Singapore Fling

Peter Broadbent

Description

Having survived the notorious Training Establishment HMS Ganges and 'cut his teeth' onboard HMS Bermuda, Peter Broadbent believed that he was equipped for anything the Royal Navy could throw at him.For 18 incident-filled months (1962-64) he 'did his bit' onboard HMS Lincoln caught up in the Malaysian Crisis, on the other side of the world. For the young sailor, this meant visiting every corner of the Far East from Singapore, Hong Kong and Osaka, to Manila, Sandakan and Lankawi. The nature of the Crisis seemed to pass him by, as he was more interested in acquiring a suntan, picnicking on sandy beaches, buying his first pair of flip-flops, exploring Bugis Street, downing bottles of Tiger beer, and avoiding the clutches of 'Suzie Right', 'Calamity Jayne' and a girl with bad teeth known as 'Piano'. Along the way, he crossed the equator, qualified as an AB, tasted his first rum ration, manned a Kumpit Boarding Party in search of enemy vessels, and spent a week tramping through the jungle with the Gurkhas.His return to the UK coincided with the appearance on the streets of that design classic ... the mini-skirt. He had just celebrated his twentieth birthday and the girls of the United Kingdom voluntarily hoisted their hemlines in acknowledgment.This engaging and humorous memoir, filled with colourful characters, is every bit as gripping as Peter Broadbent's previous books, which have garnered excellent reviews.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 13 mars 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781909183742
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
A SINGAPORE FLING
An AB’s Far-Flung Adventure
by Peter Broadbent



Publisher Information
First published in 2015 by
Chaplin Books
1 Eliza Place
Gosport PO12 4UN
www.chaplinbooks.co .uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2015 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2015 Peter Broadbent
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.



Foreword
Having survived the notorious Training Establishment HMS Ganges and ‘cut my teeth’ onboard the infamous Battle Cruiser HMS Bermuda , I believed that - as an Ordinary Seaman Radar Plotter - I was equipped for anything the Royal Navy could throw at me.
For 18 incident-filled months (1962-64) I ‘did my bit’ onboard HMS Lincoln caught up in an Oriental squabble on the other side of the world known as the ‘Malaysian Crisis’. Although our homeport was Singapore, we spent time in Hong Kong, Osaka, Kobe, Manila, Tawau, Jesselton, Sandakan, Lahad Datu, Semporna, Lankawi and the Indian Ocean RAF station at Gan. On Kumpit Patrol, we ploughed our lonely furrow through the Andaman, South China, Sulu, Banda, Flores, Java, and Sulawesi Seas … but crossed the Equator only once. I cavorted myself down Hong Kong’s Lockhart, Hennessy, Cameron and Hankow Roads, and in the many Wan-Chai side streets and go-downs. I horsed around in Singapore’s Sembawang village, niftily defying the advances of ‘Suzie Right’, ‘Lilly the legs’, ‘Calamity Jayne’ and a girl with bad teeth known as ‘Piano’. In Japan I was bathed to within an inch of my life by the origami-gifted Harumi.
During Borneo Patrol, I was a member of the front-line ‘Kumpit Boarding Party’ that stopped and searched ‘enemy’ vessels. I spent an interesting week with the Gurkhas at Kota Tinggi in the Malayan jungle. Finally, with good friends and an ice-cold Tiger beer at my elbow, I saw the sun come up over Singapore’s notorious Bugis Street the night before returning to the UK.
My return, in early 1964, coincided with the appearance on the streets of that design classic … the mini-skirt. I had just celebrated my twentieth birthday and the girls of the United Kingdom voluntarily hoisted their hemlines in acknowledgment. Unfortunately, I’d missed hearing The Beatles for the first time. On the downside, returning to the UK sporting a well-ingrained suntan was not welcomed by everyone … in particular an intolerant bar owner in central Bradford.
The only real person in my story is me: none of the book’s characters represent, or are based on, actual crewmembers. I gratefully acknowledge those who served onboard HMS Lincoln with me, all of whom made my first trip to the Far East the most memorable period of my young life.
Peter Broadbent
Ex Junior Seaman 2 nd Class (P/053653)
Hondón de Las Nieves, Spain
January 2015



Chapter One
Go East, Young Man
‘Name?’
‘Broadbent.’
‘PARDON?’
‘Broadbent, PO.’
‘Rate?’
‘Ordinary Seaman.’
The sullen Petty Officer on the opposite side of the chest-high counter flicks through a tray of index cards.
I am at the front of a short queue of three joining HMS Dryad this morning.
The Petty Officer looks up at me with bored, unfriendly eyes. ‘You tired, lad?’
‘No.’
‘No WHAT?’
‘No, PO.’
‘Then don’t lean on my counter.’
I straighten up.
He looks at my arm badge. ‘Still a basic Radar Plotter I see.’
I nod. ‘Yes, PO.’
He extracts a card from his tray, ‘Got ya.’ He scans the card. ‘You have failed your simple starring exam three times, Ordinary Seaman Broadbent.’
‘That’s correct ... yes, PO.’
Without looking at me he reads from my card. ‘You have a draft chit already, young man. HMS Lincoln will have the pleasure of your lack of knowledge in October. Until then you will work on the Buffers Party. We can’t allow anyone who struggles to pass a simple starring exam to work near anything remotely technical, can we?’
I nod in agreement. ‘No, PO.’
He places a sheet of paper in front of me. ‘Joining routine: have it back here completed by 15:30 today. You’re in Ross 6 mess. See the Killick of the mess for your locker key. Next.’
I collect my kit bag from outside the clock tower and carry it down to Ross 6 mess. It’s my second time at HMS Dryad and I know the way.
I am surprised to discover that the Killick of Ross 6 mess is Leading Seaman Lee who was on HMS Bermuda with me.
As he hands me my locker key I say. ‘I’ve got a draft chit already.’
‘Where?’ he asks.
‘HMS Lincoln.’
He stops what he is doing and looks directly at me. ‘Well, there’s a coincidence.’
‘Eh?’
‘Me too.’
‘What is it and where is it - do you know?’ I ask.
‘Frigate in Singapore.’
Singapore! I toss my locker key in the air and try to catch it, but miss. I’m tingling all over. ‘Really ... Singapore?’
‘Yep.’
‘I go in October.’ I pick my locker key up.
‘I suppose we’ll all be flying out together,’ says Tansy. ‘Unpack your kit then, young ’un and get on with your joining routine.’
As I wander around Dryad getting my joining sheet stamped and signed, I can’t stop thinking about Singapore. Since that day in the Leeds Recruiting Office, I’ve dreamt of far distant tropical places, relaxing under cloudless blue skies and getting myself a proper suntan.
Back in the mess ‘Lash’ Trainer, a mate from Ganges and Bermuda , says that he’s also drafted to HMS Lincoln .
‘Third ship together then, mate,’ I say, pleased that I will know at least two people onboard.
***
Wilco and I exchanged letters, containing overtly sexual promises and guarantees, while I was onboard HMS Bermuda . I don’t expect her to make a public fuss in the canteen ... but she does.
I’m third in the canteen queue when she spots me. She overfills someone’s tea, plonks her large NAAFI kettle down and slithers over the top of her counter, flashing her nyloned legs in the process. She throws one of her arms around my shoulder and squeezes my bottom with the other. ‘Peter ... welcome back.’
The blokes in the queue watch with interest as she holds me at arm’s length and licks her crimson lips. She hasn’t changed: still sensuously gorgeous. The top button of her NAAFI overall is undone, allowing it to gape a little.
‘Did you enjoy my letters?’ she asks.
‘Certainly did.’
‘What about the naughty bits?’
‘Particularly those ... yeah.’
‘Thought you’d like ’em.’ She wraps her arms around herself. ‘How long you here for?’
‘Till October. I’ve got a draft to Singapore.’
‘Oh no!’ She drapes both arms over my shoulders and presses her breasts firmly into my chest. ‘I’ll see if there are any NAAFI jobs going in Singapore then.’
‘That’d be good,’ I reply. My head is ringing. Wilco in Singapore. Wilco in the sunshine. Wilco in, or out of, a bikini...
The bloke at the front of the queue slaps the counter. ‘I’ve only got ten minutes to drink mi tea, love.’
She gives me a kiss on my cheek and slithers back over her counter. ‘Tea and one sugar is it?’ she asks.
‘After watching that performance, love ... I’ll ’ave three sugars.’
***
The detail of Wilco’s greeting flies around Dryad and my reputation rockets.
The first muster at the Buffer’s cabooch is always a worry: as a new arrival you never know what kind of a job you’ll be given. I wonder if the Petty Officer in the Ship’s Office has told the Buffer that I have to be kept away from anything remotely technical. Lash and I stand to one side while everybody else is given their jobs around the Southwick Estate.
The Buffer looks at Lash. ‘What jobs have you done at Dryad before, Trainer?’
‘Err ... did some grass cutting down the back drive year before last, Chief,’ says Lash unenthusiastically.
‘Just the lad I’m looking for then.’ He rubs his hands. ‘Report to Leading Seaman Potter. For the next fortnight, you are part of the dredging party cleaning out the river over by the Estate boundary. You’ll need to draw seaboots and a shovel.’
Lash nods. He looks at me with downcast eyes.
He turns his attention to me. ‘Now what can I find to suit your talents, Ordinary Seaman Broadbent?’
I gulp. I think he’s being sardonic.
‘Having given it some considerable thought...’
I think I know where this is going.
‘Having given it some considerable thought ... Sullage Party is the place for you, young man. You’ll need to draw a couple of extra pairs of overalls and report to Leading Seaman Collier in the laundry after dinner today. For the rest of the morning you can grab a broom and help my gang of specialist technicians sweep the Parade Ground. Capiche?’
‘Yes, Chief. Thank you, Chief.’
***
Sullage Party doesn’t sound glamorous, but it proves to be a job that I’m perfectly suited to. As it involves working odd hours, it is termed a ‘blue card’ job, which means that I don’t keep normal duty watches and avoid being part of the dreaded Emergency Party and sleeping fully clothed in the old Nissen hut behind the main gate.
My working day starts at 05:30 each morning, well before the rest of the camp are awake. Four of us, under the guidance of three-badge Leading Seaman Collier, ‘trolley’ bins full of the previous day’