Non Permitto Batardi Carborundum……
There was lots of “illegitimate” entertainment at Fisgard for those that wanted to get involved. Restless and somewhat rebellious young men had to find something to do to let off steam or otherwise occupy themselves during the few hours that were genuinely free time. In many cases these activities were highly imaginative and started off as a prank which then went on to misfire. Like the time when, in the eyes of the miscreants, the Commander (E) had instituted some particularly unjust retribution for a minor offence. It was well known that the Commander (E)’s pride and joy was a beautiful, dark green, Bentley Tourer and it seemed that a fitting revenge would be to “steal” the Bentley and hide it, thereby causing untold anguish to its owner. The “hot wiring” part of the scam went according to plan and the Bentley was driven to the East side of the camp where it was proposed to secrete it between two of the lower huts at the back of Watt Block. It was when it was being reversed into position that things went badly wrong and the Bentley made robust contact with a wall much to the detriment of its rear bumper. Panic all round!
A regularly recurrent activity involved apprentices who took it upon themselves to engage in the manufacture of ordnance of various kinds. “Various kinds” is perhaps an exaggeration because it was undoubtedly simpler to manufacture a cannon than a flintlock, or the firing mechanism of a pistol. Inspiration for this activity may have stemmed from an anecdote, a piece of Fisgard folklore, that was in circulation in the late forties, about a group of apprentices who determined to revive the fighting potential of one of the highly polished brass cannons that stood outside the main factory offices on the Northern side of the parade ground. According to the story the touch hole was drilled out by hand at night. Or a series of nights! In the meantime another group of apprentices engaged in making a suitable quantity of black powder, to a secret recipe, which was hidden away in various kit lockers until the time came to use it. Given the smoking habits of some apprentices this was undoubtedly a seriously dangerous undertaking. On the appointed night the group mustered outside the factory after dark, removed the cannon’s tampon and proceeded to charge it with a couple of pounds of black powder. Not knowing quite how the cannon would respond when this charge was fired the group prudently decided to limit the potential damage by using turfs as missiles. Consequently, when the powder was wadded, in went a half a dozen turfs lifted from a corner of the playing fields earlier. The touch hole was primed and fitted with the boy art’s version of a slow match (a piece of string soaked in a solution of salt petre and dried). With the slow match smouldering nicely our intrepid group retired to a safe distance to watch events. There was a sudden flurry of sparks as the powder in the touch hole ignited, then silence. The group waited for a short while then emerged and cautiously approached the cannon to assess the situation. Just a few feet away and the cannon produced a coughing eructation after the style of a flatulent bullock and spewed forth the turfs which landed about twelve feet away amidst a great deal of white smoke. This singular failure meant that any other attempts at cannon firing could hardly do worse and during my time at Fisgard a number of pocket sized cannons were manufactured and fired successfully using a charge of “proper” cordite carefully removed from 0.22 cartridges liberated from the firing range. What happened to the empty cartridge cases recalls another “prank” that does not bear relating here.
A traditional event took place each summer when hot weather rendered sleep difficult. This was the East side versus West side pillow fight that took place at midnight on the main parade ground. Everyone, except the halt and the lame, were expected to take part. Planning was meticulous and included a plan for dispersal when a “bonehead” or “crusher” was spotted within fifty yards of the parade ground. In these circumstances the “lobs boy” (lookout) would blow several blasts on a referee’s whistle at which point everyone was expected to melt away to their huts. At 11.45 on the appointed night apprentices would don gym shoes, wrap a scarf round the lower part of the face, and make their way, in total silence to their respective side of the parade ground. At the stroke of midnight there would be a short blast on the whistle and both sides would rush at one another yelling lustily and swinging their pillows. They would continue, in the middle of the parade ground, knocking “seven shades” out of one another until the dispersal whistle sounded. But the best laid schemes…..! During the pillow fight of 1949 planning had not been so covert as it should have been and, as soon as battle commenced, a solitary RPO emerged from a hut next to the parade ground, grabbed an apprentice, and ordered all the others to fall in, three deep, on his right. He was brave, that petty officer, and made no further sound as he disappeared beneath a furious onslaught of pillows.
Whilst many of the perpetrators of these so called “pranks” were never apprehended it was a good job for those that were that the records of apprentice misdemeanours were wiped clean on completion of shore-based training.
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