HMS Bermuda Days , livre ebook

Title Page
HMS BERMUDA DAYS
An Ordinary Seaman’s Log
by
Peter Broadbent



Publisher Information
First published in 2013 by
Chaplin Books
1 Eliza Place
Gosport PO12 4UN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2013 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.



Foreword
In 1961 the Royal Navy was the second largest naval force in the world. It had 816 armed ships at sea and an additional 122 under construction. That same year it was decided to place all the Home Fleet’s criminals, villains, rogues, thugs and malcontents on board one ship.
HMS Bermuda , the Home Fleet’s Flagship, was the chosen ship: a World War II armour-plated veteran. If any ship could deal with a difficult and decadent crew, ‘ Bermadoo ’ could.
I wasn’t a malcontent, a villain or in any way corrupt: I was just one of the youngsters required to make up Bermuda ’s quota of Junior Seamen. I’d completed my 386 days of basic training at HMS Ganges and been bundled off to HMS Dryad to be trained as a Radar Plotter.
When first drafted to HMS Bermuda , I lived a cocooned existence in the Juniors’ mess, sharing accommodation with a well-established community of mutinous cockroaches. My life changed dramatically on the day I turned 17½ years old and was transferred to Bermuda ’s notorious For’d Seamen’s Mess. There, totally unprepared, I grew up - thanks to living with the Home Fleet’s most colourful, self-indulgent and accommodating characters.
In the 1960s, the authorised way of keeping trouble-makers in line was to keep them busy. For Bermuda ’s final year in service, she was continually exercised - defending herself against constant air attacks from the Royal Air Force and underwater threats from our own Submarine Service.
Bermadoo and I travelled over 34,000 eventful and unforgettable nautical miles together.
Peter Broadbent



Acknowledgements
I acknowledge the help and assistance of Les Burrill (www.hmsgangestoterror.org) for details of HMS Bermuda ’s final commission, which I had forgotten or overlooked. Rob Guyatt for some of the photographs; Douglas Carr for the photograph of Bermuda ’s superstructure and Dave Johns for the picture of Bermuda being scrapped at the end.



Chapter 1
A Tin Hat, a Stick and a Pusser’s Torch
With my kit bag balanced precariously on my shoulder I stagger the short distance from Portsmouth Harbour Station to where the RN bus stands waiting on The Hard. I am focused on a group of waving, welcoming girls on the black-iron balcony of a building directly ahead of me. If I were to look to my left, I’d see the masts of Nelson’s Flagship HMS Victory showing above the Victorian red-brick buildings of Portsmouth Dockyard ... but I don’t.
I am one of a group of Junior Seamen, fresh out of HMS Ganges , on my way to HMS Dryad for the specialist part of my naval training. I sneak a final look at the waving girls before dragging my kit bag up the steps of the bus and dumping it onto a seat near the front.
I slump onto my seat: take my cap off, wipe my brow, unbutton my uniform jacket cuffs and try to massage some life back into my numbed shoulder. I look up at the black-iron balcony: the girls have gone.
‘Lash’ Trainer is the last one of us to board the bus. He drags his kitbag along the central aisle, kicks it and slumps down in the seat opposite me. ‘Shit Pete, that was a walk wasn’t it?’
‘It’s the kit bag, mate, it’s got heavier since this morning.’
‘I think I’ve sprained my ankle or something,’ he says, rubbing his foot.
‘The girls have gone.’ I point out of my window.
‘What girls?’
‘Didn’t you see them on the balcony ... the waving ... the girls?’
‘Balcony ... what balcony?’
I point. ‘That one. That one up there ...’
There is a noise from the front of the bus as a large uniformed bloke trips up the step. A flying clipboard hits the driver on the back of the head and a uniform cap skids across the deck.
‘Bugger,’ mumbles the sprawled heap on the deck as he clambers back to his feet.
Lash and I look at each other. I shrug my shoulders.
The driver massages the back of his head.
The large uniformed bloke recovers his clipboard and pats the driver a couple of times on the shoulder. Coughing, he recovers his cap and places it squarely on his head before turning to face us. He’s wearing a black eye-patch. He counts us and scribbles on his clipboard. ‘Six. All present and correct,’ he mutters to the driver.
Tossing the clipboard on the front seat, he faces us, takes a deep breath and removes his cap. ‘Welcome to Portsmouth. My name is Leading Seaman L J Silver.’ He pauses to allow his introduction to sink in.
Lash and I look wide-eyed at each other. I’ve read ‘Treasure Island’ and by the look on Lash’s face so has he.
‘Only joking.’ He pokes a finger at his eye-patch. ‘I’ve got a stye. My name is Leading Seaman Potter ... known as ‘Potter the Plotter’. I’m one of the staff who looks after the Juniors’ Division at HMS Dryad . The final leg of your journey this afternoon will take approximately 45 minutes depending on traffic.’Hhe looks at his wrist: there isn’t a watch. ‘Hopefully we can beat the Dockyard rush.’
I take a final look at the black-iron balcony as the bus slowly pulls away: it’s still empty.
Leading Seaman Potter loses his balance briefly. ‘On arrival at HMS Dryad you will be allocated a bunk and locker in the Juniors’ accommodation before being taken to the Dining Hall for something to eat. The remainder of the evening will be yours to unpack your kit and settle in. Petty Officer Wilkinson, Leading Seaman Jones and myself will be available throughout the evening should you have any problems settling in.’
It’s getting dark as a torrent of cyclists emerges from the large gates in front us. The bus has to give way as we are surrounded by a weaving phalanx of blokes on two wheels: they are jam-packed in the side streets waiting to pour out onto the main road.
We leave Portsmouth town as dusk turns to night and the street lights come on. The bus grumbles and splutters as we climb to the top of a steep ridge. Looking out of the window on Lash’s side I can see the lights of what I assume is Portsmouth, laid out below me.
Leading Seaman Potter stands and braces himself against the backs of two seats as he points downwards. ‘That’s the dockyard down there.’ He swings an arm. ‘And that’s Gosport over there to the right. Over there in the distance somewhere is the Isle of Wight. Somewhere over there ... they haven’t switched their light on yet.’ He sits down.
***
HMS Dryad nestles alongside the ‘chocolate box’ village of Southwick in a fold of land on the north side of Portsdown Hill, the high chalk ridge overlooking Portsmouth and Gosport. In this quiet, rural setting, tucked away at the end of a long, unmarked approach road, members of the Radar Plotting branch are trained to operate the Royal Navy’s most sophisticated Radio Detection and Ranging Equipment.
Messdeck accommodation at HMS Dryad consists of single-storey, badly insulated prefabricated huts: they look like terraced pigsties. The bathrooms are a long cold walk way, outside the Juniors’ accommodation, which is protected by a Petty Officer and a couple of Leading Seamen. The rest of HMS Dryad is a bewildering array of admin blocks and classrooms, some of which have been designed to look like the Operation Rooms onboard ships.
I have barely got my bearings when it’s time to start my course. All six of us from Ganges join up with a similar number of Juniors from HMS St Vincent . The ‘switching on’ part of our course is done at a place called Fort Purbrook, a pleasant bus-ride away, set right on the top of Portsdown Hill and commanding a huge vista that encompasses the Isle of Wight and the Solent.
The Fort’s history is explained to us the moment we arrive and are mustered on the small quadrangle immediately inside the main entrance gate. ‘Fort Purbrook is one of a chain of seven forts known as Palmerston’s Follies, built to protect Portsmouth Naval Base from a land-based attack by the French in the nineteenth century. The attack never happened because it took so long to build the forts that, by the time they’d finished, the threat had gone away. All the forts are connected by tunnels and it rumoured that Purbrook has a direct underground link to The George Inn.’
We laugh obediently.
Then we are given the Fort tour. Within the thick-walled interior are a variety of small windowless rooms. Some contain pulsating hot radars, others house rows of radar screens. Tucked away in the most inaccessible of places is our small, intimate classroom. Our course Instructor has a couple of medal ribbons on his jacket and a crown above the spider’s web badge on his arm. ‘Welcome to the start of your basic Radar Plotters course. My name is Petty Officer Pinkerton. You may have been told when at Ganges or St Vincent that you were selected to be Radar Plotters because you are the cream of the Seamanship branch. How many of you believe that?’
I look around. Nobody else is putting their h