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Another lump of memory reappears vividly. After tea
one day I was wandering about upstairs and wandered into Olive and Maurice's
empty bedroom. I knew they were both going out that evening to some big
dance. There, in Maurice's dressing room adjoining the bedroom was Maurice's
evening attire laid out ready for him when he returned from London. Tail
coat, stiff shirt, white tie, the lot. I was very fond of Maurice but
this was too much. Now, I can't see why such revulsion should surge through
me. After all, later on, in the Royal Navy, I would frequently spend lots
of time and patience tarting myself up in various ornate guises necessary
for special occasions, but, ”then, I could not take it. Without hesitation,
I went down to the kitchen, found a pot of strawberry jam and spread it
all over the white waistcoat. I don't think this peculiar outburst ruined
their night out and I can't remember precisely what happened to me at
the time, but I do remember that for many years Maurice often related
the incident to others, in my presence. Whenever he said to someone "Do
you know what this young rascal (meaning me) once did ......" I knew
what was coming.
After a year or two, when I was 10 or 11, Olive and
Maurice wanted to go abroad and Olive heard of a Vicar in Norfolk who
undertook looking after temporarily parentless schoolboys in holiday time.
Olive met this Vicar, liked him and fixed my summer holiday with him while
she went abroad. I can't remember the Vicar's name, but he had a large
and comfortable vicarage near Norwich. He had two nice school age sons
a bit older than me, one or two visitors like myself and a younger brother,
another clergyman. I remember this brother was either gay or morose. One
Sunday he relieved his elder brother by taking the Service in the local
church. For the first part of the service, I noted he was in a gay mood
smiling at us all. When it came to the sermon he had a little trouble
mounting the steps into the pulpit. He got to the top step, overbalanced,
fell backwards almost into our laps. Two vergers, seeming to have expected
such an occurrence, appeared from nowhere and dragged him into the vestry.
His brother, appropriately robed as vicar no. 2, sprang into the pulpit,
delivered an adequate sermon and completed the Service. There was an awkward
atmosphere at lunch in the vicarage. The word went round that the "collapsed"
brother was unhurt, and recovering. It took me a long time to find out
from whispers amongst us "guests" that younger brother had taken
seriously to the bottle and that he would not be required to face those
pulpit steps again. My precious bicycle had accompanied me to the vicarage
and those with bikes planned an excursion to Great Yarmouth. On the return
journey, I was demonstrating that I could or thought I could ride with
hands off the handlebars. I swerved and hit a car, practically head-on,
coming in the opposite direction. I am perfectly prepared to believe that
it was no one else's fault but mine. I did not even know it had happened
until I woke up four days later in the "Intensive Care" ward
of the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital at Norwich in a right old mess, four
days after it had happened. Splint from right heel to armpit, head bandaged,
cuts and bruises all over. It is fortunate that an eminent bone specialist
(I think his name was Barker) had been available to set the fractured
thigh and make my legs the same length. I was thoroughly spoilt in hospital
and, eventually, went "home" to Olive at Heathwood.
Naval Entrance Exams
Mother came home by rail from China, leaving Joan out
there. I changed schools from Upwood Park, Caterham to Buxton College
where Janet's husband was headmaster. About this time, it was decided
that I should try for the Royal Navy. In those days, one entered the Navy
in three stages. First, medical exam and "interview" which meant
parading before, and being questioned by a Board of Senior Naval Officers.
Candidates were soon told whether or not they had cleared those two hurdles.
If they had, they then tackled the written exams and, if they passed those,
they became Naval Cadets and went to RN College Osborne. Passing my "medical",
a mere 2 years after that appalling accident was a miracle and a pleasant
surprise. I was also a bit apprehensive about the "interview",
having said my father was in Peking, China, an Admiral pointed to a blank
map of the world and told me to trace the journey from England to Peking
by sea, naming the seas and places passed en route. I thumbed my way without
much difficulty to Tientsin and said I would then go by rail to Peking.
"Oh, no you wouldn't" said my questioner. "You would go
by sea to Shanghai, then by rail to Nanking and on to Peking". "Excuse
me" I said, as politely as I could, "my father has just finished
making a railway from Tientsin to Peking". The rest of the board
sniggered.
Life at RN College Osborne
Scraping through my written exam was also a great relief,
and I shall never know how much I owe to the declaration of World War
I at that time which, naturally, led to the immediate expansion of our
fighting services. RN College Osborne was a different world. Once upon
a time it had been Queen Victoria's stables. Osborne House remained untouched
and majestic, overlooking Osborne Bay and Spithead. The stables had been
demolished and replaced by long corridors off which sprouted at intervals,
dormitories and gunrooms, the name given throughout the navy to the living
spaces of junior officers. The legacy from Her Majesty's horses was "pinkeye"
(conjunctivitis) which medical experts had failed to stamp out. Pretty
well every cadet passing through Osborne suffered from it at some time
or other. Up till then, there had been three entrance exams each year.
Successful Cadets at each entrance formed a Term. Each Term was named
after a famous Admiral and they kept that name through their 2 years at
Dartmouth before going to sea as midshipmen, known throughout the Navy
as snotties, the lowest form of sea life. So through peaceful years, a
"Drake" Term would be going to sea from Dartmouth as a new Drake
Term was forming at Osborne. Mine was a Hawke Term, and with it came World
War I which, I suppose, was rather a godsend for me. The Blake Term, one
term senior to us numbered about 50 cadets, whereas the Hawkes admitted
while World War I was being declared were twice that number. I had passed
in pretty low down the list, indicating that had there been no WWI, there
would probably have been no Broome!
Osborne, to me, was a new world and a very strict one
with countless rules which one only found out by breaking them. The penalty
for every misdemeanour was, invariably, six on the backside. For me, it
was a painful change of life. We spent our meagre recreation in our gunroom,
opposite our dormitory. The long, long corridor joining these gunrooms
had the gymnasium at one end. Collingwood, the mess room (everything was
named after an Admiral) was the other. The senior Term lived next to Collingwood.
The junior scum next to the gym. Meals were heralded by bugle. A junior
termite always had to pass a senior termite's gunroom at the double, unless
he could provide a written medical excuse. As far as Royal Naval College,
Osborne was concerned,
War declared
World War I was declared in the middle of the summer
holidays of 1914. There upon the peacetime routine for cadets, (namely
2 years at Osborne followed by 2 years at Dartmouth) was altered. Cadets
in their second year at Osborne were immediately moved on to Dartmouth,
and the size of each term admitted to Osborne was doubled. War also brought
an immediate upheaval in the internal organisation of the two colleges.
In peace time, each term had its own executive naval officer who remained
in charge of that Term for its duration at Osborne, then another Term
officer took over at Dartmouth. In peacetime, Term officers were picked
men. When war came these bright young officers were, naturally, wanted
at sea. So off they went leaving recently retired officers or selected
masters in their place. My Term called the Hawke Term, was governed by
an ex-naval Instructor, assisted by a young master, an ex Oxford cricket
Blue!
Looking back, it seems extraordinary how smoothly this
change of routine worked but, then I never knew what it was like before.
Lower down the scale, cadet captains were distinguished by a badge (a
sort of good conduct badge) in gold braid on their right sleeves. Two
Cadet Captains with much the same authority as public school prefects
were permanently allotted to a term junior to them. Retired technical
officers were dug up to provide the necessary technical instruction required.
Each Term, also, had it’s own Chief Petty Officer. Some were kind and
helpful others were a bloody nuisance. Whatever sort of life you had before
facing RNC Osborne, thereafter, you were rolled out flat and rebuilt.
We had a famous Royal Navy with a great tradition. Their Lordships decided
that we should be trained to fit into it, not alter it. As a rather spoilt
youngster, at first, I found it pretty tough. One's life consisted of
obeying gongs and bugles at the double, almost forgetting what it felt
like to walk. By bugle or was it gong we retired, nightly, after a brief
space of relaxation in our gunrooms. There we undressed, folded our clothes
in a set pattern on our sea chests at the foot of our beds.
Cadet’s regime
At one gong (a formidable brass affair which clanged
at one end of each dormitory, manipulated by that dormitory's cadet captain)
we all knelt by our beds and said our prayers and/or sucked our last sweet.
Then two clangs which meant we got into our beds and shut up. Going to
sleep was no trouble at all. I seem to remember, a brief space was allowed
here to wash and/or visit the loo. Accommodation in those dormitories
was allocated in alphabetical order, from swing doors at one end to the
bathrooms, plunge bath and loos the other. My name beginning with a "B"
meant I was always the door end. When we were in our beds, our Term Officer
went "rounds". God help us if our clothes were not tidily folded.
Visits to the loo during the night were not restricted but they had to
be made at the double! For me, on a cold night, it was a long trip and
I soon learnt to contain myself, except in cases of emergency. Far too
early for comfort, we awoke to the blast of a reveille bugle call. That
meant out of bed and turn bedclothes back. One gong which followed, meant
off pyjama tops, wash at our bedside basins then, clad in bath towel only,
stand by our sea chest. When everyone was there, the next gong meant full
speed to the bathroom, into one end of the plunge bath. (I suppose they
were about 10ft square and 5ft deep, full of tepid water), out of the
other, find towel, dry, back to sea chest, dress and fall in for inspection
alongside sea chest, having made our beds. When all had fallen in, probably
with some rebuke for the last to do so, another gong which signalled a
general stampede for Collingwood, the mess room which bore the name of
yet another bygone Admiral. After breakfast, "Divisions"
all candidates fallen in by Terms, on the quarterdeck (the name
given to this big hall). When fallen in by cadet captains and inspected
by term officers, the latter reported them to the Commander, the College
Executive Officer. The Chaplain read prayers, hymns were sung and all
cadets were marched away to their studies in order of their seniority
by their Cadet Captains. The two chief Cadet Captains, wearing a badge
on each arm, were attached to the senior term. This seemed to be the only
time we marched! We doubled when we changed studies, we doubled up or
down that long corridor when passing the gunroom of a senior term. Loitering
past a senior gunroom was asking for trouble. Almost certainly, you would
be spotted, hauled into that gunroom, bent over a table and be given at
least three cuts on the bottom. The Cadet Captains had a room of their
own, nearest to the mess room. Walking past that room meant six cuts for
any ordinary cadet.
On Sunday afternoons we were allowed to roam about the
spacious woods between the College and the sea, but even that had its
drawbacks for groups of senior term cadets were roaming too and if you
met they made you sing songs or else! This gloomy picture of starting
a naval career is how it struck one rather spoilt youngster who hardly
knew his parents and who had run wild. There was no avoiding this sudden
wave of strict discipline, heaven knows I tried.
About half way through my first term, I was sent for
by the head of Hawke Term, a "no nonsense" schoolmaster called
Mr. Watt. He told me that if I didn't like my treatment I could go. I
wasn't worth bothering about. There was no chance that training to be
a naval officer would be altered to suit my convenience. I remember this
interview well. It was the biggest shock that I had ever had and it certainly
had its effect. It was exactly what I needed. It made me aim to be first
in everything, not to be content with last. Up to that moment, no reproach
had cut so deep. Mr Watt had touched me on the raw and that was what I
needed. I began to accept the rules, to work and play hard. I didn't become
a saint and I never made Cadet Captain at Osborne or Dartmouth, but I
was average at work, good at games and, reasonably, self-confident. Thankyou
Mr Watt!
By the time the Hawke Term moved on to Dartmouth College
lots of junior officers had been killed in the Battle of Jutland and other
naval skirmishes. With new warships appearing as fast as we could build
them, the requirement for junior officers at sea increased rapidly. This
meant that the Hawkes which contained me, instead of the peace time routine
of 6 terms at Osborne, then 6 at Dartmouth were cut down to 5 terms at
Osborne and also 5 at Dartmouth.
Dartmouth College
Turning the pages back, before the royal stables at
Osborne were converted into a naval college and before Dartmouth College
was built, cadets were trained in what had once been a large wooden galleon,
dismasted, moored fore and aft suitably in the River Dart, and refitted
to accommodate us cadets. As she grew old and began to leak, Dartmouth
College was built abreast of the hulk on the western side of the River
Dart in Devonshire. Dartmouth College was, and still is a splendid building,
designed and built for the training required in it, with the River Dart
handy for sailing and boat work. When my Term went to Dartmouth, the old
hulk was still moored in the river. Next time I went there, in command
of a small submarine in 1929, the hulk had gone. I wonder where? I enjoyed
Dartmouth.
For our first term there were only three terms senior
to us, the Blakes, the Drakes and the St. Vincents. Roughly, Dartmouth
had the same layout as Osborne; the same long corridor with gunrooms and
dormitories either side. Halfway along the corridor was a magnificent
hall on one side called Nelson, where all the parades took place. There
is a convention about quarterdecks in ships (at the blunt end), which,
I notice from time to time on television, still exists. Coming up a gangway
on to HM ships' quarterdecks, or approaching them from for'd, the quarterdeck
is always saluted. I understand this custom dates back to mailing ship
days when in all HM ships there was a crucifix opposite the ladder or
gangway on to the quarterdeck. There was no crucifix at Dartmouth or in
modern warships, but quarterdecks still get saluted and the same painful
result ensued at Dartmouth, if it didn't.
At the opposite end of Nelson was a recess in which
stood a marble statue of HM King George V in naval uniform holding a telescope.
Someone (neither the authorities nor myself will ever know who it was)
crept onto the sacred quarterdeck, painted HM's nose red, removed the
telescope and put a bun in his hand. Dartmouth College was perched up
above a wood running down to Sandquay, at the river's edge, where our
engineering workshops were built and alongside which were moored skiffs
and cutters waiting to teach us to row and sail. Down from the College
to Sandquay, through the wood, ran a path which remains fixed in my memory.
This concrete path zigzagged down from the College, so steeply, that at
odd intervals it broke into two, three, or four steps twisting to conform
to the slope. Going up was just a straightforward struggle. Coming down
walking was unheard of. One gathered speed and had to learn by painful
experience; straight path 3 steps (twisting body to the right in midair),
straight path 4 steps (twisting
body to the left ) and so on. To master that hundred odd yards of hazard
cost a lot of twisted ankles and bruises, especially in hot weather.
On Sundays, we had more freedom. Unharassed by senior
termites, we struck out for farmhouses at Stoke Fleming, along the coast,
and stuffed ourselves full of Devonshire cream. At Sandquay was a small
cottage occupied by the Chief Petty Officer ruling that area and his family
which included a very pretty young girl who used to wave at us as we flashed
by. Suddenly, the young lady disappeared. So did a popular, well-developed
cadet in the term above mine. We all missed this character, none of us
knew exactly why he had disappeared so mysteriously, but, doubtless, he
did! With the heavy losses of young officers at the Battle of Jutland,
we all realised the ever increasing gaps to be filled, and without the
least idea of what it would be like at sea, we all seemed desperately
keen to fill those gaps.
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