It has to Start Somewhere…..

In the late forties I enrolled as an artificer apprentice in the Royal Navy.  Well, it wasn't quite as easy as just enrolling.   Initially there was the hurdle of a competitive entrance examination and secondly I had to survive the embarrassment of standing stark naked with a dozen or so other impressionable teenage boys in a draughty drill hall at HMS Ariel, the Naval Air Electrical School in Warrington, to be examined by a naval doctor, Surgeon-Lieutenant Solomons, and his two spotty Wren assistants.  And so it was that, having satisfied all the examiners (except perhaps the Wrens), I arrived on a cold January evening at HMS Fisgard, in Cornwall, for the first stage of the five-year training period. 

For the first few days the officers and NCOs were very kind and the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty were disposed to be particularly generous.  On the completion of all the formalities we were to be supplied with a comprehensive selection of uniform clothes, our own set of cutlery, blankets and pillows.  Not only that but we were to receive four meals per day and get paid the princely sum of ten shillings and sixpence per week into the bargain.  In the austere aftermath of a world war this was largesse indeed and there were exciting prospects ahead for a young lad who had never before handled more cash than half a crown.  In the throes of being hormonally challenged I fantasised that the girls of the West Country, or some of them at least, were about to undergo an interesting experience. 

The first day or so were devoted to guided tours and indoctrination. 

'Here is where we have our ceremonial parades',

'These are the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions which you will have to live by',

'There are the sailing cutters and whalers that you may use for banyans and jolly picnics',

 'Here is the rifle range where you can come and practice your shooting skills.' 

The tours were interspersed with lectures, demonstrations and, in propaganda mode, a mandatory viewing of Noel Coward's "In Which We Serve,” a film that was expected to provide inspiration and motivation.  So it went on until the afternoon of the third day when the new recruits were taken to the East recreation hall and presented in succession with two forms.  On the first I had to fill out various demographic details of my home life, schooling, next of kin and so on.  It also asked me to give some idea of the ambitions entertained with regard to my forthcoming naval career.  I recall writing that I wanted to become a lieutenant and earn £1000 per year.  I had little idea then of where a lieutenant came in the naval hierarchy, but the required income was about two and a half times my father's salary and I figured that would be enough for anyone.  The second form was effectively a contract which, when signed, bound me to the Royal Navy until I was thirty years old.  And so the die was cast. 

Things were not quite so rosy thereafter.  The NCOs suddenly were more aloof and tended to shout a lot.  "Would you mind?" became "You will!"  The most senior of them took to going round with a sort of swagger stick with which unsuspecting apprentices would receive the occasional poke in inappropriate places at inopportune times. There were to be mandatory physical education periods and sporting activities.  In the gym the PT instructors carried a device known as a stonniker, often a beautifully made artefact comprising a rope's end padded with kapok and sewn into a canvas sleeve.  About half a metre long, the stonniker was a weighty object capable of inflicting the maximum pain whilst leaving a minimum of evidence. Although the sporting activities were something to look forward to there was a difficulty in that The Lords Commissioners, having provided all our uniform needs, did not think it necessary to run to the inclusion of football boots, shin pads and all the various accoutrements required by the keen sportsman.  

"Never mind lads,” said our Divisional Petty Officer. “Come down to the slops room and we'll get you kitted out properly.  You can pay for your gear a little bit each week.”  

This seemed a very reasonable approach and so most of the new recruits made use of their sudden, and unexpected, credit worthiness to buy everything that might be needed for the sporting year ahead.  There were no mentors to guide them in this endeavour and the dire consequences of such reckless spending did not become clear until the first pay-day. 

According to our two sons, both of whom have carved out naval careers, pay parades are an unknown quantity.  Nowadays, new recruits are treated to an explanatory talk given by a representative of one of the major high street banks.  There is a requirement for new officers and ratings to have a bank account into which the Supply and Secretariat division are able to deposit salary and other emoluments that become due from time to time.   Back in the forties and fifties there was no such sophistication, as much for practical reasons as for anything else.  Pay-day provided another excuse, if it was needed, to impart further underpinning to the discipline and ceremonial that was, in those days, very much a part of naval life.  The consensus view of old ‘ship-mates’ is that Thursday of alternate weeks was pay-day.  Apprentices working in the factory packed up work at 11.00am in order to give them time to get cleaned up before donning blue serge suit, collar and tie and shiny boots for the pre-pay inspection.  Other apprentices engaged in non-dirty activities packed up fifteen minutes later and all forgathered at the recreation room promptly at 11.30 where they were lined up and called to attention by the ‘Hook Boys’, or petty officer apprentices attached to each division.  After a brief inspection the division was broken into groups on the basis of seniority and marched forward to stop a few paces short of the pay tables presided over by the paying officers with their ledger keeping assistants.  The proceedings were carried out under the watchful eye of the Master at Arms, a formidable chief petty officer responsible for discipline in the establishment who, for reasons that soon became abundantly clear, took his position by the new entries pay table.  

The procedure for making payments was highly formalized.  The ledger assistant, usually a leading rating from the supply and secretariat division, called out the name and the payee responded with his official number, saluted, stepped smartly forward, removed his cap and presented it, with his pay-book on top to the paying officer.  The ledger assistant then called out the amount due and the paying officer placed this amount on the extended cap.   Having received his pay the payee took one pace to the rear, made a left or right turn as appropriate, and marched off after pocketing his pay and replacing his cap.  All very formal and very simple!  Each transaction should have taken just a few seconds but on that first pay-day there were several hold-ups at the new entries table and the Master at Arms could be seen having words with a number of the apprentices.  From the back, however, it was not at all clear what was going on and, with a talking embargo in place, the rest of us had to wait until finding out at first hand during our own turn at the table.  Eventually my name was called. 

“MX857429 Sir” I bellowed, saluting and stepping forward in the approved manner. 

“Shillings Four” intoned the ledger assistant and the paying officer solemnly placed two florins on my extended cap.   To someone who was expecting to receive the best part of a guinea this came as a disaster.  There was surely a mistake. 

“But” I spluttered.

“No talking to the officer” barked the Master at Arms.

“But” I said again, determined to be heard.

“Right,” said the Master at Arms as he wrote something down in a small notebook, “Get your body down to the regulating office.  Report to the duty petty officer and tell him that you have to wait there for me.” 

I arrived at the regulating office in a state of shock to find that I was not alone.  There were four or five other new entry apprentices also waiting for the Master at Arms.   As we stood there on the veranda outside the office there were quick whispered exchanges.  All of us had received ‘shillings four’ whilst expecting much more and all of us had sought to query the amount with the paying officer.   There were many others apparently who had staggered away from the pay table looking dazed or distressed but had not had the bottle to try and speak out about it.  Eventually the Master at Arms arrived and the duty petty officer marched us in to his office and called us to attention.   For the first, and not for the last time, I was the recipient of a well crafted tirade of abuse about my ancestry for what seemed to all of us to be a pathetically minor misdemeanour. 

“And you” bawled the MAA, glaring at me, “disobeyed my direct order.  Petty officer, read out the relevant King’s Regulation.” 

“Every person subject to this Act”, droned the petty officer, “who shall disobey the direct order of an officer or senior rating shall be subject to death, or any other punishment that is hereinafter mentioned.” 

“What have you got to say for yourselves” barked the Master at Arms. 

“Sorry Master”, we spluttered, by this time really scared as to what the consequences might be. 

“Right”, he said, “since this is a first offence for all of you I am going to let you go with a warning.  But you will be watched.  Your names have been noted.  Any further offences will be treated very seriously. Away you go!” 

And so we headed off, tails between our legs, for the mess hall and dinner.   It had been a very bad day so far and it didn’t get any better.   Anticipation of a little spending money had been cruelly dashed and, having arrived late at the mess hall, the final indignity was the need to accept the cold and stodgy offerings that everyone else had turned down.

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