Up Spirits

Peter Broadbent

Description

Until that fateful day in 1970 when the Royal Navy abolished the rum ration, the one thing that every Royal Navy sailor could rely on was that 'Up Spirits' would be piped at approximately 11:45 each day . 'Tot-time' was the cue for plenty of banter and lamp-swinging, but also for baffling negotiations as to who might have sippers, wets, gulpers, halfers, sandy bottoms, or their share of 'Queen's'. With the same humour, affection and story-telling ability that characterised his earlier naval memoirs, including HMS Ganges Days and HMS Bermuda Days, Peter Broadbent tells the tale of his nine months as an Able Seaman on board HMS Gurkha, touring the Persian Gulf with a few detours to the Seychelles, Kenya and the Mozambique channel. Along the way he coxswains Royal Marines on a RIB to track down smugglers, pits his wits against a line-up of ultra-intelligent dolphins, persuades dozens of girls from a jam factory in Leeds to write to 'lonely sailors', is one of the transfer team that initiated the 'Beira Bucket' when used to trade its contents for desperately needed toilet paper from HMS Eskimo, and makes it to Gibraltar in time to celebrate England winning the 1966 World Cup. Ayo Gurkhali!

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 09 mars 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781911105107
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
UP SPIRITS
A Young Tot-Drinker’s Memoir
by
Peter Broadbent



Publisher Information
First published in 2016 by
Chaplin Books
1 Eliza Place
Gosport PO12 4UN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2016 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.



Ode to the Tot


In the days of Admiral Nelson
Or it might have been before.
The Navy got its heritage
Its customs and its law.
Now some of these were good things
And some of them were not
But they’ll never find how to replace
That daily little tot.
It isn’t served haphazard
Like tea or even beer
But with pencil, book and water
And other useless gear.
Jack Dusty and his winger
Perform a sacred rite
They brew a swill called ‘two & one’
Over which we have to fight.
With bottle, jug and fanny
We muster at the shrine
‘Get into line, you sailors
...that first fanny’s mine.’
Then with murmured incantations
Such as ‘seven, one, two’
The high priest and his acolyte
Dispense the holy brew.
When the seas are breaking over
And you feel you’ve had enough
When the chef has dropped his tatties
And his oppo’s burnt the duff.
When your locker’s full of hogwash
And your hammock’s gone to rot
There’s nothing that can quite touch it
...your daily little TOT.
Anon



Foreword
I wanted to record, from a young man’s perspective, that most enjoyable of moments immediately before lunch when all of us who were entitled gathered around the mess table and kept the tradition of tot time and rum-fuelled, lower-deck dialogue alive.
The messdeck tot, for those below the rank of Petty Officer, was known as grog and consisted of one gill (0.142 litres) of neat rum mixed with two gills of clean water. The addition of water prevented us from stock-piling it.
‘Up Spirits’ was piped at 11:45 every day. In a corner of a messdeck somewhere onboard, someone would respond in the time-honoured fashion...
‘Stand fast the Holy Ghost.’
I was still serving on 31 July 1970 - ‘Black Tot Day’ - when the Royal Naval tot was officially withdrawn, bringing to an end a tradition dating back more than 300 years.
I joined HMS Gurkha when I was twenty years old and this book, interlaced with a good deal of ‘tot-time’ banter and lamp-swinging, is a reasonably accurate account of her second commission from the dreariness of a Rosyth Dockyard refit in December 1964 through a nine-month stretch in the Persian Gulf visiting Bahrain, Abu Dhabi, Dubai and Muscat before these places became unashamedly wealthy. HMS Gurkha was one of the first ships to blockade the port of Beira in March 1966. When she was relieved by HMS Eskimo , she was relieved in more than one way. Eskimo graciously transferred a crate full of toilet rolls to us at sea when we ran out. In return, we transferred something alcoholic in a brand new Pusser’s galvanised bucket that was never returned. I believe that this was the bucket that became the iconic ‘Beira Bucket’ that is now on display in the Royal Naval Museum, Portsmouth.
We’d been on Beira Patrol because the Government of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) had unilaterally declared itself independent; in response the United Nations imposed sanctions and Royal Navy ships were given the task of preventing oil tankers from discharging their cargo at Beira, the nearest port serving land-locked Rhodesia. The blockade was to last nine years.
Beira Patrol was a lacklustre and monotonous affair. To alleviate boredom, HM ships devised a variety of ways to make the time more pleasurable. Sods’ operas and inter-ship competitions were very popular, varied and sometimes bloody. The prize of these contests was the Beira Bucket, generally won by the relieving vessel and occasionally hoisted high on the winning ship’s yardarm.


The Beira Bucket
HMS Gurkha was one of the last ships to allow a ‘run ashore’ in Aden. She suffered an engine room fire after leaving the Seychelles en route to Aden, but nevertheless made it back through the Suez Canal to Gibraltar in time to celebrate the night England won the World Cup in July 1966.
This book is based on my own personal memories combined with a good deal of ‘lamp-swinging’ and story telling. The only real people in the book are Miss Margaret Mary Lamin, Sir William Luce, his daughter Miss Diana Luce, Miss Vicky Vigors - and me. No other characters in the book represent, or are based on, actual second commission crewmembers onboard HMS Gurkha .
My sincere apologies to those in authority onboard HMS Gurkha at the time. My characterisation has been done for amusement and in no way reflects the attitude or professionalism of anybody. My criticism of the Stokers and Communication Branches is also done for laughs and in no way reflects their professionalism. I also apologise to anybody who held decision-making positions at Pudsey Town Hall. I hope that I don’t offend anybody. If I do, please accept my apologies: I’ll buy you a very small beer... if you can track me down.
I would like to acknowledge the help of Ian Green, George Runacus, David Smith and Anthony Walker who have allowed me to use some photographs and have reminded me of details of HMS Gurkha ’s second commission. Thank you all.
I hope that my fellow tot ‘imbibers’ can still smell and taste that unique blend of six of the world’s finest Caribbean rums...
I leave you with this:
‘You cannot imagine how tough these people were: Royal Navy men were a race apart. They walked differently, they talked differently, they dressed differently, they drank excessively and were built to last. They knew if they got drunk they would be punished... and they still got drunk.’
Peter Broadbent (P/053653)
Ex Junior Seaman 2 nd class
Hondón de Las Nieves, Spain.
December 2015.
PS: Miss Diana Luce met Lieutenant David Hart-Dyke onboard HMS Gurkha and they subsequently married. ‘Four Weeks in May’ (A Captain’s Story of War at Sea) published by Atlantic Books, is David Hart-Dyke’s story of his time as Captain of HMS Coventry during the Falklands Conflict: it’s a remarkable book.



A Dryad RP2?
I’m the only person joining HMS Dryad this morning and the only person in the Ship’s Office queue.
‘Name?’
‘Broadbent.’
‘Rate?’
‘Able Seaman.’
The face is different but the attitude of the world-weary Petty Officer sitting on the opposite side of the chest-high counter is exactly the same as the last time I joined the Royal Navy’s Radar Plotting establishment at Southwick. He flicks through his card index tray with nicotined fingers before looking up at me with unfriendly eyes.
‘You tired, laddie?’
‘No, PO.’ I stiffen slightly: he’s a Scotsman.
‘Then don’t lean on my counter.’
I straighten up.
He looks at my right arm. ‘Are you the Able Seaman Broadbent who repeatedly failed his simple starring exam a couple of years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, PO.’
‘What simpleton recommended you for an RP2 course, Able Seaman Broadbent?’
‘Don’t know, PO.’
‘So,’ he said, waving my index card in front of me. ‘What shall we do with you until your course starts?’
‘Sullage party?’ I suggest: I’d enjoyed a stint dealing with Dryad ’s rubbish the last time I was here.
‘Sullage party... sullage party.’ He scratches the side of his veined nose with his pen. ‘A perfect combination perhaps... you and rubbish. I’ll talk to the Buffer.’ He drops his pen. ‘You’re in Ross 8 mess. Report to the Buffer at 08:00 tomorrow morning.’ He slaps Dryad ’s ridiculously complicated joining routine papers on top of the counter. ‘Complete those and return them fully stamped by 15:30 today. Next! And don’t you lean on my counter, laddie.’
There is nobody behind me.
As I turn to leave, the Petty Officer lights a needle thin, hand-rolled tickler.
HMS Dryad is a familiar place and I take my time getting some of my joining routine stamped and signed at the numerous offices and hideaways. With half of it complete I decide that enough is enough for the time being: having reached the magic age of twenty I’m looking forward to my tot and dinner.
Tot-time at Dryad is an anti-social affair. I join an orderly queue under the watchful eye of the Officer-of-the-Day, the duty Regulator and the Master-at-Arms to show my ID card and be ticked off on the ‘entitled’ list. It’s my first day, my joining routine is only half finished and my name doesn’t yet appear on the list.
‘Stand over there,’ says the Leading Regulator, waving me away before nodding to the bloke behind me. ‘Name?’
I wait patiently until the queue has gone. The Officer-of-the-Day takes a while to calculate, from my date of birth shown on my ID card, that I am old enough to draw my tot.
‘Your joining routine should have been completed before you came for your tot, young man,’ says the Master-at-Arms, glaring at me from beneath the peak of his cap.
‘Didn’t realise that, Master,’ I reply as I wrap my ‘green coat’ tightly aro