GANGES BOY
Ken Smith
Copyright 2011 Ken Smith
Smashwords Edition
It was the worst winter ever, the Mother of all winters. It began snowing on Boxing Day, and now, the first week of January, it was snowing even harder. In fact, it snowed until March. Last evening I’d arrived at HMS Ganges training annexe, with an assortment of other would-be-sailors, and placed in the capable hands of a spotty faced Junior Instructor (JI) and a bullet proof Gunnery Instructor (GI) who wore crossed guns on both lapels. The only thing I can remember of that awesome night, apart from collecting a kit bag and filling it to capacity with kit, was sobbing myself to sleep. Oh, and that I ate the biggest meal I’d ever eaten in my entire fifteen years of life, the kindly chef asking me whether I intended to eat the mountain of food I’d heaped on my plate or climb it.
I suppose five-thirty in the morning was a civilised time to have my brain squeezed from my scull by a bugle call, Reveille, and to the voice of that massive GI screaming, “Hands off cocks. On socks!”
How did he know I was doing that?
Looking pretty in candy-striped pyjama bottoms and naked chests, he ordered us across the parade ground, through the snow and ice, to the Heads - that grown-up pottyland which had neither doors nor partitions around the bowls for privacy - to partake in our morning ablutions. It was a most embarrassing experience, an experience that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
After bathing and potty training, we were fed. If nothing else, the Navy did know food was the most important thing for a boy.
Porridge was on offer, that salt-coated gruel I’d been forced to eat every morning of my schoolboy days. Guess what? I took a bowl and ate the lot. For spite I think, because it wasn’t compulsory, because it was my choice. I also ate those things starving boys constantly dream of, breakfasts I’d dreamt of many times as a boy - bacon and eggs, sausages and beans, and marmalade. However, I would not take marmalade again. I discovered I didn’t like it. But also, coffee, a substance I had never tasted before. Coffee and tea, like television, were for grown-ups.
Some one hundred boy-sailors were in the canteen, chewing and chattering; clattering knives forks and spoons against plates and bowls. The noise was excruciating. But this morning much excitement as we ate, but how we managed to be so alive at such an unearthly hour I could not fathom. A few eyelids were fluttering as we spooned cereal into mouths, but by the time we had reached the main course were wide open.
Last evening I had thought that our group were the only sailors - if we dared call ourselves that - in this annexe. I was soon to discover there was a continuous rotation of faces, each at various stages of initiation, a small factory taking in baby civilians at one end and throwing out almost sailors into the real HMS Ganges at the other. And it was easy to spot those who had been here the longest. They looked smarter, more confident, or even downright dejected. They looked like what we didn’t look like. They looked like sailors.
Another bugle call and a sudden rush of bodies each tossing uneaten grub into bins; utensils, plates and bowls into trays and racks, then all escaping through swinging doors, watched as always, by supervising eyes.
It was a secret code, a call to arms, a call to unknown happiness or hell. Whatever it was one thing was for certain, it was another command.
Unsure what we should do us new recruits remained seated, spooning food more hastily into hungry mouths lest we too had to leave, lest this were our last meal of the day. But we were permitted to finish our grub and after we’d filled our bellies to beyond capacity, we too made our way through the freezing wind, snow and ice, back to our mess.
It was as we crossed the parade ground the whole bunch of us suddenly froze and spun to face a huge aircraft-hanger-of-a-building running along its length. From it came cries so bloodcurdling, so frightening, I most surely would have obeyed them myself. That was, had I understood what they meant.
It would seem those boy-sailors - seconds ago shoving sausages into smiling faces - had all disappeared into that terrifying building and by the carnivorous cries belching from its belly were being eaten alive. What I’d thought in the canteen was true; they had all gone to HELL. Hell, it seemed, was that building, that cavernous building emitting screams of exorcism before our frightened frozen faces.
Back in the mess, this safe haven shielding us from those torturous sounds, JI’s suspiciously cheerful face greeted us. It was a face hiding unknown treasures, unknown tricks for us to perform, the first of which was to mark our kit with our names. And that, you would imagine, would be a simple task.
Lesson - Nothing in the Navy was simple, me perhaps.
To achieve this wondrous kit-marking feat, each of us was required to construct a printing block using letters carved in wood, mercifully already carved for us
“Letters back to front, remember!” Yes, I did it wrong.
The blocks we dipped into black ink, stamped them onto strips of white ribbon, and sewed them onto some but not all items of kit. Other items, blue serge sea jersey for instance, we dipped the blocks into white ink and stamped them directly onto the material.
Even more excitement - all letters stamped in white would then be transformed, miraculously by our nimble finger, into red. How? By taking red silk thread and, using the chain stitch, embroider over each.
It had to be a joke. I had trouble constructing daisy chains. But it wasn’t and introducing us to our Housewives - for one happy moment I thought a regiment of mums would march through the door and undertake the task - the JI showed us how.
This Housewife was in fact a blue cloth bag with compartments, each containing various utensils and materials for sewing - cottons, silks, needles, scissors, thimble and a whole bunch of needlework paraphernalia.
Thus, I began the awesome task of learning how to sew. And when the week was done, I could understand why men thought women should do such things. It was an absolute nightmare, even threading the needle. It was the Chainsaw Massacre revisited. White nametags covered in spots of blood - Albino ladybirds – and chain stitches that would not travel in a straight line however hard I tried. And that man with crossed guns, that loveable GI who inspected every stitch, made me unpick more than I can ever remember sewing in.
So many times after sewing on a tag and sporting a proud smile when I offered it up for inspection to that gorilla-of-gunner, I was sent scurrying away ears ringing from slaps and vehement words, asking myself, “How the hell did I mange to sew the tag on upside-down?”
Lesson - In later life buy a sewing machine or do get married.
That wasn’t the end of the nightmare though. After each item was marked for life, it was duly ironed. But this is where I had Crossed-guns over a barrel, so to speak. I could iron. Yes, I could iron! I’d ironed my school clothes many times as a boy. I could even make beds, Hoover and cook to some degree, wash dishes, clothes and myself, all unaided. Yes, I could do a whole host of domestic chores other boys seldom or never did. And although I didn’t relish doing them - being up a tree was more to my liking - I was, at least for now, pleased to have done so.
Thus talented and filled with confidence Crossed-guns was perched upon my shoulder, surveying the white front I was ironing, checking for the smallest of creases. Amazingly, from his curling lips issued a solitary word, “Good!”
I glimpsed those fierce eyes, my mind disbelieving what my ears had just heard. I wanted him to say it again. I wanted him to carve it in tablets of stone with his bare hands. I even wanted to hug him for the one kind word he’d spoken to me in a week.
In my dazed state of euphoria, I dashed over to Beanpole, excitedly informing him what Crossed-guns had said. Instantly “Get on with it, you little worm,” ricocheted around the mess, bouncing off boys with bowed heads lest the fearsome ballistics was aimed at them.
Lesson - After pride comes the fall.
During that first annexe week, our mess was slowly becoming a home for seamstress sailors, a not so perfect ironing service, a cleaning agency and a shoeshine service. Quite simply we were becoming a bunch of unemployable uniform perfectionists, with me in danger of becoming the most unemployable. That was, had it not been for my mate Beanpole.
Beanpole, a massive six-footer and clever Sea Scout in his past life, was a saint, a fairy godmother, teaching me - when authoritative eyes were averted - how to do many things. Unfortunately, and feeling somewhat guilty, I could not teach him anything. One thing he could not teach me though was how to spit and polish boots. He tried. God, how he tried. With Mother Teresa patience, he tried.
In Beanpole’s boots, you could see your face. Beanpole’s boots would blind you if the sun caught them – should it ever appear. My boots - those heavy, metal studded, noisy boots - would not shine. And if I’d heard “I’ve seen a black man’s arse shine brighter” once, then I must have heard it a thousand times. My only conclusion, it was my spit. I had the wrong spit. It took me a whole year to bring my boots close to the brilliance of Beanpole’s, by which time they had worn out and I chucked them away.
Our kit was stowed in small silver lockers that we polished daily. But not like any normal person would stow their clothes. No, our kit had to be neatly folded and stacked each item one above the other, with each item measuring exactly nine inches wide and one inch flat. And more, every letter of our names had to be perfectly in line - and that meant perfectly! And should one of those vowels or consonants be a millimetre out, you found the lot on the deck when next you returned to the mess.
Did I ever find my kit on the deck? Well, during the third disastrous week, when the world caved in on me, it spent so much time on the deck I thought I might as well leave it there.
But that was only half of this mundane act of madness devised by morons. Each evening after we had cleaned the mess, we took the lot out, rolled each item into a nine-inch sausage, tied white tape around both ends, and then placed every item on a blanket, as describe in the Seamanship Manual. And yes, every letter, every strip of tape had to be in a perfect line. If not, you would do it repeatedly - until you dropped dead if necessary. Then, after that man with crossed guns had inspected every item, and was satisfied, you put the lock back in your locker as before.
Well, it drove me bloody crazy that laying out of kit so innocently called a Kit Muster. I wanted to call it ‘Hang the Bastard’ because I would have gladly done it to the person who dreamt it up.
But there was more, so much more. The evolution of insanity was instigated by the Royal Navy. Have you ever cleaned a toilet with a toothbrush? Have you ever polished a hundred square feet of block-wood flooring with a boot brush every night before you went to bed? Have you ever painted the inside of a dustbin white before you toss your rubbish into it? Have you ever watched a young boy drowning whilst a sadistic instructor smiles, saying, “Look what happens if you can’t bloody well swim?” having thrown him in at the deep end of a swimming pool. Well, they all happened at Ganges.
Take the dentist. In my misguided wisdom, before joining the Navy I had taken the brave step of having my teeth treated - about four fillings and one extraction. But like most things in the Navy, if they hadn’t done it themselves then it couldn’t be right. Consequently, the dentist painfully removed each filling and replaced it with a naval filling - one stamped with an anchor, no doubt. If they could have replaced the extracted tooth and pulled it again, then I’m sure they would have.
As well as the dentist there was a medical examination - those ‘cough’ examinations. Why another medical, I wasn’t sure. In case something had gone wrong since our recruitment medical, I guessed. And something definitely had. I needed my head examined to have joined up in the first place.
Part of this examination was the injections. The ones that made Mr Muscles, the mess big head, turn into Mr Mattress as he flopped to the deck. I reckoned the whole bunch of us laughed at that sweet sight. And I don’t recall a single boy rushing to his aid.
However, there were several things I did find pleasurable during my first weeks of training. Being in the company of lads, with their regular laughter and banter, was one. Of course, the food, still coming on a regular basis and increasing my size by a centimetre a day. The swimming lessons were mostly fun, apart from the demonstration of how to drown. Naked boys larking around together, their cares and woes washed away for a brief hour, is a joyous sight to behold.
I’d already taught myself to swim - kind of. However, these lessons, culminating in a test, were much more difficult. The test consisted of two lengths of the pool while wearing a boiler suit, then floating for five minutes. This was followed by a leap from the diving board, as high as any tree I’d ever climbed, wearing the waterlogged boiler suit and a lifejacket.
Being afraid of heights - without the protection of leafy arms surrounding me - jumping from that diving board was a very frightening experience indeed. It was made even more terrifying when told, if I didn’t hold my inflated lifejacket tightly against my chest, it would break my bloody neck when I hit the water. I recall I held mine so tightly I almost squeezed the air from it.
It’s funny what goes through one’s mind in such scary situations. All I could think of before I leapt - other than whether I would break my bloody neck - was would I remember to take a breath before I hit the water, or would I take it just as I’d gone under, sucking the pool dry and drown.
But jump I did and after descending like a soggy sack of spuds soon found myself standing fifteen feet beneath the surface. But now I had a new worry - would I ever come back up!
Yes, I loved the swimming lessons but not the Arctic weather. The whole country remained at a virtual standstill. We’d heard rumours most sailors in the main barracks were deployed keeping roads clear or doing errands for elderly folk. Likewise, we were occupied when there was a spare hour - and the GI always found one - shovelling snow from the parade ground but never beyond the barracks walls, Crossed Guns fearful a fair few of us would not return. Rumour also had it they dumped snow on the parade ground each night just so we could clear it away the next day.
Rumours were quickly cultivated among the ratings, some quite frightening. I often wondered if Crossed-guns set the nastier ones in motion himself, another punishment without a crime - mental this time.
Several things became clear to me during that first week in the navy - disturbing things. Things like thinking. Thinking was a crime. All that was required was to obey without question. Obey everything, however mundane, however irrational, however objectionable or dangerous. Thinking, or seen to be thinking, was a recipe for unknown wrath wreaked upon you.
Lesson - However right you are you are wrong.
But Crossed-guns had us both ways. Failure to answer intimidating or life-threatening questions was dumb insolence.
Lesson - Always say something. Anything!
“You’re thick, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You’re a stupid little sod, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so, Sir.”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. I mean no, Sir.”
“Don’t get smart with me, lad!”
“No, Sir.”
It made no difference. Your reply was meaningless, unheard. It was Crossed-guns’ words that mattered, HIS words that were engraved on stone tablets and brought down from the mountain, HIS words that were sacred, always HIS words!
From the onset, I knew this week was going to be different. It was something in Crossed-guns’ expression - a slight snigger perhaps - and the appearance of extra items of kit - gaiters. Gaiters, polished daily with a green muck the name of which I cannot recall. Buckles on the outside of the ankles - there was a right one and a left one apparently. How could I be so stupid? Fear, I guess, fermenting in my brain, turning it into mushy peas, the same colour as the gaiters. I loved mushy peas. I hated gaiters!
Yes, this week was certainly going to be different. They’d written it in the heavens, written it on the Daily Orders, written it on our solemn faces. This week we went into HELL.
Lesson - Hell hath no fury like a GI scorned.
HELL, that oh-so-lovely building that sucked in spirited sailors and spewed out slaughtered souls. HELL, the Drill Hall, the place I learnt to march. And I soon realised something, marching was not a natural pastime for primates and certainly not me. I mean, have you ever seen apes or any other anthropoids parading? I think not. It was, however, natural to GIs but being on the first rung of the primate ladder, I guessed they had an excuse.
Gaiters on the correct ankles, belt of a similar colour around waists, we feebly filed into the drill hall.
It was feeding time, a feast for foul-mouthed GIs. I never knew his name but BASTARD sprang to mind. And his voice, a blast of gunfire, split our ranks in seconds, a shell from a howitzer, shattering spirits, fragmenting souls. Mouthed missiles that could knock out a column of tanks; raze a building to the ground; make a young boy cry!
We’d been taught to fall in three deep - one behind the other twice - and amble around the annexe in an orderly fashion; JI taught us that. But this was different. This was serious stuff, stuff that army sergeants were made of and, unfortunately, GIs.
You could not begin to understand how such a small word as drill could contain so many complicated and complex commands. There were the simple commands:
Salute - self-explanatory, but the hand must touch the correct part of the cap and be at a precise angle.
Attention - stand up straight and feet together, arms rigid by your side.
At Ease - feet apart and hands behind your back, but straight arms.
Stand Easy - the same as At Ease but relax, just a little, not too much. “And that doesn’t mean you can bloody well talk!”
Then the more complex commands:
Right and Left Incline - turn forty-five degrees.
Right and Left Turn - ninety degrees.
About Turn - all the way round.
Was this ballroom dancing or what? Not bloody likely, this was ball busting, tear jerking, your balls in his fist dancing!
And more. After we had learnt to march in a straight line:
Right and Left Wheel - go around the bend (and I certainly was) wheeling in the stated direction.
Right and Left in Threes - the whole bunch of us suddenly turning ninety degrees on the march.
But the most complex manoeuvre of the lot was Form Two Deep. This cunning little drill, probably from Nelson or Neolithic days, was to turn three ranks of men into two. Or, in our case, turn three ranks into a bloody heap.
The idea was this: The middle rank - one boy stepping back, the next forward - would disappear into the front and rear ranks respectively, thus making two. But it wasn’t just a matter of stepping forward or backward. That would have been far too simple. No, it was done in a kind of slow-slow-quick-quick-slow type of shuffle; a sort of side step, forward step, side step thing.
Well, you can imagine the kind of cock-up that created. Boys bumping into boys, both choosing the same spot. Boots stomping on polished boots. Even knocking mates over as we tried to impress the GI by pretending that we knew what the hell we were doing.
It was a command to be crucified for and crucified I was, oh so many times doubling around the parade ground.
There were other commands too, less important:
Off Caps - mostly when up for punishment.
Right and Left Dress - strangely nothing to do with the way your boyhood hung.
The best of the lot was Fall Out - in other words, “Piss off! I’m sick to death of the sight of you useless fairies. I’ve seen girl guides march better!”
But there was even more joy to be had in this marching minefield. All those military manoeuvres we had managed to master, so magnificently, also had to be mastered with and added monster, a rifle. Not any ordinary rifle but a 303 rifle, a rifle with a mind of its own, a rifle that caused me no end of strife, a rifle, at the end of the day that weighed as much as a tank. A STRIFLE, in my case.
Predictably, rifle drill became a nightmare for me and usually went something like this:
“Slope Arms!”
Clunk! Rifle dropped.
“You, lad! You wretched worm! Once around the parade ground.”
Ten minutes later.
“Order....”
Clunk!
“You! You pathetic pot of piss! Twice around the parade ground.”
Twenty minutes later.
“Shoulder....”
Clunk!
“You bloody idiot! Around the parade ground until you’ve worn a six foot trench!”
“Thank God for that,” say I, “I thought I’d never get rid of the sodding thing.”
“And take your bloody rifle with you. You poor excuse for a shag.”
“Oh well, some you win...,” whispers I. “And I’ll have you know I’m probably a very good shag indeed.”
Then, just when I had mastered the monster, when I only dropped it five times a day, we were introduced to another beast with a brain of its own - a bayonet. You know? That sharp bit that sticks on the end, that strange contraption held in a scabbard on the left side of your belt.
The order went something like this: On the command “Fix!” The left hand went behind the cheek of your left buttock and twisted the bayonet and scabbard upward. On the remainder of the command ‘Bayonets’ the left hand pulled the bayonet from the scabbard, placed it on the barrel of the rifle and, with a quick twist of the wrist, secured it in place.
It was the spring in my bayonet. Surely mine didn’t work. Each time I let it go off it popped, falling to the deck with a clatter. Even if it amazingly stayed put, as soon as I slammed the rifle onto the parade ground off it popped again.
I learnt many things during rifle drill, apart from me not being a good shag. As for the bayonet? Well, that went up my arse. I know this to be true because the GI told me he would surely shove it there before the week was through.
But there was another hell in store for me, a hell equally as unpleasant as rifle drill. Thankfully, it was shorter - a good deal shorter!
In those misplaced beliefs which state “All military men are macho” and the Navy’s undying need to prove it, they had devised a nice little horror for scrawny little sods like me. There had already been many ways I had demonstrated my levels of testosterone (in bed would have been more to my liking) but this latest testosterone tester would be in a boxing ring, three minutes fighting a fellow sailor, one hundred and eighty seconds of slaughter, a million microseconds of mayhem.
Lesson - Physical Training Instructors (PTIs) are GIs in disguise.
Sufficiently scared, we were prepared for sacrifice. Naked to the waist, dressed in white shorts and plimsolls, into the gym we filed, forming a human snake beside the wall bars. Thus assembled, we were paired off.
I glanced to my right and shivered. The boy beside me didn’t have a nose but this wide flat thing, devoid of any bone, spread across his face. I glanced to my left - the shorter of the two - it was Mr Muscles. I felt my knees knocking together.
Mr Muscles grinned. My stomach tightened at the bloodthirstiness of his expression. I smiled back, more a grimace. I was going to be murdered, of that I had no doubt. A bead of water trickled down my temple, another down my leg.
The PTI moved along the line, far too joyfully for my liking, pulling boys forward and pairing us off. In front of me now, his right hand went down upon my shoulder, his left upon Mr Muscles. My brow erupted in beads of sweat.
This couldn’t be fair. I knew a little bit about boxing. Not how to box but that boxers fought by weights. Mr Muscles, although about the same height, had a leg that weighed as much as I did. To have to fight him just couldn’t be right. It seemed so barbaric. I could only live in hope that because we both belonged to the same class he would be gentle. But I thought not. Indeed, he looked hungry for a fight. Also, that macho image, that superego, had already been dented at jab time. I was going to be murdered.
I dashed through the double doors. I didn’t throw up in the heads but used the opportunity to release the pent up pressure of pee, spraying it nervously around the urinal. I guessed I’d better do it now rather than in the ring because that would have been humiliating. It mattered little. I was about to be humiliated anyway.
Together we sat in the front row on a wooden form Mr Muscles and me, watching two smaller boys try to murder each other. Blood spurted from noses when fists met faces, splattering over white shorts and naked chests.
I was almost sick, thinking, “Soon it will be my own.”
Mr Muscles nudged me and grinned, obviously enjoying sailors slaughtering sailors. I sort of smiled back, desperately wanting another pee. Not wishing to appear afraid, I stayed put and smiled back.
CLANG!
The vibration of the bell almost knocked me out but I ran bravely forward, arms flaying. Mr Muscles’ fist - a seven-pound hammer on a peach - splattered my nose across my face. I saw stars. That was funny because I often wondered if you saw stars when you’ve been knocked out. Now I knew.
There was no count, just the PTI screaming, “You going to lay there all bloody day? Get up and fight, you fairy!”
I had no idea where I was but lifted myself up, ran forward and began flapping my limp arms wildly. Mr Muscles rushed forward and smacked me cold again with a single uppercut. The time it took the medic to bring me around was longer than the actual bout. Drenched in blood, all my own, I was led to the heads to be cleaned up. But, and this did surprise me, Mr Muscles shook my hand and told me he was sorry.
Yes, there were many hells to haunt me during my annexe training - the hell of rifle drill that continued daily; the hell of trying to get to pottyland when no one else was there; the hell of kit musters; the hell of wondering what hell was coming next. But there was one hell to come, which for me was going to be sheer hell - Ganges mast.
HMS Ganges had a mast, about one hundred and forty feet high. Every new recruit was required to climb it, not to the very top but to the Half Moon, about thirty-feet from the top. At about sixty feet was the Devil’s Elbow, the most dangerous and frightening part. This was where the roped rigging jutted out some ten feet - above it, the platform.
To get to the platform you would climb out over the Devil’s Elbow, legs dangling in the air, only your grip keeping you from certain death. There was a way to bypass it - for cowards like me - but God help you if you tried using it.
I was so fearful of that oncoming event I was becoming a nervous wreck, each night reading the next day’s Daily Orders, wondering if tomorrow would be the day I crapped my pants in public.
‘Trainee sailor falls to death from HMS Ganges mast. Dissected into delicate chunks as his body slices through the wire safety netting’ was the headline that haunted me in nightmares.
Rumour had it, many years ago, a boy did fall, bouncing off the safety net and through the Post Office roof. To this day, you can still see his ghost repeat that fatal stunt.
Was anything in this navy free from fear, I continually wondered. Sewing, perhaps!
Then it came, that wretched night, the night when the iced wind and snow sliced a young boy’s half-naked body in two as he made his way to pottyland. That most wondrous night when the next day’s Daily Orders read, “Because of the inclement weather, the traditional mast climbing will not, repeat NOT take place.”
Yes, there were many demons during my training, but it would seem some of those demons could be slain, slain by simple sentences.
We actually had a lie in, an extra half-hour, but it was still an unnatural time to be in motion. The reason? Today was the day my mates and me would move into the ‘real’ HMS Ganges, having completed our month in the annexe.
I did a quick trip to pottyland before other flushed and straining faces arrived, then zipped in and out of the shower in seconds. Outside, the snow was still falling in pretty flakes and all we'd cleared the day before replaced. I also ate an enormous breakfast, and the kindly chef I’d met on my very first day, again asked if I was training to be a mountaineer.
We had a laugh about that. I knew I would miss the one friendly face that greeted me most mornings. I would also miss this, my favourite building, and hoped they would have a similar one in the main barracks. Just in case, I’d taken two of everything.
Back in the relative warmth of the mess, boys were bundling kit into orange kit bags. I felt happy and sad in equal proportions. But I also felt apprehensive; fear having become a normal emotion. Every task in training contained an element of fear or made fearful. I guess my main concern was the thought of all my kit scrunched up in that orange sausage and the mammoth ironing session that lay ahead.
As we stowed our kit into our respective sausages the strangest thing happened, the sun came out. Several faces pressed against windows and began staring with disbelief into the blue sky. I almost went up to Beanpole to ask him to hold his boots up to that ball of fire to see if they'd blind me with their brilliance.
Sunshine or not, because of the treacherous state of the icy road we were told the traditional march between annexe and main barracks would not take place. Instead, we were to stroll in an orderly fashion, accompanied by the sound of a Royal Marine band.
Kit stowed, it was time to say goodbyes. Not all of us would be in the same classes when we reached the main barracks. Thus saddened, I moved sombrely between mates - for mates they had surely become - and shook each hand. Some I gave a hug. I even noticed Mr Muscles shaking many hands, and that pleased me. If nothing else during that first month in the Navy, we had all become equals. There was always something you couldn't do or do well enough.
“Fall in!” Crossed-guns hollers, his massive torso filling the doorway as it always did when he barked his orders. But now, four weeks on, although still an unnerving sight and sound, felt less threatening.
Boys dashed by the steel-bodied man, fearing slaps to shaven heads, then moved onto the snow and ice, joining boy-sailors from other classes as they assembled into the usual three deep.
Mess cleared, Crossed-guns joins us on the parade ground. He speaks. Speaks gently, speaks joyfully and, dare I say it, affectionately. His mentions of “proud”, “well done”, “best class I’ve ever had” and so much more fill our ears.
I wanted him to stop before he made me cry, with laughter, when “Lying sod” came out in a whisper.
Crossed-guns brings us to attention. “Move to the left in threes!” is ordered. A single ‘shunk!’ of booted feet echoes around the parade ground.
The Royal Marine band strikes up. It was the first time I’d heard a Royal Marine Band. It was a soul stirring sound, bringing a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. Indeed, on hearing the drums and blaring bugles I could have marched, head held high, from one end of the country to the other such was the patriotism and pride pulsing through my body.
We were not supposed to march because of the dangerous conditions. But how could we not? How could I not? So march we did, marching as we had never marched before. Not marching for Crossed-guns but marching for ourselves.
Over the snow and ice, we marched, our feet stomping those studded boots into the icy road, our arms swinging high and heads held proudly. Shunk! Shunk! Shunk! And even when we were out of earshot of “Hearts of Oak” we proud boy-sailors kept the beat going. Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!
“Left. Left. Left, right, left,” sang Crossed-guns beside us. But we didn't need his words; the beat was in our heads, in our bodies, in our hearts and souls. Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!
Through the main gates, we marched, onto the public road that ran between the two barracks, our boots echoing between terraced houses. Shunk! Shunk! Shunk! Whether curtain-hidden eyes were watching us, I do not know. I truly hoped so.
Down the road we proudly thundered, the first time any of us had seen the outside world since the day of our arrival. How gratifying that felt. Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!
Within ten minutes, a second pair of gates appeared, the gates of the real HMS Ganges. Rank by rank it swallowed us into its gaping mouth. Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!
Then I spotted it and I almost stopped marching! Reaching high into the sunlit sky stood the mast; its yardarms spread wide like a giant crucifix. From the annexe, I had sometimes seen it, partly hidden by snowy skies as it towered above the buildings. It looked frightening then but now, marching beneath its cobweb rigging, it looked truly awesome.
I allowed my head to tilt backward, sending my gaze to the very top, to the lightning conductor where the Button Boy stood on ceremonial occasions. I shuddered to the bone, as I’m sure did other boys. My heart sank and my elation evaporated as I desperately tried to quash all fears of my sacrificial body falling from the Devil’s Elbow. Being in it’s sacred presence sent fear flooding through my freezing body. Yes, true fear, not to be mistaken with feeling nervous. And the reason for that fear - if there was one thing I had learnt over the past month NOT does not mean NEVER. NOT climb the mast meant POSSIBLY NOT, PERHAPS NOT. For I knew that once the weather was respectable, when it was no longer dangerous, my skinny little skeleton would be transported, step by trembling step, up that perilous rigging. NOT climb the mast meant YES I WOULD. No way would the Royal Navy let the opportunity to instil fear into a young boy pass them by.
And with that fear impregnated deep into my brain, so began another nine months of laughter and tears, disaster and joy. Only when my training was over would I then be able to call myself a true Ganges Boy and, some years later, a real sailor.