remember, it’s not personal, he can’t ‘it yer, and you’ve got to take all that yelling and screaming wiv a pinch o’ salt. At the end of the course, you’ll be marching out’v ‘ere, and you’ll never see the bastard again.”

“Yeah well, he’s just as likely to put me under the clock, and recommend I get another two weeks put on my course.” Said the disheartened Smithy.

“Well at least the most you can get on yer course is four weeks mate, there’ll be no-one left ‘ere after that, well at least, I don’t think they’d transfer you to Gravesend would they?” Ventured Devon helpfully.

“Wait oop lads,” said Archie, “ah’ve joost got te ‘ave a jimmy.” We were at the toilet block on the towpath.

“Nah, just catch us up.” I said.

We walked up the galley gangway, through the mess deck, and down a companionway to the lower deck, and into one of the classrooms. A small portly gentleman introduced himself as our Catering Instructor, and after issuing us with pencils and notebooks, spent the following hour informing us how easy it was to die or injure oneself aboard ship.

“Those of you who wear watches or rings should consider taking them off prior to storing ship, or working in the galley with machinery. You will find that deck hands almost never wear jewellery whilst working, as they will catch on ropes, hooks and cables, and rip your hand or finger off.”

He went on to tell us of many instances where crewmen had lost various pieces of their anatomy whilst working on board ship.

“I remember one deck lad who went down the inspection manhole to check the cargo during a storm. He didn’t lock the trapdoor open, and just as he was climbing out, he reached out of the manhole for a handhold, and down slammed the cover. Took his hand clean off it did.”

All in all, it was a very entertaining if somewhat gory lesson. Naturally at our age, we were all convinced that whilst others may be stupid enough to get caught, we were not only bullet proof but also far too street wise to end up as the stars of another gory sea story.

Somewhere in the bowels of the old ship, a bell rang. Time for dinner.

We filed out of the classroom, and on up, through the mess deck, to make our way down the shore going gangway to the towpath, and join the food queue. Archie was whistling as we went.

“You boy, don’t you know you don’t whistle on ships? Don’t think about going for dinner, you’re under the clock.”

We were stunned, especially Archie who had no idea why he was in trouble, and now looked to be in danger of missing his dinner. The rest of us went down the exit gangway, whilst the crestfallen Archie, about turned, and made his way to the Wardroom, to stand outside, under the clock.

“What’s so bad about whistling on ships? I asked.

“Dunno mate, no-one’s told us.” Answered Devon. We were all somewhat concerned that rules could be applied, and discipline enforced, without us having been informed as to what those rules were in the first place. It was becoming apparent that not all of our lessons were to be taught in the classroom.

Over on the deckies dinner table, Tatts was forcing one of the lads to hand over his dessert.

Just as we were finishing our meals, we saw Archie arrive at the serving hatch to receive his meal.

“See yer up top, after, mate.” I said. He nodded, seemingly afraid to do anything else, lest he loose the rest of his break.

With about ten minutes left of our dinner break, Archie came up onto the top deck, and sought us out. He found us sheltering from the somewhat cool wind that had sprung up.

“Oh ahr.” Said Devon, “What’s it like going under ‘t clock?”

“It were bluddy stoopid,” retorted Archie, clearly hurt that such a harmless activity should deprive him of twenty minutes of his precious freedom.

“Well what happened.”

“Nuthin, Ah joost ‘ad ter stan' there. An officer ast what I’d done wrong, when I told ‘im ‘e said wait there, and soon another boy came oop ter stan wit me. The officer ast why the second boy was there. The boy sed ‘ed bin whistlin', an’ I was told ter carry on.”

“Well what was the point of all that.” I pondered. We were learning some of the ways officers kept themselves amused.

It started to rain, and the older boys filed down below, back to the mess deck. We followed. Our mood as grey as the darkening sky.

Archie kept his head down still trying to understand his crime, and wondering what other rules we would discover the hard way.

The ships bells rang out, and we made our way down another deck, to our classrooms.

The officers in every day conversation used nautical terms. To those of us who didn’t know the language, it was a case of, learn quickly or get left behind. We had already discovered that one didn’t go upstairs; one went up top, or up the companionway. To go down stairs was to go down below. A wall was a bulkhead. The floor was the deck. Seagulls were magically transformed into Shitehawks. A sideboard, if it was in a dinning salon, became a dumb waiter! We could no longer deposit our rubbish in the garbage bin, however we were able to chuck it in the rosie, or if no rosie was available, the gash bin.

The catering officer told us how to order from the pantry man.

“Two loop de loops, one Lillian Gish, once on the main.”

It all sounded double Dutch to me, and although it had been stressed that the rhyming slang was not part of the exam, I was becoming more and more confused with the barrage of information. It was up to us to decide what information was useful, and what was just general conversation from a rather bored officer, staring at retirement, or a bleak future.

In one catering classroom, a motley collection of old, silverware and stainless steel was kept for training purposes. Some of the silverware was in dire need of re-plating and patches of the underlying brass shone though proudly.

We were shown how to lay tables for various occasions, and how to serve. Plates were to be served on the recipient’s left, and drinks from the right. We practiced serving with the “third hand,” a serving spoon and fork held in one hand and manipulated like a pair of tongs. Little did we know that by the time we needed the skill in real life, we would have forgotten what we’d learned.

For those of us who had only ever seen one knife and fork, with a dessertspoon on Sundays, laid out on a table, it was an impressive display. Gradually though, we learned which set of cutlery was to be used for each course, and that there were differing layouts for normal restaurant and banquet purposes. Tables had either fixed or hinged fiddles, and some other equipment best kept on an even keel may be found in gimbals. We wrote it all down, though no one wanted to be the pratt who asked what the hell a gimbal was. Despite our doubts, we were actually learning something.

Each layout and instruction was painstakingly drawn or written into our notebooks, to be swatted over later.

The bells rang, and we filed up through the ship to the topmost deck. Archie was careful not to let any air escape through his tightly clenched teeth.

There was about half an hour to waste before tea so we decided to stay on board.

The space around the funnel was already taken so we stood at the ships’ rail, pretending we were actually at sea, somewhere far away. Conversation was just beginning to get lively, when we heard the unmistakable cry of the mortified duty officer.

“Don’t you know, it’s only fools and first trippers what sits on ‘andrails?” he bellowed, “Gerroff before I putcher under the clock.”

Devon moved, like his arse was on fire. I swear he didn’t touch the deck for about six feet.

“An’ stay orf yer little mongrel, you fall in the canal from ‘ere, an’ we’ll both be in the shit.”

It was always heartwarming to know that the staff was looking out for us.

“Lucky bastard,” exclaimed Archie, still miffed for having been ‘clocked’ for whistling.

“Come on, let’s go down the gangway and get in the queue.” I said.

We shuffled off, keen to keep out of officers’ way.

The following morning, after breakfast, we were back in the billet. An officer came into our hut and told us to collect our dirty dhobi, and dhobi dust and follow him. We stared blankly. Dhobi, he explained good humouredly, was washing. It was our third day, and like most boys, I’d just about exhausted the supply of clean clothes I’d brought with me. Damn. No mum again!

None of us had dhobi dust, so we were told we would have to make do with a bar of sunlight. We went over to the toilet block where we discovered that dhobi was something to be done in our own time at sea, as and when we felt like it.

Until now, washing was something that just happened! You threw your dirties in the basket and got clean stuff out of your draw. Simple!

“’Scuse me sir, where is the washing machine?’ asked Archie It was a simple question, none of us lads thought it was that funny, and even we knew that washing was done in a washing machine. There were no flies on us! Eventually the P.O. stopped laughing long enough to tell us that we were the washing machines. Dungaree trousers were cleaned with a scrubber, and that wasn’t someone who walked the streets at night!

Gradually, it dawned on me why our written instructions sent to us prior to joining, insisted that we had two white shirts, collars detached, and four white, attachable collars. Of course, while ever you could still stand the smell of your shirt, you only had to change the collars! When the time came that there was no way around it, and you had to wash the shirt, all you needed to do was to wash the armpits, and the little bit of white seen above the dungaree jacket.

As the weeks went by, the old boys became distinguishable by their grey shirts, and off white collars. Whenever a boy took off his jacket, a streak of darker grey about nine inches wide, showed around the waistband of the formerly white shirts. Socks were only given a birthday when they really started to make a noise, and singlets were given only the merest hint of a dunking up and down in soapy water, followed by a cursory rinse in fresh. The drying rooms for newer boys were up in the camp, however, the drying rooms weren’t locked, and we noticed that someone was stealing clean socks from the drying room, rather than wash his own.

As we passed through our course, during the final two weeks, we had to put our wet clothes in the ship’s drying room. That was always good for a bit of sport. To enter the ships drying room required the co ordination of a swat team on a raid. One boy opened the door and flung it wide, another dived in and turned on the light. The sudden transformation from darkness to light startled a million cockroaches that scuttled off looking for somewhere to hide. The door opener and the light switcher then set to, stamping and kicking their way through knee-deep cockroaches, to the “A” frame timber rack that held their clothes. If quick, you still had time to whip your clothes off the rack and flick a few more cockies before all was serene once more. It wasn’t unusual to put on a “clean” shirt and discover a dead cockroach in your pocket.

Dhobi having been done, we sauntered off toward the ship.

“Do you know, if the tide is out, and you drop a bog in the towpath toilet, and you are quick enough, you can watch your turd come out of the pipe in the river bank?”

“Getaway.” I said

“Straight up.” Said Archie.

“Go on, prove it.” Said Devon.

Roy was already unfastening his belt, “Well, I fancy a bog right now, and the tide is out, lets have a go.” He went into one of the cubicles. The one closest to the canal, we figured that would give a little more time to get to the toilet window, though it would be a longer run.

“Ready?’

“Yeah go for it mate.”

The toilet flushed and Roy came barreling out of the cubicle, diving onto the shoulders of his three pals hanging out of the window. Sure enough, within seconds, two rats came hurtling out of the pipe closely followed by Roy’s turd and a couple of gallons of water.

“Pity those rats run so fast.”

“Yeah, it’d be good if we could get the rats with the turd.”

It soon became a ritual to see if we could hit a rat with a turd. Bets were placed but I think the rats had had too much training.

“Did you hear that deck boy with all the tatts, has belted one of the other lads in his billet.” Roy asked.

“I heard he’s battered a couple of blokes when they told him it was his turn to get the morning tea Dixie.” I replied.

“I’m glad he’s not in catering, we hardly ever see him.” Said Archie.

It was about a week after our arrival before we were allowed a night ashore. We had learned how to wear our uniforms and all the badges had been sewn on, and approved by the officers. The final hurdle was an inspection at the gate, the outcome of which could make or break our big night.

I had already pressed my battle dress blouse and trousers, and as most of the others had never before wielded an iron, I was called upon to help. I quickly saw this as an opportunity to make a quick killing in cigarettes, and I charged one fag per garment. Ten fags in those days made you reasonably rich. To keep the creases longer, the pants were given a light pressing, then turned inside out, and a bar of soap run along the inside of the creases. The trousers were then turned right side out, and re pressed. The soap stuck to the wool and welded together in the heat, and before you knew it, you had a very sharp press. This was great unless you found yourself caught in a severe downpour, especially if you were foolish enough to run any great distance. The soap would dissolve, and the motion of running legs began the lathering process. A severe storm could give you a nasty soap rash.

“Hey Winchester, you goin ashore tonight?”

“Yeah, if I can find a shirt that will stand up to inspection, might as well see what this joint, the Flying Angel is like.”

I was kneeling in front of my locker, sorting through all the dirty dhobi, sniffing each article as I held it out. Eventually, I found a shirt, which didn’t choke me at arms length. I’d found my ‘go ashore shirt’. 

“We might even catch a couple of birds ay.”

“Geordie can’t go, he got hit by tatts and his face is swollen. They won’t let him out on the street, and he won’t say who did it to him. He’s under the clock tomorrow for fighting.”

“Why did Tatts hit Geordie.”

“Tatts told Geordie to give him a smoke, and Geordie told ‘im to eff off.”

Roy growled and said, ”I’m getting pretty pissed off wi’ yon Tatts, seems to me, we may have tae tak care o’him.”

There was a murmur of assent.

We presented ourselves for inspection at the gate and the duty P.O. gave us the once over, taking our names in case we failed to return.

“Righto lads, have fun, and remember, shore leave ends at 2100hrs.”

The boom gate was opened and out we strode, ready to conquer the local beauties, and make a mess of the nightlife. With five bob in our pockets, we were feeling dangerous and ready for anything.

Sharpness was no match for Soho. Young girls were locked up between 1800hrs and 2100hrs. Cars had been seen on the road, but not recently, and there was a rumour that street lighting was to be installed sometime before the end of the decade. Once a week, a policeman would ride his bike around to satisfy himself that Sharpness hadn’t fallen into the Severn, without notice. Sharpness was not the end of the world, but it was only a few miles from it.

“Its good ‘ere init.”

We wandered around with our expectations falling around our ankles like a pair of underpants with no elastic. Sharpness was desolate, and so were we.

We made our way to the Flying Angel, where a jolly time was had playing draughts and table tennis or writing letters home. I chose to write, not because I was homesick, but because I wanted a comforts parcel.

“Dear Mum,

It’s been more than a week since I got here and so far we haven’t had anything decent to eat. Please send money and a cake.

One boy got sent home last week.

How is the family, hope you are well.

Sorry but I’ve only got this letterform to write on and I’m running out of space.

Love Bill”

“That should keep the old girl happy, and she’s fully up to date with all the news.” I thought. I’d made certain to write as large as I could possibly get away with, so I didn’t have to strain anything by actually thinking of the contents. It was after all, the cake that was the most important item.

 After a scintillating evening, it was getting late.2000hrs. With only one  hour of shore leave left, it was time to post my letter, and drag ourselves back to camp. We did manage to find a place to buy cigarettes singly for threepence each. You could get a packet of five, for one and a penny, or joysticks, a single fag, of unknown brand, the length of three normal smokes, but thicker than the cheapies we usually smoked. Regardless of size, Woodbines were better. I bought two joysticks and broke them into six singles, ready for later.

Although our excitement had waned, it hadn’t dampened the pride we all felt wearing our Merchant Navy uniforms out in public for the first time.

The upside of the evening was that it took great skill to get lost in Sharpness, and as we didn’t have it, it wasn’t long before we were at the camp gates.

“Evening lads, have a good time?” the duty P.O. asked knowingly as he checked us off the ashore list.

“Oh aye,” said Archie, “wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

We made our way back to our hut, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, shoes scuffing as we walked.

“What you reckon about our mate Tatts then.” I asked.

“Reckon we’ll have to have a word with your mate Bushey, see if he knows which billet Tatts is in.” Mumbled Archie.

“Yeah, I’ll have a chat to him tomorrow.”

The bugle for lights out sounded, and we turned in.

“You coming up on deck?” Asked Devon in his scrumpy accent.

“Yeah, I’ve kept some bread to feed the shitehawks.”

Feeding the seagulls was a pastime most boys indulged in, though the authorities didn’t approve it of as it encouraged the birds to come to the ship, and they usually made a mess.

Like a lot of others, we were deeply interested in finding new, more interesting ways to feed the gulls. One trick was to keep some bacon rind from breakfast. The rind was cut in half, and the two halves were then connected by a short piece of fishing line. If your timing was just right, you could entice two seagulls near and throw the bits of bacon into their direction. When you were truly on form, the two seagulls would each take a piece of bacon, and try to fly away in opposite directions.

“Good one Roy, You got the bastards.” I said.

Devon was almost convulsing he thought it was so funny.

Archie was rolling his bread scraps into as solid a ball as he could, before hurling the missile at the gulls. Every now and again, a gull would open his mouth to receive a bread ball down his gullet at sixty miles an hour.

After running out of bread, we found a reasonably clean piece of deck, and lay in the weakening sun.

“D’you know that not so long ago the ship used to have a figurehead, and lads would make other lads do dares?” asked Archie.

“Yeah, like what?” I asked.

“Well, it seems that it was a long standing dare to kiss the tit, but to do it you had to hang upside down, over the canal.”

“That’s a bit dangerous.”

“Not only dangerous,” said Archie, “If you lost your grip and fell into the canal; you’d get two weeks added to your course.

Roy said, “Aye, I heard it too, I wonder where they took it?”

“Someone said it’s gone to the new school at Gravesend.”

“It’s a pity we didn’t get to go to Gravesend,” I said, “I bet they’ve got it cushy over there, everything brand new ay.”

“Hey Bushey.” I called to my deckie mate. He sauntered over and asked what we wanted. “Ave you seen that big new deck lad, with all the tatts?”

“Yeah, ‘es pretty ‘ard ter miss, why?”

“Any idea what billet ‘es in?”

“Yeah ‘es in the one next ter mine, why.”

“Oh me and the lads were just talking about ‘im, an’ wundrin if ‘es as popular with you deck lads, as ‘e is with us catering boys.”

“Don’t talk to me abowt that bastard.” Spat Bushey. “e thinks ‘ese ‘ard  ‘cosov all them Tatts, an ‘es big too. D’y know ‘e ‘as a ring in ‘is nipple?”

“Oh bollocks,” I said, “no one has a ring in their nipple”.

“No it’s true, the bastards covered in tatts, from ‘ed to foot, an’ we see ‘im every morning in the ablution block. ‘E walks around wiv no shirt, soze ‘e c’n show orf..

“A ring in his nipple?” said Roy.

“Yeah, straight up.”

“I bet that ‘d hurt if it ever got caught on something.” mussed Archie.

“Yeah I reckon.”

“Bushey, d’ye reckon ye could find oot if he’s a light or heavy sleeper?” Asked Roy innocently.

“Yeah I’ll find out. What you lot up to?” Bushey was beginning to smell a plot.

“It’s just that Tatts isn’t the most popular boy in camp, and we were thinking that perhaps it’s time some of his own treatment came his way.” I said.

“Couldn’t agree with you more mate, I’ll ask around, see you later.”

“Yeah mate, and keep shtum OK?”

It was time to go below for lifeboat class. We hadn’t progressed far enough to actually be let loose in a real boat, so spent our time learning the name of sails, where they were to be set, and where we were likely to find them in the boat.

“Should the need arise, and you are ordered to abandon ship, the canvas boat cover is to be undone. DO NOT, cut the rope, it can be used later to lash boats together. DO NOT cut the canvas, you can use it to collect rainwater, or as cover against the elements. As soon as you are in the boat, find and install yer rollicks.”

“Install what sir?”

“Rollicks boy, rollicks, and don’t take the piss, or you’ll be laughing under the clock.”

Back up on deck after lunch, we were huddled around the funnel. It was mid September and some days were getting cool.

Our lunch break was nearly over. The wind was picking up and we were pleased it was time to go below again for Stewarding class.

Gradually, as friendships firmed, and we became more familiar with our new surroundings and schedules, it seemed as if civvie street were another lifetime ago.

We were waiting on the quay for the galley doors to open. Further up the line, Tatts was pushing some of the smaller kids around, and forcing them to hand over their cigarettes.

“Someone ought to sort that bastard out.”

“Yeah, but I can’t see anyone ‘ere who’s capable of doin it.”

“Maybe so, but I bet ‘ell get a right kickin' when he gets ‘is first ship.”

“Pity we won’t be around to witness it though.”

“That’s a depressing thought, how’d you be joining your first ship, only to find Tatts is already on board?”

“Jesus, that’d make you want to go home to Mum.”

“Aye, we’ll mebe haftae settle him doon a wee piece.” It was obvious that Roy was not happy with Tatts.

“Keep my place.” Said Roy quietly, “ I’ll be back shortly.”

Roy had seen our mate Bushey, and wandered over as if to try to scab a smoke from him. A few minutes later Roy returned and resumed his place in the tea queue.

“All right?” asked Archie.

“Yeah, Bushey’s spoken to a lad in Tatt’s billet. Once he’s asleep, nothing wakes oor wee mate Tatts, or at least, that’s what his billet mate says. Bushey’s goin' to introduce me to the lad, an’ I’ll see if he wants to help us.

Plans would have to wait, the galley doors were open, and the snake of boys was wriggling up the gangway.

We had tea, and on our way back up the hill to the camp, Roy, Bushey, and another lad were deep in conversation.

It was ten minutes after we had arrived at our hut, before Roy came in, a huge grin on his face. “We have a plan, it’s on for tonight.”

We strolled out of the billet as casually as possible, trying to give the impression that we were going for a smoke.

“Right, we have a lad to help us. According to him, Tatts is a really heavy sleeper, and is always snoring within a few minutes of lights out.”

 Roy outlined tonight’s proceedings. It never occurred to us that our actions that night could easily have ended our seagoing careers.

I had to admit, it was a good plan, as did all involved. We were on tenterhooks waiting until the allotted hour for the raid.

Roy was to lead the raiding party, and asked the remainder of us to go along as back up, in case Tatts woke up and there was trouble.

We were all pretty excited during supper, and Roy was concerned that we may be overheard.

“Shut yer gobs, ye wee bastards, we’ll all be in the shite if youze don’t.”

Back in the billet, we still had an hour or so before lights out. We tried to read, though it was difficult to concentrate as the excitement built up.

After lights out, we had to wait for the night piquet to do their bed check, and give time for the victim to get into a deep sleep.

At ten thirty, the four of us crept out of the billet, and using the buildings as cover, we traversed the camp to the deck boys’ billets. We quickly found the hut we were looking for and Roy gave a gentle knock on the door. Within a minute or so, the door swung slowly open, and Bushey appeared in his jocks. Roy handed him a reel of tough, button thread. Bushey crept to the hut next door and slid inside.

After an agonizing wait, Bushey reappeared at the door, and handed the button thread back to Roy, who began backing out the way we had come, paying out line as he went. Bushey crept back to his own hut. Once around the corner, Roy told the rest of us to go back to our hut. He gave us a couple of minutes, then gave the button thread an almighty yank. There was a mighty scream, and we piled back into our bunks throwing the covers over ourselves and stuffing the corner of the blanket into our mouths to try to gag the guffaws. Roy raced in, and dived for the covers. We were certain that there would be a bed check, and true enough, someone carrying a torch came through the billet, shining his light onto each ‘sleeping’ occupant.

There was no way that whoever carried the torch, would not have known the culprits came from our billet. However, he kept shtum. Perhaps Tatts had pissed him off too.

“Come on, wake up.” The night piquet were’ putting Archie and me ‘on the shake.’ It was our turn for morning tea carry. We scrambled into our clothes, wishing we’d brought heavier jumpers with us.

On the way down to the ship, we ran into Bushey who was also on tea carry for his hut.

“’Owzit goin' Oright?” I asked.

“Yeah, not too shabby, did you ‘ear Tatts was taken to the Infirmary, last night?”

“No, but I think I heard a bit of a scream, about ten thirty.”

“Yeah, that was ‘im, someone ripped ‘is tit ring out of ‘is nipple while ‘e was sleepin'.”

“Cor, that’d ‘ave ter ‘urt, ya reckon?”

“Yeah, ‘e didn’t seem to go much on it.” Answered Bushey with a smile on his face. “Getting’ a bit Piccadilly ain’t it?”

We continued down the hill, a light drizzle doing nothing to dampen our spirits.

A couple of days later, Bushey passed on the news that during class, someone had cleaned out Tatts’ locker, his bedding had gone, and his palliase folded back. We never heard of Tatts again. Perhaps he went back to the fishing boats.

It was Friday. Friday was sub night and five shillings would rattle around in our pockets. On Friday nights there were pictures in the main assembly hall. Friday was a good day. It was especially good this week, as I’d been informed that there was a parcel for me at the Admin building. As soon as I could afford the time, I dashed over to claim my prize.

“Come.” Came a voice from within.

“Young Sir, there’s s’posed ter be a parcel ‘ere for me sir.”

“A parcel ‘ere for you, who do you know who c’n write?”

“Me mum Sir.”

“And what d’yer think yer mum’s sent yer ay?”

“Dunno Sir, never thought I’d get a parcel an’ it’s a surprise to me Sir.”

The Admin man had had his fun and now handed me my treasure, “Sign ‘ere.”

I grabbed the shoebox-sized parcel and did the bolt. Didn’t pay to hang around arseholes.

Back in the billet, I ripped off the rough string and tore the brown paper wrapping, pulling off the box top all in one go. It was almost like Christmas, I even got the obligatory socks. Mum’s letter was left ‘till last, “Now let’s see, pair o’ socks, another bloody hankie, six stamps, wonder why she sent them? Ten bob, cor, now you’re talking, an ’ last but not least, a fruitcake. Cor luverley.”

I cut the cake in half and shared the other half between the five lads who all knocked about together, as was the hut custom. The film night tonight was going to be so much better with fruitcake.

Ah yes, Fridays were good days indeed.

Around the camp, boys called out excitedly.

“Two more Popeye’s.”

“Three more Popeye’s.”

The new lads were going to have to wait until evening before they were to understand the meaning of the call.

After another long and sometimes tedious day in class, it was finally time to make our way to the hall near the gate, for the evening’s cinematic entertainment. We filed in and found ourselves enough chairs near the center of the hall.

Spitballs were hurtling through the air, and it was a good idea to keep your head down.

“Hey Archie, did you eat your tea tonight?” Roy asked, he knew Archie had a delicate stomach and hadn’t had to toughen his intestines on school dinners.

“Only the veggies, what were those round things, they tasted like dog shite?.”

“Faggots.” I said, we used to get them at school. The only thing you could say about the Vindi faggots was that they were just as bad as the school ones. God only knows what went into them. There was a rumour that they were made of bull’s bollocks.

The screen had already been set up and eventually one of the deck officers came to the front and gave the usual old patter about taking our rubbish out with us and putting the chairs away before we left.

The lights went out and the projector sprang into action.

Around the hall, those boys with secret stashes of scoff got into action. Six lads from hut B2 crammed fruit cake into their gobs, determined to stuff it all in before someone less worthy demanded any, whilst trying not to choke, as we had nothing with which to wash it down. Our eyes were watering, and cheeks bulging, trying to breath through the nose, hoping to Christ that we wouldn’t cough.

After one or two cartoons, the familiar strains of the Popeye cartoon belted out, and the more senior boys went wild, screaming out how many more times they had to watch a Popeye cartoon, before they finished their course. As the cartoon story unfolded we had a wonderful time jeering the villain Pluto and cheering poor old Popeye. When Popeye pulled out his spinach, the hall went wild with all the boys yelling out the tune.

As the lights came back on at the end of the movie show, we put away our chairs, and ducked out quick before being ordered to sweep up. Now we understood that the ‘Popeye’ call, was a show of seniority. As new boys, we had seven more Popeye’s till the end of the course.

“Hey Winchester, that wasn’t bad scoff, ta.” Remarked Devon, the others nodding in approval.

“Well don’t forget, it’s up to you blokes to get some more now.” I said, “Come on, we’ll have to get a wriggle on if we want supper.”

We all got a wriggle and put them on, running to the end of the camp, and down the steep pathway to the canal.

“Now, a mug of antiwank, and a jam buttie, and that’ll top off a perfect day.” I said.

We assembled on the towpath at the davits, our dirty grey, bulky cork, Board of Trade lifejackets, resembling a fake Santa’s undergarments. It was our turn to have a day out on the water. Or so we thought!

We were instructed how to lower the boat, then how to raise it. Four ropes dangled from a wire between the davits and fell into the boat. These we were told could be used to climb down into the boat should we arrive after the boat was already lowered. The block and tackle was a fall. A fall wasn’t advised. Shove in the bung, install the rollicks, release the falls, push away, and pull away together. Ease the oars and capture the falls 

“Any questions?”

“Nah, it’s all as clear as mud.” Whispered someone. “D’yer reckon ‘e speaks English?”

“I heard that boy, you’re under the clock.”

I wasn’t at all sure that my tiny little brain could manage to store and recall much of the lifeboat lesson. Did any of this gibberish make any sense at all?

We toiled away all afternoon, and not once had the timbers of the boat been wet! And so far, only two boys at a time had been actually in the boat. Some lads had blisters and those who didn’t, now had shards of white, wrinkly skin hanging from their hands, their palms wet and stinging from their wounds.

The bow of the boat hung low, the stern high. Two of the lads detailed to raise the bow, were attempting to hold the rope under their arms and with only the tips of their fingers. The pain of their soft hands their only concern.

“Jesus Christ, bugger me, you two over there, get on the end of these fairies’ rope and lift the bloody boat up. What a bloody shower. Thank Christ there’s a deck department. You lot couldn’t get out of your own way.”

You could just tell, the deck officer was impressed.

Finally, with the boat lifted and now sitting on it’s blocks, the deck officer turned to us,  ”In two weeks time, you will have lifeboat exam. If you don’t pass, you will have two weeks added to your course. I suggest you all read your manuals in your spare time. I never want to witness such an un seamanlike spectacle again. For those little girls amongst you who have lovely soft hands, I suggest you toughen them up or you’ll be no use to anyone. The best way to do it is to piss on ‘em. Dismissed.”

“Well, that went well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we win the lifeboat races” said Roy, sucking a raw patch on his hand.

“Just remember not to suck your blisters after you’ve pissed on yer ‘ands,” I laughed

We wandered down the towpath toward the galley gangway. It was almost time for tea.

It had been a difficult afternoon, though memories of today’s failings were swept away when we discovered that we were to get bangers and mash and steamed Vindi roll with custard for tea. Ahh, life didn’t get much better than that. We looked like the little lads in the Bisto advertisement.

Lifeboat training continued and we mastered the art of lowering and raising the boat. All we really wanted to do was have a pleasant afternoon rowing lazily up and down the canal. Unfortunately the deck officer in charge, had different ideas.

“Heave away port, hold starboard, pull away together, hold starboard pull away port.” Around and around in circles we went. Every now and again we would come in toward the davits. “Capture the falls, bowman, ship oars, stow oars. Climb out. Raise the boat, lower away, out oars. Heave away handsomely.” Over and over again. It was fast getting beyond a joke.

“Cor blimey,” someone in the back of the boat whispered, “it was never like this at Butlins.”

“Yer, I keep waiting to ‘ear COME IN NUMBER SEVEN, YOUR TIME IS UP.”

“Shut yer gobs yer little nasties, one day you might thank me for giving you the benefit of all my years at sea.”

Every muscle in my arms and back was screaming for relief before the lesson ended. I was not alone.

“Jesus, stroll on,” muttered Tommy, “I feel like me bleedin knuckles’d drag along the ground.”

“Aye a ken what ye mean wee Tommy,” answered Roy dejectedly, “I could do wi’ a cuppa tea an’ a wee lie doon massen.”

“Yeah, you ’n me both, too, as well,” I answered.

Had anyone at the time suggested it, they would have been committed, but although we didn’t realise it at the time, we were actually enjoying ourselves, in a perverse sort of way, of course.

Steward classes were nowhere near as strenuous, although every now and again, we had to help replenish the ships stores. This entailed all the catering boys forming a working line from the barge and up the gangway into the stores below. Bags of spuds, and onions weighing fifty pounds each were thrown from one boy to the next. Very little talking was done as each boy tried to maintain the rhythm, in order to prevent a heavy carton or some such falling on his foot. At night, we would examine our battered bodies, and see who had the best collection of bruises.

As our newfound skills increased, so did the level of instruction, until one day, about four weeks into the course, a few of us had our names called out. We were to report to the Chief Steward. Part of our introduction into the Catering trade was a couple of days serving in the officer’s wardroom, and a week, spent working full time in the galley. Now we were getting into some proper training. The four of us who had our names called, were to be the first batch to do our time in the wardroom. About nine others were called as first draft in the galley detail. Unknown to us at the time, an assessment was made of our individual performance in each department, and marks awarded as part of the steward’s exam.

It was the first time we wore our new, starched stewards jackets. The stiff high collar, with its hooks and eyes, threatening to choke us. We were taken into the Officer’s dining saloon and shown around the inner sanctum.

The wardroom was on the mess deck, at the after end of the ship,. It wasn’t very large and due to the maritime architecture, the deck head consisted mainly of curved RSJ steelwork. The bulkheads were timber paneled, up to about seven feet, and two very distinct watermarks were visible on the paneling, near the deck, one about a foot higher than the first. We were informed that the Vindi had been sunk twice and re-floated. The thought went through my mind that ‘they‘ shouldn’t have bothered. Down the center of the room ran a long, thin dining table, covered in a brilliant white, starched tablecloth. The table had been set for a three-course meal, soup, main and dessert.

I was petrified, despite the encouragement of the Chief Steward. I’d practiced serving with the ‘third hand,’ but wasn’t any good. I was certain that I wouldn’t remember a single order. My hands were shaking, and I broke out into a sweat.

“Come on lad, don’t give us a performance,” the Chief said quietly, “We aren’t about to eat you. We’re only human you know.”

“Yes sir.” I replied, knowing full well that I’d just been lied to.

The soup was served without too much problem, and only about half a cupful spilling onto the tablecloth from the silver ladle.

Whilst serving boiled, new potatoes from the silver veggie dish, the potato escaped and skidded across the wardroom deck.

“Whoops, sorry sir.” I mumbled, trying to sound casual whilst I could feel the heat of embarrassment rising up from my collar line.

After serving the remaining potatoes, I then had the indignity of crawling around the deck on my hands and knees searching for the wayward spud.

I was certain that this would ensure that I would never be recommended for work on passenger ships, though that didn’t worry me too much as I rather wanted to be on cargo ships.

I managed to get through the two days wardroom duty without further mishap, never dropped a plate, and I felt pretty chuffed with myself. This stewarding caper was too easy!

For the rest of the week, we went back to normal lessons with the remainder of the class. Naturally those boys whose turn for wardroom was still to come, were anxious to find out how our time there had gone. The catering instructor repeatedly chipped us for talking until eventually we’d gone too far and he lost his rag.

“Alright Young, I’ve had it with you. Anymore lip from you and you won’t find yourself ‘under the clock,’ you’ll be packing yer bags, and getting the next train out of Gloucester!”

Now this was getting to be serious. I’d wanted to go to sea since I was eight years old, and now a grumpy little man was threatening my future career.

I’d always found that it didn’t pay to show that I was too impressed with threats, so without thought, I told the catering officer, “Do what you like mate, I don’t need to go to sea, I’m independently wealthy, and I’m only here to see how the other half lives!”

There was a stunned silence amongst the students.

In my head, a voice was screaming “What did you just say? You stupid bastard, this’ll be the end of you for sure.” I had visions of being marched up the hill, under guard, to retrieve my belongings and be booted off the premises, however when I looked at the officer, I saw a twinkle in his eye. “Christ, I’d amused the little bugger!”

To save face the catering officer said,” Keep it up sunshine, and you c’n be independently wealthy back in civvie street.” He continued with the lesson with no further interruptions.

On the following Monday, myself and eight others were detailed to report to the Chief Cook in the galley. We lined up inside the galley, in front of  the  serving counter. The cook leaned on the stainless steel workbench in front of us and scanned his new apprentices.

“That boy, third from the right, you’re the tallest, you’ll be the galley senior.” He threw me a dirty red armband. I’d just been promoted.

“Your most important duty in this galley, is to keep out of the bloody way.” The cook said. “Anybody here like swimming?” three boys put up their hands, “right you can start pearl diving in that sink.” He pointed to the scullery, in which was a very large, and very deep stainless steel sink, overflowing with all the unwashed pots and pans from this morning’s breakfast. A zillion dirty plates stood in greasy piles next to the sink.

The three pearl divers walked dejectedly to their task. There was no such thing as washing up liquid, and the second cook showed the lads how to put soft soap into an old tin with holes in it, and dunk it up and down in scalding water, whilst madly swishing away with a whisk. It was arguably the best part of their designated duties.

Three more lads were detailed as spud bashers, and were led off to the area where, to their surprise and amazement, they were introduced to the potato-peeling machine. They had about three, fifty-pound bags of spuds to peel, which soon took the smile off their faces. The second cook showed the lads how to use the machine.

“Now remember, the potato peeler is only to get the bulk of the peel off. You leave the spuds in for a couple of minutes, then tip them out into the bucket and take out the potato eyes with the knives. All clear” A miserable “Yes sir” struggled from their lips and the second cook bade them “Get on with it,” and came over to the last three of us.

“Now you three have the best job. I want you to keep this galley deck clean. A lot of oil and stuff gets spilt from around the stove and ovens. In the short term, we’ll chuck salt over it to prevent slipping, but as soon as you see it, I want you to scrub the deck. Don’t be afraid to use plenty of water, and lots of elbow grease.” He showed us where our weapons were stashed. Three or four yard brooms rested in a corner, a couple of long handled squeegees too.

The galley deck was tiled with the type of tiles we had at our local swimming pool. They had very deep, diagonal grooves in them, and had been laid so as to drain off into the scuppers.

We too, were shown the art of making hot soapy water, and before long were introduced to the nautical way of scrubbing decks.

“You’ll never clean it like that, chuck some water down, if you don’t use at least ten buckets of water, you ain’t doin’ it right. Look, one of you does the scrubbing with the broom, and the other chucks water all over the shop, lots o’ lovely soapsuds, that’s what I want to see. Once you’ve scrubbed the whole lot, you chuck bucket loads of fresh water down to wash away the soap.”

We set to our appointed tasks. In the scullery, the pearl divers had decided to empty the sink to give themselves some working room. They were surrounded by huge pots, pans and dirty plates. After half an hour or so, the dirty piles didn’t appear to be getting any smaller, and it was obvious to the cook that the team needed some encouragement.

“Where’s that large pot, still to be washed? Come on you slackers, I need that pot, move yer arses before rigor mortis sets in. How are the spud barbers doing senior?”

The cook stared into my eyes, I had no idea how the lads were going, but I quickly realised I’d better find out.

“Don’t know cook, I’ll have a look.” I hurried as quickly as the wet deck would allow, to suss out the situation.

“Jesus, is that all you’ve done.” I asked. A layer of perfectly round, squash ball sized potatoes lay in the bottom of a huge Dixie. I looked at the first bag of spuds and to my horror saw that it was almost empty. “Where’s the rest.”

“What rest. There’s three quarters of a bag in there.” said Nobby defensively.

“You know what rest, the rest of the spuds that were in that bag.”

“You’re looking at them, that’s all we’ve peeled.”

“Stuff me drunk, you’ve left them in the machine too long.”

“Well it’s easier this way, you don’t need to go over them to dig out the eyes.” 

My sphincter was beginning to move independently, being an expert on bollockings, I could feel one coming on. Things were not going well.

There was no way around it, I was going to have to tell the cook.

“Er, I think we may need some more spuds cook.” My voice quavering.

“By ‘eck as like. There’s enough spuds in there to feed all of Ireland.”

The cook skated over to the spud machine.

“Where’s the rest.”

“That’s it cook.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes cook.”

“So, when you saw the first batch come out of the machine, it didn’t seem strange to you that you’d put in three pounds of big, old potatoes, and you’ve pulled out, one pound of new potatoes?”

“No cook, we thought that’s how you wanted them.”

“God, give me strength.” Our cook was apparently very religious, and he frequently spoke to the Lord. “Oright, you won’t be getting any more spuds. If we run out, I’ll tell all those lads who miss out, that they aren’t getting fed, because some lazy, useless galley boys, didn’t feel like digging the eyes out of the spuds, they’d rather play bloody marbles. And just remember, the galley crew doesn’t get fed until everyone else has eaten, and you lot will be the ones dishing the spuds out, so you’d better make sure you’ve got enough.”

He turned on me. “Senior, if you don’t keep control of your blokes, I’ll have that armband off you quick smart. Now get this bloody deck scrubbed, and you three, get yer tits back in that sink.”

The galley deck had only just been scrubbed, and was still wet, though it didn’t seem the time to argue.

“Yes cook.” It wasn’t that I particularly wanted to be senior, but I thought the extra star on my battledress uniform would look really cool.

We had spent less than two hours on galley duty, and already we had all been in trouble.

The pearl divers realised that trying to make the job last, really wasn’t an option, and clean pans began to fill the empty racks. Stacks of clean plates were stowed away in the cupboard of the bain-marie.

We had a few minutes spare, and were congregating for a chat. The cook turned to see what we were up to.

“Get your arse off that bench, it’s made for rissoles not arseholes.” He bellowed.

One of our pearl divers, Tommy, moved as if he’d sat on top of the stove.

“If you’ve nothing to do, get yourself a soogee and get after some cockroaches.” Advised cook. We had already learned that a soogee was navy talk for a rag.

Roach hunting was a daily part of our duties. It was good fun too. Whenever we had a few minutes spare, we spent the time with a damp rag, hunting through all the nooks and crevices for any cockroaches silly enough to be out during the day. When a cockroach was found out in the open, we gave it a towel flick with the soogee. Occasionally, a cockroach would fall into the food. If the cockroach fell into something like mashed potatoes, it would contrast too much with the white of the spuds, and have to be dug out, but if it went into a stew, it was usually just stirred in. Vindi roll was a spotted Dick, steamed pudding, and cockroaches finding their way into the dough would just automatically be stirred in, and mixed with the prunes, and sultanas. They didn’t crunch after being steamed.

“Coming through, red hot.” The second cook was bringing the pot full of boiled spuds to the bain-marie. The lads were ordered to help with the rest of the food.

Once the food was all in the bain-marie, we were issued with appropriate tools.

“Two slices of meat with a bit of gravy, boiled spuds, give ‘em plenty, one each, and cut the big ones in ‘arf, green beans one spoonful. New plate, one ladle of semolina, and a teaspoon of jam. Two rounds of bread ‘n marge. Remember there’s ‘undreds of the buggers out there, so don’t go mad. If there’s any left, they c’n ‘ave seconds.”

The shutters were opened up and the first of our customers arrived.

“What is it?”

Slop, “ It’s yer dinner mate.”

“Smart arse, what is it?”

“Buggered if I know mate, but whatever it is, it’s hot, and the choice is, take it or leave it. Move on.”

Like a well-oiled machine, the snake of boys filed past. One of the deck officers prowled at the rear of the servery, ready to quell any arguments.

“Argh come on, that ain’t enough, everyone else got more than that, give us a bit more.”

“Piss off, next.”

“No give us some more meat.”

“I told you to piss off and move down the line.”

“Jones, stop arguing and move down the line or you’ll be under the clock. If you want more, you’ll ‘ave ter wait for seconds call.”

Jones moved on, but not before he had burned Tommy’s features into his memory. If the opportunity came up, revenge would be taken later.

Fortunately, the boys had managed to make the spuds last, so every one was fed, though there weren’t any for seconds.

We served out our own meals, making sure we had more meat than the lads we’d just served, and sat in the now almost deserted mess hall.

“Cor, stuff me,” said Tommy, he’d had quite a morning and was already on somebody’s ‘get even list’. There’s still the whole week to get through. How many people will we have to fight or avoid for the rest of the course?

“Don’t worry mate, if you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t ‘ave joined.” Laughed Phil, one of our spud barbers.

We had half an hour as free time before we had to return to the galley and clean up from dinner. The three ‘spud barbers’ were sent to empty the gash bins, and came back looking rather pale. As galley senior I never had to empty the gash, and I never did find out where it all went. Wherever it was, going by the faces of the returning gash party, it wasn’t too healthy. Rank did have its benefits.

The work in the galley was long and hard, though time went by rapidly. We were preparing tea when a short, grey haired, catering officer found me out to give instructions for tonight’s supper.

“Which one of you is the senior?”

“Me sir,” I answered stoutly.

“Ah, Lofty, tonight you and your crew will return to the galley at 1830 hrs. You will collect the trays of sarnies from the cook, and help with the setting out of the cocoa. At 1900hrs you will raise the galley shutters and dish out supper. Reckon you can handle that?”

I didn’t think the instructions were beyond me so answered in the affirmative, and was reminded not to be late.

“Sir.” It was always advisable to answer an officer with as few words as possible.

There was enough time between the clean up of tea, and the beginning of supper duty for us to wander back up the hill and have a rest in the billet. Tommy was sitting on his bunk, scraping a build up of grease off his dungaree jacket and trousers. After working in the galley for less than a day, we were all looking a little soiled.

Devon and Archie were on Wardroom duty so we hadn’t seen each other for most of the day. Devon handed me a smoke and we walked outside the billet to light up. Smoking in the hut was a punishable offence.

“What’s galley like,” he asked. Devon would be on ‘Galley” next week after my lot had done our bit.

“Crap,” I told him. “I can’t believe the hours you have to work, we’re on suppers till nine tonight, and then have to be back there in the morning when the rest of the camp is doing P.E.”

“Well, at least it’s warm.” Encouraged Devon. Mornings were becoming a little brisk.

“Yeah, well, there’s always that I suppose.” I said, “Thank Christ it’s only for a week. You’d reckon we should be getting paid overtime”

“Cheer up mate laughed Devon, you know what they say, if you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined.”

“I hope you laugh as loud as that next week mate,” I said, ”I’d better collect the lads, and get back down to the ship.”

The footpath down to the ship was dark and deserted and we walked in silence.

There was a different atmosphere on the ship. The only people on board were the duty cook and his party of defaulters who were on ‘jankers'.

We reported to the cook who put us to work. We were sent into the scullery to collect about half a dozen large, stainless steel, urns and brought them to the cook who was standing in front of the electric boilers, which were bolted to the galley deck On the workbench in the center of the galley, were trays of jam sandwiches, that I presume the lads on jankers, had prepared.

Steam was rising lazily from the escape hole in the boilers’ hinged lids. The cook turned to us, “O.K. lads,  two of you, go into the scullery, and find yourselves a four pint, aluminium jug each. They’ll be in the rack on your right as you go in.”

When they returned, he told us that the urns were too tall to get underneath the boilers’ taps, so we were to dip the jugs into the cocoa, and then pour the cocoa into the urns. Once filled, two boys would then carry the urns into the mess, and place the urns on the tables provided.

Only one serving hatch was to be opened for supper. Two boys were detailed to transfer the trays of jam sarnies, one tray at a time to the serving area. The incoming hoards were to help themselves to one sarnie each, and the two galley boys were to ensure the smooth and continual supply.

Whilst all this preparation was going on, the short catering officer came into the galley to check that I had been fully briefed.

“Now, have you got that Lofty, at 1900 hrs you open the shutter, and start serving supper. You keep yer eye on the cocoa urns, and make sure they don’t run out. Keep a full one in the galley so you can swap one that’s getting low. All clear, any questions?”

I didn’t think that he had given me anything too difficult to comprehend, so I assured him that I knew what to do, and he went back to the wardroom.

At 1900 hrs I was at the servery, wondering if the officer would come to supervise, but by 1902hrs I decided that this must be one of those secret initiative tests, so I ordered the hatch to be opened.

As soon as there was movement of the hatch, the first of the supper boys ran up, snatching a jam sarnie, and filing past, into the mess.

Everything was going smoothly, and the two lads in the mess, brought back the first urn for replenishment. I grabbed the jug, and began transferring the cocoa into the urn, having to lean a fair way into the boiler to do so.

I’d about half filled the urn when our short catering officer came roaring back into the galley. “What the bloody ‘ell’s goin on ‘ere, who gave permission to start serving, where’s the galley senior?”

I could tell I was in trouble, sometimes you just know. “Here sir.” I straightened from my task, holding the urn on the lip of the boiler.

“Who told you to start serving ay, tell me that.”

“You did sir.”

“I DID, what the devil d’you mean, I DID?”

“You told me to lift the shutter at 1900 and serve the supper, sir. That’s what I did.”

“I didn’t tell you to go ahead without me boy, who d’you think y’are?’ He was almost bright red by now, and had white spittle at the corners of his mouth. “I’m the Duty Catering Officer ‘ere, I say when you can start and when you can’t, otherwise, there’s no point to my being ‘ere is there?”

I didn’t think he would like to hear my response, so I bent my back and stuck my head back into the boiler, continuing to fill the half empty urn. I’d learned long ago that when being bollocked by my father, or some other figure in command, the best form of  reaction, was passive and total, mental obliteration of the bollocker.

The officer continued to rant and rave, chucking one of the best wobblers I’d ever seen. Eventually he paused for breath, and seeing that his tirade was having very little effect on me, but rather making him look like something of a wally, he turned to me and said, in a much more reasonable tone, “Now look ‘ere Lofty, If I’m going to go to all the trouble of giving you a bollocking, the very least you can do is to stand there and look like you’re listening! Now, carry on.” He turned on his heal, and marched out of the galley.

I gave him the V sign as he walked off, the other lads started to giggle.

“Cor, I thought ‘ed blow a gasket for sure,” said Tommy, patting me on the back.

I smiled, the adrenalin rush making me shake a little. “Didn’t even get put under the clock,” I said with bravado. “Must’ve bin close though”.  I thought.

The rest of the evening went smoothly, and we finished the shift relatively unscathed.

After supper, the urns were emptied then filled with cold water, they would be washed the following morning before breakfast.

It was getting late, and as we walked up the hill, we were looking forward to a hot shower, and getting out of our manky dungarees.

“You gonna put clean clobber on for tomorrow Tommy.” I asked

“Bugger that,” he said, ”we’ve only got two sets, and there’s no way we’ll get a chance to do our dhobi this week, the hours we’re working. I’m just going to finish the week in the same gear, and scrape some of the shit off every night.”

“Yeah, good thinking mate, I’m with you.” We headed for the showers.

The following morning, the galley boys ‘turned to’, and while everyone else was having their morning tea, and scratching themselves, we were rushing to dress, and get ourselves down to the ship to start work.

The morning was dark and quite cool. We hurried along the towpath, keen to get aboard and into the warmth of the galley.

“Morning lads,” greeted the second cook, “tea’s in the urn go help yourselves.”

After a few weeks at Vindi, it was very refreshing to be treated as if we were almost human. It wasn’t to last long.

“As soon as you like, the scullery maids can grab their tea, and strap up the antiwank urns from last night. They’re required for this mornings’ tea.”

The lads went off to wash up the urns and three others were detailed to refill the clean urns with tea, and set them up in the mess.

Trays of bacon were in the oven, and the second cook was frying about a dozen eggs in a huge frying pan, about a quarter of an inch deep in fat. As the eggs became about three quarters cooked, they were scooped out of the fat and placed onto a large, flat bane marie tray, which, when filled, went into the bane marie, and were covered with a lid. Breakfast was still half an hour off, and the eggs continued to cook until they were served, by which time they had achieved their plastic consistency, and typical, glazed, ‘dead fish eye’ look.

The bacon came out of the oven, and was also placed into the bane marie, where it too continued to cook. If a boy didn’t eat crispy bacon, he didn’t eat bacon for the duration of his course.

Tommy was put to work stirring the huge pot of burgoo with a wooden spoon, whilst I was given a damp rag, and told to flick a few cockroaches. Myself and another lad set to and began to cast around for sign. The last of the Great White Hunters. As it was still very early, a few of our quarry were still about, and we managed to accumulate quite a tally. We’d flick them onto the deck and stamp on them. Leaving the corpses until we scrubbed the deck after breakfast.

Tommy was still stirring the burgoo, and without noticing, my hunt had come quite close to the stove. I sighted a big cockroach, scurrying along a deck head beam. Taking careful aim, I flicked my damp rag, which cracked sharply as it knocked the cockroach off the beam, straight into the burgoo.

“Yahoo, got the bastard. Better dig ‘in out Tom.”

Tommy was only a short lad, and hadn’t been watching my hunt, so hadn’t noticed when it fell into the burgoo. He continued to stir, and by the time I reached the stove, my kill had been stirred through. We made a cursory search, Tommy slowly stirring up the bottom, whilst I looked into the pot, but the cockroach didn’t surface.

“Ah well, I s'pose it’ll turn up sometime.”

It was almost time to raise the shutters, and cook wanted the burgoo on the bane marie.

We positioned ourselves at our serving places, and the serving of breakfast began.

The second cook had decided that he would serve the burgoo, and wielded his large ladle with skill and dexterity. The consistency of the burgoo ensured that only about three quarters of the ladle’s contents ever left the ladle, and required a deft flick of the wrist, to fill the plate with one attempt.

Tommy and I kept tabs on the servings until about half way through the proceedings we heard, “Oi, wasiss? Das a bluddy cockroach in me porridge!”

We froze, but the second cook never missed a beat, and continued to serve saying, “Well don’t shout too loud lad, no one else got one at all. Move on, next.”

The duty mess officer moved in and ushered the boy and his cockroach along.  We never heard another word about it, though I’m not certain that the lad waited for seconds.

As galley week went by, we became used to the hours, and the routine wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed.

The build up of grease on our dungarees and piss jackets had mostly been scraped off at night, though they would require some diligent application of elbow grease when we finally got around to washing them. We planned to scrub them on the weekend when the miscreants on jankers took over galley duties.

The front of our thighs were covered in black spots and sores from the crud seeping through the wet dungies, and soaking into our pores. The only way to deal with them was to scrub ourselves with one of the hand scrubbing brushes. It tore the heads off the whiteheads, and gouged out the blackheads, and eventually you’d get through to virgin skin.

We had Saturday afternoon off, so Tommy, me, and the rest of the galley crew gathered our outrageously filthy working gear, and headed for the ablution block to do our dhobi.

Archie, Roy, Devon and the other lads had already gone ashore, straight after dinner.

“Camp looks pretty quiet Winchester,” said one of the lads.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “I heard a rumour that they were all going into town.”

“What for,” asked Tommy.

“Well, I heard that one of the deck boys who is a Pool Boy next week, was in town last weekend, and got battered by some blokes on motor bikes. The rest of his billet, and now it looks like most of the camp, has gone ashore to help put things right. I thought it was all piss and wind.”                                                                    “Shit, I wouldn’t like to be in the way when a couple of hundred Vindi Boys come into town, looking for trouble.” Said Tommy. “We may only be fifteen and sixteen, but there’s lots of us.”

We’d been dunking our dungies up and down in almost boiling soapy water, and there was a deep scum forming. I pulled out my trousers and threw them onto the ablution block deck. Next it was down on my hands and knees to give them a severe scrubbing. Having done the front, the procedure was repeated on the back though the scrubbing was much less boisterous. The sink water was filthy and had to be changed before the piss jacket could be scrubbed. Whilst waiting for the sink to fill with clean hot water, I dunked the trousers in fresh, cold water in another sink.

The accumulated filth on my piss jacket was scrubbed away and even our shirts were given a cursory dunk up and down followed by a cleansing of the parts seen.

Our dhobi finished, we walked across the alleyway separating the ablutions from the drying rooms, stamped on a few slow cockroaches, and hung our wet gear on the timber ‘A’ frame. The water poured from the dungarees. We’d discovered that if we hung them out soaking wet, they dried with far fewer wrinkles, than if they had been wrung out. This meant that we wouldn’t have to iron.

With our dhobi in the drying room, it was now time for us to have a shower, it was Saturday after all, and even young lads had to shower now and again, whether they needed it or not.

Our shoes had been polished before we did our dhobi, so having showered, we donned our battledress uniforms, plonked our berets down over our sticky out wet hair, and presented ourselves for inspection at the guardroom.

The duty officer formed us into a squad outside, and ran his eye over us before taking our names and hut number. We were dismissed, and marched out through the raised boom gate, into the bustling Metropolis of Sharpness.

We only required rain for Sharpness to fulfill it’s potential as contender for “The most boring place ever,” award. For young lads looking for excitement and adventure, Sharpness had been well picked. It was Saturday afternoon and what shops could be found, were for the most part closed, though we were able to purchase some cigarettes for the coming week.

Our only refuge was the Mission, for an afternoon of ping-pong, letter writing, draughts, cream buns, and cups of tea. When we arrived, we discovered that even here, life was passing us by. We appeared to be the only ones there. A wild time was probably not on the cards, but at least we were off the camp. I wondered what on earth would possess anyone to send Missionaries here, there didn’t appear to be any locals to tame!

I wrote a short letter to Mum, without revealing any personal news. She’d receive letters saying, “Someone fell off the ship’s side today and now he has two weeks on his course for falling into the canal. Another boy broke his leg and has been sent home. Can you send me a cake and some money?” At the time, I thought that I’d written all there was to say, though reading through them many years later, I concede that although welcome, my letters were not destined to impart any news worthy of note, nor instill any confidence in my well being.

As shore leave came to an end, we wandered back to camp, and began seeing groups of lads, on their way back from town. It appeared that the rumour of the Vindicatrix Vigilante Patrol was correct, and groups of ten or twenty boys had wandered around, looking for trouble. Everybody seemed to know of, ‘some other lads,’ who had evened the score with the locals, but I didn’t get to speak to any.

It took about a month for the entire intake to be fully rotated through a mixture of Wardroom, lifeboat classes, and exams, galley week, and steward classes and exams. Each boy who successfully passed an exam was presented with a small embroidered, light blue star, to be sewn onto our battledress. Me, Tommy and the other seven galley lads took the stewards’ exam the week following galley week. Amazingly we all passed, and the following Sunday whilst on Parade, we received our stars. I was also presented with a larger star, my badge of rank. Failure at stewards, would have stripped me of the temporary rank, but now it was official. I glowed with pride.

There was a proper little sewing circle going on as we sat and attached the proof of our newly won awards.

Awright Arch, Dev?” I asked as I helped myself to a corner of Archie’s bunk.

“Aye, not bad eh, soon we’ll be Pool boys,” answered Archie with a grin.

Archie and Devon had been through galley while my crowd, were doing stewards.  Being the taller of the two, Archie also had the larger, badge of rank to sew on. Lifeboat exam stars were to be issued once the entire intake had done the exam. We were due to receive those, the following week.

Once we wore those two small stars, the whole camp would know that we were senior boys. We had gone through all the emotions of envy, seeing the other lads in camp achieve the status of two star boys. It meant that at most, they only had two more weeks left to serve. However, our senior status wasn’t to mean much to many, as the school was in the process of closing down. With the exception of the final Catering intake, everybody in camp, was also a senior boy.

About a month after our intake had first arrived, a hundred boys marched out, to join their first ships, and begin their personal adventures. With the Vindicatrix closing down, the school had taken in only one more intake of about thirty or forty catering boys. The deck boys who had joined with us, and the catering boys of the last intake, would march out together, leaving the Vindi, silent and empty.

“Pool boys fall in.” Called out the officer as he marched toward our hut.

“C’mon lads,” I said, “that’s us, at long last.”

We hurried to the parade ground, and fell into two ranks.

“This week will be very different to the last few you’ve been here, so listen up. This week you’ll be having inoculations, and haircuts. You will attend compulsory lectures concerning your future, and will also have personal interviews with the Chief Steward. Identification photos will be taken, and before you leave the camp, you’ll be issued with your I.D. book and Discharge Book.” He paused, hands on hips, feet astride, “Are there any questions?”

The silence was deafening; he had our complete attention.

“No? OK. Attention! Pool boys left turn. By the right, quick march.”

We were marched off the parade ground toward the sick bay, where our nurse awaited to give us our various inoculations, required by the Board of Health.

The excitement in the ranks was electric

“Hey Winchester, how many jabs we gonna get?” asked an anxious Tommy.

“I ‘erd they give yer abaht free, but there’s allsorts in ‘em. Yer arm swells up ‘n’ some blokes get sick ‘n’ ‘av ter ‘av anuvver week on ner course.”

“Jesus, that’d piss yer orf , woonit.”

“One o’ the last pool boys told us yer gorrit in de arse!”

“Nah, they wouldn’t stick it in yer brains mate, even if there is plenty o’ room!”

“I ‘erd the needle’s as fick as a nail.”

“Might be, but it still wouldn’t be as fick as you Smiffy.”

“Ah piss orf, I’ll be glad to see the back of youze lot.”

“Stop talking in the ranks, Pool boys, Halt.  Oright, when I give the command, I wancher ter fall out ’n form a queue into sickbay. The Nurse will call you in when she’s ready. Pool boys, fall out.”

The door to sickbay was open, though we couldn’t see in because of the shadow.

A female voice called. “Right, in you come, remove your jackets and shirts. Quickly now”

No one wanted to be first, but at least the waiting would be over, then we could have a fag whilst waiting for the others. We undressed whilst the nurse stood waiting impatiently.

The first of the boys offered his left arm, and a needle went in, before he was passed onto another nurse who proceeded to stab at his skin with what appeared to be a small scalpel. Before we knew it we were putting our jackets back on, and dashing outside for a fag.

“Did yew ‘ear wot they just stuck in us?” asked one lad, rubbing his arm.

“Yeah a right old collection there mate, every inoculation known to man, from toe jam to piles.”

We’d been told that we may experience some slight sickness, or light headedness, and would be on light duties for two days. Cool.

Two huts away, our old friend, the camp barber had set up shop and was waiting for his victims.

“Cor, don’t tell me they’re gonna send us ‘ome wiv a bleedin’ Vindi ‘aircut?”

“We certainly are lad, it’s all part o’ the service, wouldn’t want yer muvver ter fink we ‘adn’t looked after ‘er little Johnny now would we? An’ fink ‘ow nice yer’ll look when yer report ter the Pool before yer go ‘ome! besides, wiv a nice fresh ‘aircut, we c’n guarantee that cher will wear yer berets.”

The buzz of the clippers assured us that a college boy style probably wasn’t going to happen, and we filed out of the barbers hut, one by one, each of us sporting a brand new, short back’n sides.

We were allowed to make our own way down to the ship for dinner.

“What’s ‘appnin' after dinner Archie?” Asked Devon, as we ambled back to our hut. There was plenty of time and we were in no rush to wait on the towpath.

“Make an’ mend, mate, ‘member, we’re on light duties.”

“Oh? Neat, I c’n do me dhobi, today an’ give me battledress a nice press, ready for passing out parade.”

“Don’t get too serious Winchester, it won’t be a big do, just a speech, and we fall out, go pick up our suitcases an’ kitbags, and that’s it. On the bus an’ out’v ‘ere.”

Around the hut, a couple of lads were beginning to look a little green around the gills, despite the gloom of the interior. Smithy had tried to climb up to his bunk for a lie down, but had given up, and was sitting on the bottom bunk, head between his knees.

“I fink I’m gonna pass out.” He mumbled.

“I wouldn’t if you don’t want to spend another week ‘ere mate, don’t let anyone know yer a bit orf.”

“Aye Smithy, better stay here while we have dinner, have a wee kip, an we’ll see if we c’n scrounge up the makings for a buttie. Don’t go to sickbay an say yer no well.” Urged Roy.

No one wanted to do another week here and miss out on the last ride with our mates, to the station.

We left Smithy on another boys’ bed, and made our way to the ship. Smithy wasn’t the only one feeling somewhat off, and there were a couple of lads who weren’t as hungry as was normal.

Tomorrow we would pose for our identification photographs in the Rec hall, and were required to be in walk-out dress. As we had the afternoon to ourselves for make and mend, it was an ideal opportunity to do our dhobi, and press battledress. I made another stash of fags for throwing an iron over other lads’ jackets.

With only a few days left on our course, some of the lads were already receiving their joining orders. They wouldn’t be fortunate enough to have any home leave before joining their first ships. My mate Bushey, who had come to camp as a deck hand, the intake previous to ours, was also now a “Pool Boy,” and sought me out to let me know that he would be unable to complete our arranged journey to report at the Pool, then travel home together. He had been given orders to join the Oriana at Southampton, and was leaving camp a day earlier than the rest of us. I congratulated him on his success, as the rumour was that only the best boys went to the passenger ships, with lesser mortals given passenger/cargo, general cargo, tankers, then tramps. No-one ever really knew if the allocation rumour was correct, but I bet it disappointed a number of lads who received a tanker or tramp as their first posting.

The following morning after breakfast, we were ordered back to our billet to change into walking out dress, and were inspected on the parade ground, before being marched down to the Rec hall. Talk about chuffed, you knew you were going home when you had your discharge book photo taken. We shuffled into the hall, and grabbed a chair from the stacks up against the far wall.

A bed sheet had been stuck on the wall as a photographer’s backdrop, and a straight backed chair was two feet from the wall, facing the photographer’s camera. The camera seemed to be as old as the photographer, and I wouldn’t have been surprised had I been told it was steam driven.

As each boy was called out alphabetically, he was handed a board, which contained the letter R and several numbers. These were our discharge numbers. As each boy took the chair for his photo, his name was checked against a list, and the number board was changed according to the list. We had two photos taken, the first, holding the number board, like prisoner’s mug shots, and the second was optional, taken in a more relaxed pose, side on so that our badges were visible. These were called “Mum’s mementoes. ” Most boys took the option to have the extra photo, though some didn’t have the money to pay for it and had to do without.

With so many boys waiting to have their photos taken, the morning was pretty much used up. Having the name of Young ensured that I would be pretty close to last on the list, and I joined the two ranks of lads outside, waiting to be marched down to the ship for lunch.

The lads who were leaving camp in a month’s time looked enviously at us as we arrived at the gangway queue in our battledress uniforms. They all knew we were marching out in a couple of days, and the camp would be pretty empty once we had gone. Didn’t we let them know it too!

“Stick it new boys, you ain’t never goin ‘ome,” we called. The last intake said nothing, staring glumly at us.

“Coming up top for a fag?” Asked Archie. We had just finished lunch and had time to kill before we were to re assemble outside the Rec room for our lecture.

“Nah,” said Phil, “we want to go back to the billet to draw on our kitbags.” There was some sort of tradition that Pool Boys drew anchors and other seaman like objects on their luggage to ensure that the “civvies” knew we were hardened seamen. It also gave worried mothers a warning to lock up their daughters.

The lecture that afternoon was by a visiting Medical Officer, on the dangers and symptoms of various social diseases. We were all looking forward to it immensely.

As we entered the Rec room, we saw that a cine projector had been set up.

“Right lads, come in and grab a chair as quick as you can, and sit down.” Said the officer in charge.

Once settled, the officer introduced the visiting MO, and sat at one side of the stage. He had obviously seen the movie several times, and was looking a little bored.

“Good afternoon lads,” he began, “I’m doctor Witherspoon, and I’m here to instruct you on the symptoms of Venereal disease, and how to prevent it.” There was no doubt about it; he had our full attention.

“Now, if someone will turn off the lights, I can start the film.”

“You will note that this is an old wartime, Air force training film, and though it’s now quite old, I can assure you that the sights and symptoms you are about to see, haven’t changed in thousands of years. Only medication and education have changed.”

The film lasted about half an hour, and showed us, in full living colour, some of the joys we could look forward to if we weren’t careful. The images were burned into my memory and to this day, I can recall some of the hideous injuries sustained by those poor unfortunates. In the Armed Forces during the war, victims of social disease were charged with the offence of ‘self inflicted’ injury. So fearful of the consequence of the charge were some of these servicemen; that they had failed to report the disease to their Medical Officers.

The film ended and the tail of cellulose flapped around at the end of the real.

“Lights.” Called out our officer, who seemed keen to see the look on our faces.

“Now I know that you all think that this will never happen to you, but I can assure you all. If you stay at sea for five years, every single one of you, will have had at least one of these diseases, at least once.” The VMO stood with hands on hips, feet astride, obviously enjoying our reaction.

“Bugger that,” said a voice, “I’m not doing it.”

Around the audience, vows of chastity were heartily proclaimed.

The second half of the lecture was only slightly less bile making, as we were instructed in the use and application of the Board Of Trade supplied, anti VD kits.

Obviously the Board of Trade thought that the various ladies we were to encounter in the future would be both pleased and understanding when we were to break off a passionate embrace, to squeeze one tube of goo up the eye of our willies, smear another tube of goo over our entire genital area, by use of the thoughtfully supplied piece of greasy gauze, and then encase the whole greasy mess in a thick, Board of Trade condom.

I can just imagine the ensuing conversation. “Yes, of course I love and respect you, and totally believe that this is indeed your first time, but darling, this is going to be so much better for both of us.”

Let’s face it; it wasn’t going to happen. Celibacy then, was our only other alternative.

A couple of days later, we were paraded for the final time. There was no fanfare of trumpets, nor crowds of well wishers, waving flags and kissing us goodbye. It seemed that for all anyone cared, our time at the Vindi hadn’t even been noted. We didn’t care though, soon we were to collect our Identification book, and Discharge book, and our travel warrants home via our nearest home Pool, where we were to report.

Captain Poore stood in front of the parade and gave us his farewell address, though I doubt that many were listening.

“Pool Boys, dismissed.” We right turned, saluted, and took three paces. Our Vindi internship was complete.

Our luggage was piled up near the gatehouse, and we walked over to collect it and our envelope of discharge books and warrants, before pilling onto our bus to Gloucester station.

“Fank Christ that’s over, I never want to fink of this place again.” Said one of the lads.

The drive to the station was one of excitement and high jinks, although once there, the first of our farewells were said, as boys split up, and went their varied ways.

About a dozen of us were going to London where we would split up once more, and head to our various Pools. Only two of us were to report to the West India Dock, and we arrived excitedly in the early afternoon.

“Two more lambs to the slaughter?” The man at the counter called, looking at us.

“Yes sir,” we answered.

“Don’t call me sir, that’s my father, come up and show me yer discharge books.”

We did as we were told, feeling very conspicuous in our uniforms.

“Well, yer in luck, there’s nuffink ‘ere for yer at the moment, go ‘ome an ave a few days leave. We’ll phone yer when sumfink comes up.” He entered our names on the list of seamen looking for work, checked that he had our phone numbers and home addresses, and we were free to go home.

We picked up our luggage and staggered off down the dock road toward the bus stop. A short while later, we were at the railway station and for the two of us, the end of the road, as we were now to go our separate ways.

“Well, see yer mate, keep in touch ay.”

“Yer, youze c’n count on it, all the best.”

We shook hands, and I made my way to the underground. I wished I had my pullover out; it was getting cool.

Two hours later, I was walking up Shady Lane to the back entrance of our house. Somehow our dog, Lassie knew I was coming home, and she waddled up the lane wagging her ample rump, a huge grin on her face.

“Hi Mum, I’m home,” I called.Dad was sitting in his chair, reading, “Hello son,” he said, “when are you going back?”