March 2016
http://earth.nullschool.net/#current/wind/surface/level/orthographic=-3.52,52.00,3000/loc=-3.225,51.362
Thursday 24th
Thoughts on Wind and seafaring
Wind is the living breath of the atmosphere that cocoons all life on Earth. It keeps us warm, provides the air we breath, protection from the harsh, burning radiation from space that would shrivel our skin and increase the numbers of cancers we suffer.
Wind is our friend. It brings us fresh air and clouds that carry quenching rain from the restless sea to the burning fields. It used to push along the ships that carried our food to us from far away lands. It may again as oil runs out and is too valuable to burn and too dangerous to our warming climate.
Wind stirs the oceans, brings nutrients to the surface to feed the pelagic fish that 60% of the human population rely on. Wind creates dust storms in the Sahara and then carries the dust across the Atlantic to fertilise the Amazon rain forest - without the Sahara there would be no forest because the soil it grows on is so poor.
Humans may have made our own environment by crushing nature in and around our mega cities but wind reminds us that nature is still there as it blows our rubbish along the city streets and creates eddies in building corners; eddies that contain discarded crisp packets, leaves from the few trees that we have allowed to remain and many ‘don’t know what they ares' in the middle. The eddies act like a centrifuge sorting out the materials by size and weight ready to be swept up and carried away to a far off dump to feed seagulls and rats. Have you ever thought that there is no such thing as 'Throw it away'? What you really mean is 'Take my rubbish away so that I cannot smell or see it.' It is still there somewhere - there is no such thing as 'outside the environment.'
Wind provides an increasing fraction of the electricity we so carelessly waste. It is replacing the polluting power stations of the past.
Wind can be destructive. I wondered why the wooden houses in Ammassalik, South East Greenland, were anchored to the rock by steel hawsers and ring bolts. I learned later that the katabatic winds off the ice cap can reach 200 mph. These are called piteraqs. The wind gauge only measures up to 200...
Walk through Fernworthy pine plantation on Dartmoor on a windy night and listen to the trees groaning in endless torment in the keening wind. Keep looking behind you for the banshee that haunts this ancient landscape. Is it there?
Have you walked past a yacht marina on a windy winter's day? Listened to the 'tap, tapping' of the wire haliards agaist the hollow aluminium masts, trying to atract your attention to their need to go sailing. Like a dog holding its lead in its mouth as it looks up at you with a supplicating gaze.
I like the wind, it is a reminder that nature is still alive, we have not killed her yet in our race for 'progress'. She still has her rhythms that she keeps to in spite of mankind's depredations.
There is a wonderful feeling to be had. Stand on one of the rocky granite tors of Dartmoor on a cloudy February day. Horizontal icicles hang from the ancient rocks. Face the wind and breath deeply. Meditate with Tai Chi if you have the balance. After, clamber down the rocks to the lee side, sip warm coffee from your vacuum flask as you savour the lone remoteness.
Friday 25th
Seafaring
None of us like the long leg across the Southern Ocean. There’s no land, see. The rollers go right round the globe with nothing to stop them, only the molleys to see them. We was close-hauled when it happened, Lascar Jim on the wheel. The off watch hands were asleep in the fo’c’s’le, the deck watch loafing topside, taking shelter in the lee of the deck house.
Jim must have been caught napping, probably leering a goney. He allowed the head to pay off a few points to larboard so the squall took us full broadside, laying her over near to her beam ends. We hadn’t reefed the top gallants so she shuddered to recover with the weight of green in the scuppers and the pressure of the squall aloft.
The Bos’n was at my back shouting,’ Get those topgallants reefed sharpish, sailing master, or I’ll have your guts for garters.’ I had to whip the watch with a turk’s head to get them up the mast and do my bidding.
She slowly laboured back to upright, shaking the water off her like a dog after a ducking. She shuddered as the prow dipped into a trough but Jim had her back on course, head to wind.
I told off the deck hands to let fly the halliards for the top yards to give the reefing gang a chance to beat the wet canvas into shape so they could throw lines around the sails and reef them in.
We were now in a safe condition, not carrying too much sail and hove to until the sea state dropped. This would lengthen the voyage and cost the owners a packet but still less than losing the ship and cargo.
The frozen mast monkeys clambered down the rat lines and took shelter. The bos’n ordered a tot for each man who had been aloft. We only lost two men in that evolution.
The Bos’n beckoned me over and said, ‘Get Lascar Jim relieved off the wheel, take him to the grating on the poop deck and give him twenty lashes.’
‘Twenty will kill him, Sir,’ I argued.
‘He won’t do it again then will he? Just get on with it and make sure both watches are there to watch, unless you want a couple for yerself.’
Jim was lashed down on the grating, a wedge of quid rammed in his mouth to stop his screams. The flogging started. He was unconscious after ten, the open wounds dripping blood off his back. The torment continued until the chorus from the hands reached twenty. Salt was rubbed into the wounds to stop infection, then he was cut down and taken below where he died later that night.
I had the job of putting a stitch through his nose and sewing him in a canvas shroud before he was slid over the side with a marlin spike at his feet so as he didn’t float.
No one had a prayer to say for his soul.
Saturday 26th
Back to the wind
This sometimes the best way to stand, especially if you are at sea and goffers are coming over the rail. Spray feels like lead shot when it is driven by the full force of a North Atlantic gale. Taking it green is an old sailing term but it is still valid and the green still turns white as it races across the deck to the thirsty scuppers.
I used to think that the heaving waves of the ocean created the wind. I now know that it is the other way around. Waves can by pulled up to unreal heights by the keening wind. I well remember a force 13 off Bermuda on a frigate hove to, just enough headway to give steerage into the wind and waves. Climbing up the face of a wave into the full force of the wind then slithering down the other side into a windless silence, everyone hoping that the submarine plunge would end and she would pull her head up before it was too late.
Ships used to be designed to be able to survive 60 ft waves but then damage was found on ships and oil rigs above the 60 ft height. The old sailors used to say that the seventh wave was the biggest, the one to watch for. This was idea was scoffed at by land lubbers but the advance of quantum mechanics and the ready availability of computer power proved them right. 100 foot waves were recorded in the North Sea during a scientific investigation.
Sunday 26th
We lost Jock
Under the flight deck F40 warship
routed Bahamas, cross the Atlantic.
The aft mess was quiet, the gear all secured,
our heaving stomachs stoically endured.
Winds to force thirteen, waves over the mast,
hove-to East Bermuda for three days past.
Jock’s bid was two hearts when all heard the crash,
we rolled back to starboard, another smash.
‘The port dan buoy's come free, I'll have to go.’
It was his job as duty P.O..
He threw down his cards and said ‘I'll be back,
it’ll not take long, we’ll soon take up the slack.’
The trip started well, the ship coming clean,
She shook off the land dirt, started to gleam.
Water got softer, the further from land,
needing less soap to clean dirt from each hand.
We passed the Wolf Rock, the sea turning dark.
The waves grew bigger, the message was stark.
These were not ripples that splash on the beach,
but had raw power that would leave marks on each.
The wind, it grew stronger, the sea state higher,
barometer dropping - the reading a liar?
The pitching was bad but rolling was worse,
duties carried out with many a curse.
A pound of boots on the flight deck above,
the mad rushes timed to push and to shove
the gear back in place, all lashed down and tied.
A seventh wave snatched Jock over the side.
The ship could not turn, the danger too great
of rolling, drowning, all hundred and eight.
Jock was deserted in that vast ocean,
Jack of hearts still showed zero emotion.
Monday 28th
Falling in love
A sea change
Mr Green walked over to me and gave me a shape printed on a piece of cardboard.
‘I think you’ll enjoy making this Richard. Why don’t you take it home with you tonight and bring in on Monday.’
Even my primary school teacher knew that I was obsessed by ships and the sea. What he had given me that dreary Friday afternoon was a drawing that could be cut out, folded and glued to make a model of the SS United States, which is still the holder of the Blue Riband.
I spent that weekend taking great care in cutting it out and colouring the different sections. It was was much admired when I took it in to school on Monday morning. It stayed on the ‘show shelf’ in the classroom for the rest of the term.
*
Dad worked on the railways and so got a few cheap tickets each year. This meant we could afford to go on long train journeys so this year, 1956, Mum and Dad decided we would go to Largs for our summer holiday. The big treat was that we would go overnight on a sleeper train. Third class sleepers were segregated so Dad and myself were separated from Mum and Anne. We were in a four berth compartment with two other men but we got there first so claimed the two top bunks. ‘Mr Brown from Glasgow’ was sleeping below me. He farted all night. I don’t remember the other man. I was too exited to sleep. I could peep out past the blind and see the morning getting brighter. There were lakes, forests and mountains passing the window. I liked Scotland already.
I rushed down the platform at Largs to find Mum and Anne and tell them all about our sleeper and then Dad marched us through the town to the B & B which was to be our home for the next two weeks. Mrs Fairbrother fussed around us and asked all about where we came from as she fed us a huge breakfast, making Brighton sound like an exotic city in the middle of Africa.
I was frantic to get out and explore. We walked down to the harbour where Dad booked a family rover ticket for the Clyde steamers for two weeks.
The PS Waverley was alongside the pier next morning when we arrived to embark. I thought this was a lovely word and used it and its’ cousin ‘embarkation’ whenever I could. The tannoy came live with a loud click and a soft Scottish voice said: ‘Welcome aboard this 0940 sailing to Glasgow. We will be calling at Inellan, Dunoon, Kilgreggan and Craigendoran. The sea is calm with light airs. We hope you will enjoy your voyage with us.’
There was a stir of activity as the engines started, the paddles turned, the lines were slipped off the stag horns on the pier, reeled in, cheesed down on the gratings and we were free of the land, on our way across the Firth of Clyde to the pier at Inellan. I was hopping up and down with excitement.
‘Can I go and explore the ship Dad?’
‘Yes, but make sure you are back here before we get to Inellan.’
‘OK Dad.’ I would have agreed to anything at that moment.
I wandered around the upper deck for a while and then found the companionway down below decks to where my life was changed.
*
There were passage ways along each side of the ship and they passed the engine room which was open sided. I leaned on the wood frame and watched the engine with amazement. I had never experienced anything like it. There were polished cranks, slides, hissing cylinders and the wonderful, comforting smell and feel of warm steam. Everything was moving in a smooth, complex ballet conducted by the Chief Engineer who was dressed in an immaculate white boiler suit and a peak cap. He must have seen the expression on my face because he came over to me from his control position.
‘What do you think of it then?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Do you want to know how it all works?’
‘Yes, please!’
Alec or ‘Mr Alec’ as I called him answered my deluge of questions with the patience of a steam enthusiast until the bridge telegraph bell clanged and he had to go back to the controls as we neared Inellen.
I reluctantly went up on deck and told my Dad about the wonders I had found down below. He smiled and said,
‘I hope you aren’t going to spend your whole holiday down there?’
‘I don’t expect so Dad,’ I said, knowing that I almost certainly would, given the chance.
*
Over the next few days I learned about triple expansion steam engines, the relationship between cylinder size and steam pressure, how the valve gear worked and the complexities of the reversing cranks that swayed like Dutch skaters leaning into the wind as they skated home on frozen canals, their hands clasped behind their backs. I struggled to understand the closed loop, negative feedback system of the speed governor that would be a key part of the coming cybernetic revolution and my working life.
After several days of this, I understood how steam worked, a media to release the driving power from sunlight that had been frozen in black rocks 300 million years ago. I learned that the age of reciprocating engines was nearly over and the future belonged to steam and gas turbines.
Mr Alec had been in the Royal Navy and then the Merchant Navy before taking the job with Caledonian MacBraynes, ‘Cal Mac’ as it was known He enjoyed the job, working with interesting machinery and meeting lots of people. He told me many stories of his travels around the world.
He suggested that I bring a notebook if I was serious about learning so I used this to sketch parts of the equipment and perform the calculations to work out power output, steam pressures and temperatures and crank throws. Mr Alec even gave me homework for the evenings and days when we didn’t go on the ship.
All too soon the holiday was over and I had to say goodbye to Mr Alec. I thanked him for all his help.
‘When you join the Navy, Richard, just drop me a line to let me know how you are getting on.’
‘Course I will Mr Alec, goodbye.
*
The journey home was fun as we were in second class sleepers this time which had two bunks in each cabin so Anne and myself shared a cabin. We also got a cup of tea in bed in the morning.
*
I now knew where my future lay. As soon as we got home, I went to the library and took out books on anything to do with steam engines to carry on learning what Mr Alec had started teaching me. I also researched into career possibilities in the Royal Navy, entry requirements and qualifications required. I decided that I would join as an Artificer Apprentice and so would need to pass at least five GCEs including maths, physics and chemistry.
These would be my tickets to freedom.
*
Mr A McAllister Apprentice R Kefford
Chief Engineer Hut E4
PS Waverley Exmouth Division
Caledonian MacBrayne Torpoint
Ferry Terminal Cornwall
Oban 21st March 1963
Dear Mr Alec
I am writing to you as I promised, to let you know that I joined the Royal Navy earlier this year and I am now stationed at the Artificer Apprentice training establishment HMS Fisgard. Because of your advice about which subjects to take at school I have earned three months advancement which means that I will go on to HMS Collingwood at Fareham after nine months rather than the normal twelve. Yes, Collingwood! After all your work teaching me about steam, I am joining the Control Electrical Branch! It’s all about negative feedback, just like Waverley’s engine speed governor! This is just a short note for now. I’ll write more as the time goes on to let you know how I am getting on.
Thank you as always for steering me in the right direction and opening the door to the wonders of science and engineering for me.
I will try and live up to your standards and I often think of everything that you taught me.
I hope all is well with you and you are still at Waverley’s engine controls in your white overalls.
Best wishes
Richard
Richard Kefford. Artificer Apprentice. RN.
*
Richard Kefford Mrs S McAllister
Hut E4 Waverley House
Exmouth Division McCaig Road
HMS Fisgard Oban
Torpoint
Cornwall 23rd April 1963
Dear Richard
Thank you for your letter that you wrote to my husband on 21st March.
Unfortunately he had a heart attack and passed away at the end of January this year. He died where he would have wanted to be, at the engine controls of the Waverley doing the job he loved.
He talked often of the boy who was so interested in the engine on the Waverley and he hoped one day to hear from you. He would have been delighted to receive your letter and to hear that you are following your dreams.
Thank you for your kindness in writing to Alec and I wish you good fortune for your engineering career at sea.
Best wishes
Sheilagh
Tuesday 29th
The seal
The second attempt was good. The pilot had given up late during the first try, mountains and clouds don’t mix well so the engines roared to full power and the wheels came back up with a clunk as we soared back up into the safety of the clear sky.
We rolled to a stop on the cinder runway, just outside the small grey terminal building. Our luggage was plonked on to a trolley and taken to the door of the building where we each grabbed our bags and toted them inside. It was a first for me – an airport terminal building with a polar bear skin pegged out on one wall and a view of icebergs out of several of the round windows.
‘Welcome to Kulusuk,’ said Dinas, who was to be our boatman and guide for the next two weeks. ‘I suggest you put several layers of clothing on as it will be very cold during the two hour crossing to Ammassalick. Please follow me to the jetty when you are ready.’
It was a bit of a struggle carrying all the gear the few hundred yards down to the sea where Dinas had his boat waiting for us. We were all hot and sweaty when we got there but would be glad of the warm clothing when we got out into the open sea. We slowly edged out of the small fjord, dodging several growlers in the shallow water and then accelerated as we entered the polar stream of Sermilik fjord with its majestic procession of huge icebergs, some a hundred metres long and over twenty metres high.
We passed a long, low ‘berg. ‘Look, there,’ called Dinas, as he pointed to the ice. There was a seal laying on top of the ice, seemingly unconcerned by our presence as Dinas slowed the boat and steered nearer to give us a good look. The seal stared back as us with its big, black, baby eyes.
It suddenly rolled over and wriggled its way frantically to the edge of the ice and dived into the sea. As he saw this, Dinas quickly revved up the engine to full power and steered us away from the iceberg.
As we got a few metres away from the ice, there was a loud grinding noise and the mighty iceberg slowly rolled over. Dinas turned the boat so that it was pointing at the ice to minimise the rolling from the resulting wave – an icy tsunami.
‘I think the seal saved our lives,’ said Dinas, ‘the iceberg would have rolled on top of us and sunk the boat. Here in the wilderness you must watch the birds and animals because they always know what is coming. Welcome to Greenland.’
Wednesday 30th
Arrival in Aden
It was hot on the bus, very hot. There was no glass in the windows, it had been replaced by wire mesh to reduce the risk of lethal flying glass shards in the event of a close bomb explosion. It also had the side benefit of providing some ventilation. This was not air conditioning, the wind blowing in through the mesh was over forty degrees so it was a contrast to the cool comfort of the plane. It was like sitting in an oven with a hair dryer blowing in your face.
The driver was an RAF corporal who stopped the khaki painted bus on the airport apron near the parked VC10 and shouted ‘Sheba Ship’ several times. When there was no movement in response to this he sighed and then tried a more reasonable sounding, ‘This bus is to take anyone to the Royal Navy shore base in the dockyard here in Aden, also known as HMS Sheba or Sheba Ship’. There were two Naval bases in Aden, the other one was in the town and called by all ‘Sheba Shore’to differentiate them. At this there was some movement and a slow trickle of young men started towards the bus, all struggling in the 45 degree heat in UK clothes to carry a kit bag, a suitcase and a holdall, complete with a raincoat, always known as a ‘Burberry’ over one arm.
We had just landed at RAF Khormaksar at Steamer Point in Aden, Yemen. It was 1966. The flight from London had been long and the plane was filled by families returning after a trip home to England to break up the long stay in a foreign country to accompany their husbands on their long posting to this remnant of the British Empire – always called ‘Empire’, never ‘The Empire’ .Aden had been a self governing British Colony since 1963 but there was now great pressure from the local tribes for full independence. Britain was resisting this because of oil. The BP refinery there was a very useful supplier of fuel if there were access problems to the Persian Gulf and Aden was now the second busiest harbour in the world, after New York, so there there were many trade and access issues to sort out.
The many children had been fretful on the flight, shouting, screaming, running up and down the aisle, getting in the way of the harassed stewardesses and so ensuring sleep was unlikely, if not impossible.
There were three of us, on our way to join our first ship. Malcolm Joy from Plymouth, called ‘Malc’, ‘Taff’ Bartlett from Swansea - never did find out his real name - and myself ‘Dick’ Kefford. We had joined the Royal Navy three years before, spending a year, eight months in my case but that is another story, at HM Fisgard at Torpoint, Cornwall followed by two years at HMS Collingwood, near Fareham in Hampshire. We were Artificer Apprentices starting our year at sea before returning to ‘Collingwood for a year to complete our training. The idea was to ‘join the fleet’ and spend a year on a ship, with some time in each of the Engineering departments that matched our specialities, mine was Control Engineering so, in addition to the general electrics, I could expect to spend some time on navaids and weapons.
The driver put the ancient bus into gear with a crunch and set off through the streets of Aden to the Naval Base and Dockyard behind the Crescent. It was unlike anything I had been used to as it was my first trip abroad and something of a culture shock. The sheer scruffiness, dirt and suspect smells were something of a surprise. The town was full of open fronted little houses that doubled as shops, selling anything from electrical goods, watches and jewellery to soft drinks. Over it all loomed the extinct volcano that housed the infamous ‘Crater’. We arrived at HMS Sheba. I should note here that all ships and shore bases in the Royal Navy are always treated as ships and so called HMS. Leaving a shore base to go home or for an evening out is always known as ‘Going ashore’.
We expected to be driven down to the dockside to meet our ship but were told to go straight to the guardhouse and report in. We did. There we were told that the ship had been diverted in the Mediterranean and so would be at Aden two weeks later than planned but we were not to worry, they would find us plenty of things to do. My ‘things’ consisted of joining the security detail to guard the base.
After doing the usual Navy ‘joining routine’ which is the same where ever you are in the world and consists mainly of getting ticks on a ‘chitty’ as you let the various departments know you have arrived, Catering and Pay were the most important but you also had to pick up a set of bedding and be assigned somewhere to sleep – in our case it was the transit mess as we would, hopefully, only be there for a short time. I dropped my bedding off there which was the first time I had ever come across air conditioning – it was freezing cold after the outside heat. I claimed a bed by plonking my bedding on it and then I left Taff and Malc and went to the guardhouse for my briefing.
As is usual with a colonial power, the local people didn’t like us much and wanted to get rid of us so the whole Aden garrison was on a war footing. This was the time of the Crater operation by Colonel ‘Mad Mitch’ Mitchell and bombs were going off daily. I was issued with a rifle at the armoury. This was an ancient Lee Enfield, bolt action 303 and ten rounds. I was told to load the magazine and take it, the rife and myself to the weapons sand pit where the Chief of the Watch was waiting. He explained the war situation, gave me a copy of the ‘Green Card – Orders for opening fire in Aden’ – checked that I had fired a 303 before and understood how to use it safely and sent me off for a 4 hour guard patrolling watch with an AB who was Sheba Ship’s Company and so based in Aden for two years.
There I was, eighteen years old, with a loaded rifle in my hands with orders to shoot to kill, never aim to wound as he might still capable of shooting you, any intruder who refused my shouted orders to stop – which had to be in Arabic, ‘Waqqaf’ and English. A week before I had been in a classroom in Hampshire learning how to look after a ship’s electrical systems – another culture shock. Time to grow up quickly. This became even more real when I learned from my new watch buddy that two intruders had been shot dead by my predecessors a few weeks before. There had been the mandatory court of enquiry but they had been cleared and, in fact, recommended for their action in protecting the base. I still have the green card and can remember the Arab challenges we had to shout on sighting a suspect – ‘Stop – Waqqaf, Stop – Waqqaf – Stop or I will open fire, Stop – Waqqaf – I am opening fire now.’
The worst thing about having a rifle loaded with live ammunition was that, at first was a fearsome responsibility but, after a few days, it became almost a pleasure to feel that you had the power of life and death over other people. I found this really scary so I wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible. This confirmed for me the dictum that ‘ All power corrupts and …’
Walking around the base for a our four hour watch on random routes pre determined by choosing route cards from a box in the guard room was boring after a time, especially at night. My oppo who was always on watch with me was a bit of a ‘Jack the lad’ so had an inexhaustible fund of sea stories that passed the time and although I took them all with a pinch of salt, they gave me a lot of information about life at sea. One night he was in a really bad mood and was determined to ‘have some fun’, as he put it. The wardroom fronted on to Aden harbour so we were instructed to keep a close lookout over the water for intruding swimmers as they might be carrying a bomb. He flung some cups that had been left one of the harbour side tables far out into the water, unslung his rifle from his shoulder and shouted the three escalating challenges before firing twice into the darkness. I went to the nearest phone on he wall, as I had been told to do if there were any incidents, and called the guardhouse where the standby guard, who slept in their clothes, was shaken awake and told to get down to the harbour side in double quick time. The Officer of the Day was also called and soon there was the makings of a small army around us. The Chief of the Watch took control, calmed it all down and asked my oppo what had happened. He explained that he thought he had seen a swimmer in the water, shouted the challenges and then opened fire when there was no response. The Chief asked if I had seen anyone. I said I had seen some splashing but couldn’t say if it was a swimmer and confirmed the rest of his story. Searchlights were used to scan the water but nothing could be seen so everyone stood down and things gradually returned to normal. At the end of our watch we had to sit down and write a report because ‘a weapon had been discharged’ but nothing further came of it. It certainly livened up a quiet night though.
We were told to patrol without a round in the breech so the bolt had to be worked to load a round from the magazine and the safety catch taken off before you could open fire. This was obviously for safety, ours but mostly other people’s. At the end of the watch, the procedure was, point the rifle down into the sandbox, remove the magazine from the rifle, pull back the bolt, visually check the breech was empty, close the bolt, take off the safety and then pull the trigger as a final check. Nothing should happen of course because there were no rounds in the rifle but one night there was a bang when my oppo pulled the trigger. He had been walking around all during the watch with the rifle ready to fire. He got reported for that episode and I had a different buddy on my watch after that. Probably just as well for my safety, he was a real nutter.
Taff and Malc had also been put on guard duty by this time so, when our time off coincided, we used to go ashore together. One day we decided to go to the Lido which was a protected area of the beach, complete with shark nets, where the families congregated to swim and socialise. We decided to walk, carrying our towels rolled up with the swimming trunks. We got to the lido and changed into our trunks and came across the peculiar status symbols in Aden. There were no thoughts of having too much sun back then unless you allowed yourself to sunburned and blistered so there were no sun creams or any of that stuff. I don’t think a connection had even been made between melanoma and sun burn. The result of this was that once people had got a little sun tan to protect them, everyone spent as much time in the sun as they could so that the longest stayers had the darkest sun tan. So there we were, totally white and sticking out as what we would now call ‘Newbies’ advertising our need to be patronised as’white knees’.
We had a good swim in spite of the mockery and started walking back to Sheba.Part way there a bomb went off in the street about a hundred yards away. We walked a little faster after that and resolved in future to take a taxi when we wanted to go for a swim. We were debriefed on the explosion when we got back after our swim and an apocryphal story circulated around the base that one of the questions we were asked was, ‘What steps did you take after the explosion?’ The answer came, ‘F***** great big ones’ No truth in it of course but that should never be enough to spoil a good story
We also went to the cinema few times. This was an open air one of course but it was peculiar in that it was built as normal cinema with walls and tiered seats but just without a roof. I can still remember being sat there waiting for the film to start and hearing the rusling sound of the leaves being blown around the floor in the evening breeze with the slight smell of drains wafting around.
This was a time when attitudes were very different to what they are now. An example is the casual, unthinking racism of the day. There had not been much immigration to the UK by then so most people’s experience of different races and cultures was limited to the time they had spent in the forces, travelling around the British Empire. There was an air of assumed superority towards other races in their own countries as they were mostly the people being ruled by the British - this was before the days when most countries became independent. When these attitudes were combined with the Navy tradition of having its own names for everything and everyone the result was a language that would be unacceptable today. As an example, everyone in Aden, or any other country come to that, was addresssed as ‘John’ and taxis were known as ‘fast blacks’. I am sure this has all changed now and not before time.
We often went shopping in Ma’lla, one of the small towns that make up Aden. The others are Tawali and Crater. We were banned from Crater because of the security situation there and Tawali was further to walk. Ma’lla was full of little shops selling jewellery and electronics. As an example a ‘genuine’ Rolex could be had for under a pound and would run for at least a week. Everything had to be haggled for, no one took the posted price seriously, it was just to get the haggling started. This was a whole new experience for English people who were used to paying the asking price. This led to a great deal of black catting when you got back to the base with your spoils, chuffed at how little you had paid and then one of your oppos would quiz you on the price and usually ended up saying, ‘you paid how much? I got one last week for a fifth of that.’ This tended to increase your desire to fight the good fight and learn how to haggle, including all the tricks such as comparing with ‘a shop just around the corner’ and being prepared to walk away from a too high price.
It was a strange life and we were very happy when we were told that our ship was arriving a few days later.
