After five days leave, I received my first call from the Pool. I was to join a Wilson Line, Passenger/Cargo ship, the Cavallo the following morning, at the West India Docks. I was so excited that it wasn’t until I had almost returned the hand piece to the cradle, that I asked, “Where’s it going?”

“The Med.”

I packed my new cardboard suitcase, and went to the railway station to make sure I had full details of where I was to change trains.

The next morning, clean and shiny bright in my Vindi uniform, I was ready to leave. I couldn’t wait to begin my adventure, but it wasn’t going to be before Mum had cried all over me, and I’d solemnly shaken my father’s hand. I caught the first train at Watford Junction, changing to the underground at Queen’s Park, and after another change, eventually emerged into the weak November sun, at Poplar Station, where I caught a bus toward West India Dock. The bus wound it’s way around the East end, passing several new housing estates containing rows of identical pre-fabricated, concrete bungalows, which replaced the old, bombed out, rows of identical terraced houses.

“Ere yar son, called out the bus conductor, vis is yor stop ere.”

“Ta mate,” I called out as I struggled to haul my kit out of the crowded bus.

I’d been dropped off in a particularly dingy part of town. The Dock gates were about a hundred yards or so down a narrow cobbled street. A railway bridge went over the road, just before the gates, further reducing the little bit of daylight struggling up through grey November skies.

Throwing my Vindi kit bag over my shoulder, I stooped to pick up my suitcase, squared my shoulders and marched up to the policeman at the Dock Gate.

“Good morning, could you tell me where to find the Cavallo?” I asked reverently.

“Yeah mate, take the right fork, and you’ll see her straight away.” He answered.

“Thanks,” came my nervous reply.

I struggled on up the inner dock road, concentrating on my footing so as not to twist an ankle on either the cobbles or the railway lines embedded in the roadway. As I passed a warehouse on the right fork, I saw my ship for the first time. She had a dark green hull and gleaming white superstructure, and was berthed Port side to. I had to admit that I was disappointed. I had been anticipating a ship of somewhat stouter proportions. The Cavallo didn’t seem to me, to be all that much different in size to the Vindicatrix. Nevertheless, I struggled up the swaying gangway, and presented myself to the Chief Steward, whose cabin was just inside the doorway at the top of the gangway.

The Chief Steward opened my discharge book and grunted at the virginal clean pages.

“Right, I’ll show you to your’ cabin, stow your gear and come back here.”

We went to the Starboard side accommodation alleyway, and he showed me into a double berth cabin, just a little larger than a train sleeper.

After throwing what gear I had, into one of the drawers, I hurried back to the Chief’s cabin.

“I’m ready Sir.” I said as I knocked on the cabin door.

“I’m the Chief Steward son, you address me as Chief, or Boss, the only person you call sir, is the Captain.”

“Yes sir, ah Chief.”

“OK Billy, we all signed on yesterday, and we sail tonight so I have to take you over to the Federation to get signed on. I have a cab waiting, so let’s go.”

We walked down the aluminium gangway, which bounced as we walked in step. A black Hackney cab was waiting for us at the foot of the gangway.

“Leadenhall Street, cabby.” The Chief said as he climbed into the cab. I followed.

“Cor, this is a step up in lifestyle,” I thought. I could count the number of times I’d been in a cab, on one hand.

The cab, started off, and as we passed the end of the dock, the Chief pointed to an old side paddle wheeler, which was listing slightly as it slowly disintegrated.

“See that ship over there? She took part in the rescue at Dunkirk.”

Having been interested in the Second World War most of my life, I felt it was sad to see such a proud old ship, with such a piece of history to her credentials, left idle and forgotten, in such a way. I hoped that she would be spared, but I never saw her again.

Signing on was a fairly simple affair. I was called into an office, and fronted a few men wearing suits. A book was pushed under my nose. “Sign ‘ere.” I signed, and was asked to wait for the Chief Steward outside. After a short conversation at the office, the Chief collected me and I followed him out of the building, and back to the waiting cab, like a faithful puppy.

“Back to West India Docks please driver.” The Chief lit a cigarette and settled back to read his newspaper. It was only a short time before we were back at the ship.

“Righto lad,” said the Chief, “get changed into your working gear, and report to the Second Steward in the pantry. He’ll get you started.”

“Yes Chief.” I almost ran around the alleyway to my cabin, and quick as I could, changed into my Vindi issued working dungies, and striped piss jacket.

I’d been shown the galley door by the Chief, when he showed me the way to my cabin. I walked through the small galley, to the pantry.

A small, wizened man was working in the galley. “You wanting the Second Steward?” he asked.

“Er yes.” I didn’t know how to address him, and didn’t wish to offend.

“I’m Stan, the Chief cook,” He introduced himself. “You’ll be the new pantry boy eh?”
“Er yeah, Bill Young, pleased to meet you.”

“Straight from Sea School ay,” came a voice from behind.

I turned to find another small man; he was wearing black trousers and a white shirt. “I’m the Second Steward. You’ll address me as Sec.”

“Yes Sec.”

“I see that the Sea Schools are still running true to form. You’ll stand out like dog’s bollocks in that uniform.” You got any jeans and T shirts?”

“Um, no jeans Sec, but I do have a couple of T shirts. We were told that we were to wear our issued clobber at sea.” I could feel my face reddening with embarrassment.

 “Well, there’s no time now for you to change; we’re about to start serving lunch. You know how to make soapy water?”

“Yes Sec.”

“Good, the sinks’ over there by the port bulkhead. The stewards will be ringing the bell for lunch in a minute, so get the sink ready for pearl diving. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the lads as they appear. Hope you’ve got a sense of humour, but the boys’ll leave you alone after they’ve taken the piss for about a week.”

I made a mental note to purchase some go ashore civvies and some working gear sometime during the trip.

True to his word, the Second Steward introduced me to the two Assistant Stewards as they came into the pantry with fresh lunch orders.

“One loop de loop, one entrée.”

“Laurie, this is Bill Young, the new pantry boy.”

“Oright? Nice jacket.” He collected his orders and swung easily through the pantry door.

“Main course please.”

“Denis, meet Bill Young, the new pantry boy.”

“Fresh meat ay, talk to yer later.”

The next hour or so, I was kept pretty busy but failed miserably in my attempt to keep up with the dirty dishes coming in from the dining saloon. There was no dishwasher, and everything was done by hand. I soon mastered the art of holding six plates in one hand, drying top and bottom, and shuffling the top plate to the bottom, to repeat the process.

After about an hour, Denis and Laurie were ordering deserts, and the Sec started to serve our lunch orders onto plates, and stack them in the bain marie cupboard. As soon as the Dining Saloon had been re-set for the evening meal, us catering lads collected our meals, and we sat in the duty mess, next to the saloon, to consume them.

Laurie finished his meal first, and asked if we minded if he smoked.

“I don’t mind if you smoke,” answered Denis, “in fact, I don’t give a fuck if you catch fire.”

It seemed to be a standard answer and only I laughed.

“Hello mate, I’m John.” A young lad about my age offered his hand. I’d seen him working in the galley during lunch. “We’re cabin mates, and we’ll be working together.”

“Hello John, I’ve been wondering who I would be sharing the cabin with.”

“This yer first trip?” said Denis, a cockney lad in his early twenties.

“Yeah, I suppose it’s pretty obvious ay”

“Not arf mate, that piss jacket’ll give yer away every time.”

“Yeah well, I don’t expect it will see the light of day again.” I answered.

The lads started to clear away. “C’mon, we‘ve gotta strap up, empty the gash bins down aft, and scrub down, then we’re off duty for a couple of hours.

We all rose from the table, to return to our various duties.

After I’d finished the washing up, I teamed up with the galley boy John and we scrubbed the galley and pantry decks. I hung up the damp tea towel and checked that the boiler had water. Our time was our own for the next couple of hours.

John and I went to our cabin, and I unpacked my gear, stowing it in the two drawers assigned to me. We each had a narrow, timber wardrobe, and there was a flat timber shelf, which pulled out from the chest of drawers, to act as a writing desk. There didn’t seem to be much else to do except to follow John’s lead, and have a lie down. The two stewards I’d met during lunch had raced ashore to sink a couple of pints before returning to serve dinner.

At about four ‘O clock, we turned to again in preparation for dinner which was to be served at five thirty whilst in port. All I had to do was to ensure that the boiler was actually boiling, make up a sink full of soapy water, and stow hot food away into the bain marie as the second steward collected it from the galley. The second acted as the pantry man, and filled the stewards orders as they came in from the saloon.

I learned that we had four passengers aboard, with a total capacity for only six. No entertainment was offered to passengers, though I suppose that they would have been traveling pretty cheaply, and as long as they weren’t too concerned with the schedule, they could float through life quite pleasantly.

Dinner was a repetition of the lunchtime procedure, and by about six thirty, John and I were scrubbing down the decks, looking forward to a shower and the evening to ourselves. Shore leave finished at nine ‘O clock so it didn’t seem worthwhile to me to bother, although the two stewards once again, raced ashore to spend a couple of hours at the Blue Post, the closest pub.

We sailed sometime during the night, and I turned to at 0600 the next morning, to find we had left the grey cold skies of England in our wake, and the temperature was considerably warmer than I had expected. I had put my piss jacket away and now wore a more conventional white T-shirt.

I went into the pantry and made myself a cup of coffee, then went out on deck with the rest of the catering blokes, to cough the day into life.

As this was the first morning at sea, most of the blokes had a hangover from the sailing night party they’d had ashore without me.

We sat on the hatch cover out of the breeze, on the after deck until the second steward came out and told us to get to work.

I had no idea what my job actually was, so the second put me to work scrubbing the cross alleyway between the galley and dining saloon. My next task was to clean the stewards toilets, by which time, the pantry sink was full of dirties from early morning cuppas, and it was time to clean up in preparation for the first meal of the day.

At eight ‘O clock we were serving breakfast, a fine repast of four courses, far more grand than I had ever seen before. The stewards served compote of fruit, and cereals from the saloon, and porridge, kippers and eggs and bacon from the pantry. Once again, my sink filled to overflowing and I could see that I would have to lift my game to keep up with the flow. If I couldn’t keep up, I’d just have to work longer and my free time would be severely diminished.

After having scrubbed down the galley and pantry decks again, I was shown how to clean the copper water boiler. A solution of salt and vinegar was mixed, and when the salt had finally dissolved, I had to wash the boiler with the mixture. Any cuts or abrasions on my hands soon stung like the dickens so I would frequently take a couple of swipes at the boiler, then dash to the sink to wash my hands in cool water.

At eleven ‘O clock, most of the catering crowd were called down to the ships shop, to distribute the days shopping orders to the passengers and officers. I had to carry for the Chief Steward, who would purchase a bottle of spirits, and a carton of beer every few days.

After lunch had been served, and I’d washed all the plates, John and I scrubbed down the galley and pantry decks again. I was now free for two hours and I was able to acquaint myself with the rest of the catering crew. There were a total of eight in the catering section including the Chief Steward, though he was an officer and didn’t mix with us. My cabin mate John and I teamed up with Pete, the second cook, and two assistant stewards, Laurie and Dennis.

Laurie was twenty-four and Dennis twenty-two. Whenever we gathered for a coffee or just to while away some time, they would tell sea stories, which sounded to an innocent boy like me to be both exciting and far fetched. I could never be sure if they were having me on, and I sat in wide eyed wonder that these men, only a few years older than I, could possibly have experienced so much. To me, their stories were fascinating and I couldn’t wait to see some of the places they spoke of so casually.

There seemed to be some sort of competition to tell the most amazing or bizarre story of the session, and they never seemed to run out of new ones.

Having no previous experiences to talk about, I just sat and listened, and tried to fit in as best I could.

We turned to again at four in the afternoon, to prepare for the evening meal. One of the stewards had already served afternoon tea to the passengers and officers, and there was a stack of washing up ready for me in the sink.

“Ow yer likin' it so far?” asked Dennis, a cockney lad.

“I’m doing all right I answered,” though in truth, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I thought that I wanted to get away to sea. Nobody told me I’d be spending most of my time, up to my tits in the sink, or scrubbing toilet bowls. I was thinking of jacking it in as soon as we paid off, and was thanking my stars that I hadn’t signed on a tramp.

About the second day of the trip we were going through the Bay of Biscay, and the ship was rolling in a bit of a swell. Being a first tripper, I was none too steady on my feet, and a little green around the gills. I found that I had inherited my mother’s inability to handle motion, and all I wanted to do was to lie down and feel sorry for myself.

After finishing scrubbing my alleyway, I went to the steward’s toilet to clean it. I found the chief cook sitting on the throne; toilet door hooked back, wide open. He was smoking a rather foul smelling tobacco, which when mixed with his rather foul smelling body waste was just a little too much for my weakened stomach to take. I was soon to discover that the cook had a few other quaint habits such as always keeping an old, but sharp knife under his pillow. He was a grizzled little man, who hailed from Hull and had been torpedoed three times during the war. It was after losing his first ship, that he stopped closing any doors, and he told me that the knife was to cut away the canvas boat cover should the need arise to abandon ship.

Having just passed my lifeboat exam, I reminded him that in the seaman’s manual, it stated that the ropes on the covers were to be undone, as it could be used later to lash boats together. The cover could be used to catch rainwater, or as shade. He smiled at me and told me that doors jammed when a ship starts to sink, and that in order to use anything later, you first had to get into the boat!

My first port was Algiers: I think you would have to look long and hard, to find a sleazier place for your first International stopover. It seemed that very little had changed since Jesus played for Jerusalem, and one of the few modern touches was that the donkey carts sported ancient truck axles and wheels. Dilapidated cars, trucks and buses crammed the narrow, dusty streets. Old men with whips, persuaded skinny, moth eaten donkeys to pull carts so overloaded, that they would have been a burden for any fit cart horse. It seemed that every few steps there was a requirement for every Arab to hawk up some phlegm and spit it out into the street. I suppose one could argue that it helped to keep the dust down. I found absolutely nothing attractive about Algiers.

I was emptying the gash bucket into the bins down aft, when an Arab came up to me and asked if I would be interested in “Dirty Peekchoors”, naturally I confirmed I was, and he ran off the ship, and jumping aboard a shiny new moped, peddled furiously away until the motor started, coughing blue smoke into the dust of the alleyway.  Presumably, he was off to pick up his stock. It was two hours before the Arab returned, and asked me the question again. I told him that I was interested but that he should stop buggering about and show me them. The Arab looked at me and explained that whilst he did indeed have a stock of interest, he actually wanted me to be in them, not to buy some. He explained that he could fulfill my every fantasy and could supply any required “props”, small girl, small boy, old woman, old man, donkey, camel. I was shocked and more than a little embarrassed, after all, what would the neighbours say? This was indeed a different world to the lower middle class England, from whence I had come.

I declined his kind offer, though for years after, wondered just how much money was to have been made?

We only stopped in Algiers a little over twenty-four hours, and the following morning, I awoke to discover that we were on our way again.

Our second port was Benghazi to load bags of blood and bone fertilizer, and we were to be tied up in time for us to have a run ashore on my seventeenth birthday. The British Army still had a presence there at the time, which was just as well, because not having money enough to visit the Casino, we went to the only other place where the people spoke English, the N.A.A.F.I. My cabin mate John, looked through the small shop in the N.A.A.F.I. and bought a few carved items as souvenirs.

It was time for liquid refreshments and we put every effort into our task of trying one drink from every bottle on the top shelf, followed by a half pint beer chaser, and managed to get legless in short order.

Having spent the best part of four hours in the bar, we were all suffering wobbly boot syndrome, so we decided to weave our way back toward the docks. An Assistant Steward, a deck boy, and John, walked ahead, as the rest of us still had drinks to finish.

Whilst walking down the street, a young Arab lad asked the galley boy to show him his purchases and, being green, John did as requested. The young Arab quickly snatched the carvings, and ran off up a dusty alleyway. John picked up a lump of rock and threw it at the young Arab as he ran off, and surprisingly hit the Arab in the middle of his back. The Arab turned around, pointed his finger at the boys and screamed, “For that you die.”

Of course, they assumed that the Arab was ‘full of it’ and continued to weave their way back to the ship, John muttering that he was not happy about losing his carvings.

As they passed the next alleyway, an Arab Policeman jumped out and grabbed one of the lads. Another Policeman and several other Arabs grabbed the rest, and dragged them up the alleyway. Being somewhat elephants’ trunk, they were unable to defend themselves too well, and were held against an adobe type wall. The young Arab, who had been hit with the rock, walked over to a donkey cart and, throwing off the canvas cover, reached down and picked up a long, curved knife.

“Now English, you die,” he said.

Just at that point the rest of us came along the road. The second cook looked up the alleyway and saw that the boys were in trouble. He yelled out, attracting the rest of us, and we ran and pulled the Arabs off, putting the boot into the one with the knife. Having rescued the lads, we now had to make good our escape, so we took off. The affects of the drink were impeding our progress so it was with much relief that we saw a Landover with two British Military Policemen in it. Recognizing our accents, seeing the trouble we were in, and presumably thinking we were soldiers, they called out, “Over ‘ere lads, jump in.”

The MP’s stood up in the Land rover and pointed their Sterling sub machine guns at the Arabs who by this time were chasing us in the Arab Police Land rover. We soon explained what had happened and that we were from the British ship, tied up at the tanker berth, way the other side of the harbour. The MP’s called their base, and received permission to escort us back to the ship. The Arab Police followed, so the MP’s were allowed to stay with us until such time as the Arabs left.

Naturally, the MP’s were given a drink to thank them for our rescue, and before we knew it we had ourselves a party. Being quite young and relatively new to the boozing game, I already had my head on backwards, and it wasn’t long before I’d flaked out. When I awoke next morning, it was to find the two MP’s asleep on the cabin deck, sterling machine guns alongside them. I never did find out if the guns were actually loaded, but they had done the trick nevertheless.

I turned to with a very heavy head and didn’t see the squaddies again, though I was well aware of just how serious the situation could have been without their intervention.

Fortunately our stay in Benghazi was a short one, and before we knew it, we were on our way once more.

By this time, I was enjoying life at sea enormously, and looking forward to each new port and experience.

The Greek port of Piraeus was next on the agenda, and we tied up in the early morning. Just outside the dock gates was a street market and we spent a couple of hours looking around. Basically it was just like any other street market apart from the butcher’s barrow. Blood ran down the gutters, as freshly killed carcasses were hung from the roof of the barrow. Flies were so thick on the meat that the butcher waved a flywhisk continuously. When a customer chose her purchase, the butcher waved off the flies, hacked off the required amount of meat, which was then wrapped in newspaper. Cash was exchanged, and the butcher continued to pick his nose, whilst using his other hand to exercise the local fly population with his whisk. The smell was incredible, and I wouldn’t have liked to have eaten any of the local dishes.

John and I had a half day off whilst we were in Piraeus, so we decided to go sight seeing at the Acropolis. After strapping up all the pots, pans and dishes, then scrubbing down the galley and pantry decks, we were free for the rest of the day. We showered and changed and by about two pm were ready to go ashore. This would be my first time ashore during the day, with enough time to play tourist. I made sure I had my camera.

We walked along the docks to the gate and made our way through the markets and onto the main road. At the time, the road was a little used, dusty affair. Across the road was a taverna, and a sad looking old donkey, hitched to an even sadder looking cart, waited patiently whilst it’s owner sat in the taverna having a drink.  Eventually we found our way to a taxi rank and caught a cab to Athens. We weren’t aware how far it was at the time, and it seemed like the easiest way of getting to where we wanted to go. I was quite surprised that Athens was so different to Piraeus, and was in fact, quite a modern, bustling city.

John and I tacked onto the rear of a guided tour around the Acropolis, and spent a couple of hours playing tourist and taking photos. Wherever we went, vendors appealed to us to buy some of their, “genuine ancient Greek pottery,” freshly made in bulk job lots somewhere nearby.

It was getting dark, and not wishing to be on our own in a strange city where we didn’t speak the language, decided to make our way back to Piraeus, to find some of our shipmates. Amazingly, we found our way to the underground and managed to catch a train back. It was rush hour, and at every station more and more people packed into the train. John and I had already given up our seats to older ladies, who had taken the offer of the seats with a look of both amazement and suspicion. We hung onto the straps, and hoped that the journey would end soon. The smell of over ripe body odour was beginning to take its toll. I could feel that someone was leaning against me so inched forward a little. It wasn’t long before I was being leaned on once again, so inched forward again. By this time, I had moved about as far as I could comfortably go, and had to cock my head on one side because of the curvature of the roof of the train. Within another thirty odd seconds, I was being leaned on again, and by this time I was beginning to get a little angry. I turned my head to see who was leaning against me, hoping that my body language would give the offender the hint that I was not well pleased. I was wasting my time with subtlety, the woman was leaning right back onto me whilst reading her paper. She had everything a man could wish for, muscles, and a twelve-inch moustache! I suddenly moved sideways and let her fall against the door of the train.

When John and I got back to the ship, we discovered that a bus was leaving shortly to take those who wished to go, back to the Acropolis to see it all lit up. From there we were going to a taverna, for some Greek food and wining and dancing. The bus was about to leave, so John and I tacked ourselves onto the party, and went ashore again.

Riding in the bus was a much more pleasant experience that that of our earlier one, and we found that in the isle of the bus, were two or three eskies, full of beer and ice. We were told to help ourselves, and it wasn’t long before the inmates of the bus were quite jovial.

We were given a whirlwind tour of the Acropolis, which was the excuse for the tour, but the main event was the food and drink at the taverna. Before too long, we had been herded back into the bus, and the lads were calling for more drink. Just what the doctor ordered as far as the taverna owners were concerned.

We pulled up at a dilapidated looking shack, little more than a courtyard with a roof. The floor was made of large paving stones, and there was a brick oven at one end of the yard. Long timber tables were set out, and we were encouraged to make ourselves at home. A few more beers later, and it was just as well we weren’t at the Ritz. The evening was becoming raucous, and the Ouzo had been introduced. Plates of roasted lamb, and stuffed olive leaves were passed around, though most of us only ate what we recognized.

A small troupe of musicians played Greek music and before long, a conga line had formed. Everybody was dancing and drinking with never a care about what time the bus was leaving. I was informed that the bus would wait until we were ready to go.

I was having a wonderful time. There was nobody telling me to behave, indeed my behaviour was quite demur in comparison to those who had by this time, progressed to drinking Ouzo straight from the bottle, and dancing on the tables. Someone started smashing plates, and everyone cheered. I was certain that the Police would be bound to turn up soon, but no one seemed to be concerned, least of all the people running the taverna.

It wasn’t long before I was past caring about the consequences, and the night wore on into a state of oblivion. I don’t recall getting back to the ship, nor what time it was.

The deckhand crashed into the cabin at 0600 determined to make life as unpleasant, and noisy as possible. I opened one eye and immediately felt the cabin revolve. This was not good. I had learned in my very short time at sea, that it didn’t much matter what you did last night, you had to be there, prepared for work the next morning, regardless of how close to death, you may be feeling.

John’s legs appeared over the edge of the top bunk. ”Oh God, what happened.”

I sat up, having to grab the edge of the bunk to prevent myself from falling. My tongue had stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my teeth had grown fur. The world was slowly spinning, and was in danger of teetering off its axis. I had to get some liquid into my mouth, so groped my way to the bathroom, only one eye open, the other stuck closed. As I swished water around in my mouth, I knew positively, that I would never drink again. It just wasn’t worth it.

It was just as well that I didn’t shave yet because I would have cut my throat. A team of riveters was building the Titanic in my head. I cleaned my teeth, gagging as I scraped the fur off my tongue, and wondered if I would ever feel good again. A shower improved matters a little, and I felt that a cup of tea would do wonders for me. I dressed, and felt my way around to the pantry. A silent huddle of bedraggled looking stewards and cooks were outside, hawking into the harbour, hands shakily trying to manipulate cigarette lighters, the complexity of which, was seemingly beyond them.

I made my cuppa and joined the miserable mob out on deck.

“Urgh, morning.”

“Hmm.”

One or two tried to nod but the effort was all too much for them at that time. I sipped my tea, staring vacantly at nothing in particular. Thought was far too much effort.

“All right lads, good night was it?” The second steward was in top form this morning, and wanted everybody to know about it. “Turn to in five minutes lads, up and at ‘em.”

I returned to the pantry to start the day. I had a raging thirst, and every now and again I could taste the aniseed from last night’s Ouzo. Strangely, the more water I drank, the better I was beginning to feel, and within another half hour or so felt ready for another session. The older hands looked at me and smiled, knowing that I had discovered Ouzo’s ability to regenerate itself after liquid had been consumed.

Sometime around eleven o’clock, the second steward called me. He was holding a large carton of paperback novels that he thrust into my arms.

“There’s an American ship just up the wharf a bit, go aboard and ask if they have any books to swap.”

The American ship was a little larger than the Cavallo and was riding higher in the water, making the gangway much steeper. I struggled up the gangway and was stopped by a sailor at the top.

“What you got there boy.” He asked.

“Just some books to swap mate, I’m from the English ship down the way.”

The American allowed me to come aboard and directed me to their rec room. I wandered around wondering at their amenities. The alleyways would have to be at least twice as wide as any of ours, and their galley was not only huge, it gleamed with all stainless steel fittings.

Eventually I found the rec room and soon had a queue of sailors waiting to swap books with me. This was the first time I’d met any real life Americans and was surprised to hear that they swore the same words we did. Fact is I was amazed that they swore at all, they never did in the movies!

I staggered back ashore and along the wharf to our ship. All I wanted to do was lie down and get over my hangover.

The day dragged on until, eventually we had scrubbed down after lunch, and we had another couple of hours to ourselves. It was a race to the cabin, in an effort to gain as much sleep as possible.

It seemed that I had only closed my eyes five minutes previously, but here was the second steward telling us to turn to. I felt much the same as I had first thing in the morning, but mercifully, without the furry tongue.

As I was strapping up from dinner, a Greek came to the pantry and was asking about clothes. It seemed that he was willing to buy any old clothes from me and would pay with Ouzo. Whilst I wasn’t ready for another bout with the bottle just yet, I saw an opportunity to dispose of the hated Vindi piss jackets lying unwanted in my drawer. I ran around to my cabin and asked the Greek bloke if he was interested. He was indeed and produced a couple of bottles from under his coat. We made the exchange, and he slid silently away as if he were trying not to be seen.

We sailed that evening for Thessalonica, where we stayed only overnight. I went ashore to a local bar, but it was really too quiet and I was soon back aboard for an early night.

Istanbul was waiting for us. I had read about the Gallipoli Landings of 1915 and was excited about sailing through the Dardanelles between Greece and Turkey. As we sailed past the landing places I was appalled that anyone could think of putting men ashore, under fire, in such an abysmal position. Even at my tender years, I could see that this particular shoreline was not well disposed to an armed invasion.

On the top of the hill I could see monoliths commemorating the fallen, and I was told that they were arranged by height, according to the number of each country’s dead. I shook my head, took a photograph, and went back inside.

Sometime during the night we anchored off Istanbul and I awake to the sound of the wailing from the many mosques around the bustling city. Each mosque had at least two towers, or minarets, from the top balcony’s of which, loud speakers called the faithful to prayer. There was a strange mixture of cultures from Europe and the Middle East.

I was given a half day, so after lunch, I caught a ferry across to the city. A plaque on the bulkhead of the ferry informed me that it had been built in Glasgow. The ferry berth I alighted from was near a busy bridge. I walked into what appeared to be the most interesting part of the city I could find, and spent my afternoon wandering around all of the back alleys, and then back onto the crowded city streets.

It was getting late in the afternoon and I was beginning to feel hungry. I had very little money left, so wandered back into the less crowded alleyways, and was soon outside a food shop I had no idea what the strange looking food was. The shop sold slices of a flat, round pie that was covered in thin slices of spicy looking sausage. I had just enough for one piece, plus the ferry back to the ship. I bought a piece of whatever it was, and thoroughly enjoyed what I was later to discover to be my first piece of cold pizza.

Sadly, I hadn’t taken any photos of Istanbul. I don’t know why, perhaps I had run out of film.

I went back to the ship to discover that the lads were going on a run ashore, for “a few quiet ales,” and I was invited to come along. I let them all know that my funds were non-existent to which they all said it was their shout. I felt honoured; as this was the first time I had been the recipient of such generosity. I was soon to learn that this was an unspoken code of practice amongst shipmates, and I joined in wholeheartedly.

I don’t remember if we steered a course there, or just ended up in the Black Cat nightclub by accident. It wasn’t much of a place, at least not so early on in the evening. We had a few beers, and before too long I needed to go and empty my bladder. When I asked one of the lads where the bog was, everybody smiled, and pointed me in the direction of a very narrow set of circular steps made out of sandstone. It was like going down into a dungeon. At the next landing, an old woman, dressed in black, and smoking a foul smelling cigarette, looked me up and down and pointed her finger, directing me through to the toilets. I think I could have managed to find them myself, as the stench was enough to have gagged a maggot. The old hag watched as I stood at the urinal somewhat self-consciously. Having finished, I washed my hands at the filthy sink. Looking around, I saw that the cubicles not only had no doors, there was no toilet bowl either! I went to inspect, thinking that vandals had damaged the place, and was amazed to discover that this was the way the locals built them. Two wooden handles were bolted to the walls and a concrete foot shape was each side of, and slightly to the front of a very deep, and very nasty, messy looking hole in the floor. Each cubicle had a tap on the right-hand sidewall, and there was no toilet paper. I wondered how often the locals filled the backs of their shoes? The old hag outside watched to see which of her amenities was used, and charged her patrons accordingly.

I could see that far from knowing it all, my education was just beginning.

Malta was the last port of call on my first trip, and after a few days at sea, we came upon this jewel of the Mediterranean Sea. It was quite early in the morning when we arrived although the sun was up, and already bouncing off the almost white cliffs and buildings of Valletta harbour. The sea was almost glass like and a beautiful azure colour. Little gondolas cruised lazily around the harbour picking up passengers and dropping them off. Children swam in the clear water, and dived off the rocks.

The George Cross flew proudly on the National flag, proof of the heroism shown by the island’s inhabitants during the siege of the last World War.

The Royal Navy was in port, as was some of the American Mediterranean Fleet, and the boys knew it would be lively in town tonight. We strode ashore, eager to see what the hot and steamy night had in store for us.

The main activity as far as seamen was concerned, was in a street called Straight Street. It was more commonly known as “The Gut,” I never knew why. Straight Street was quite narrow, and we arrived at one end of it. I never did get to find out just how long it was, nor how many tiny little bars it supported. Each bar had a frontage of not much more than ten feet or so, although they could easily have been twenty feet deep. There was no vehicular traffic in the gut because it was so steep; it had steps in the roadway. I suppose that in the early days, it would have been easier for donkeys to manage the incline, than with a smooth cobbled road.

The night was a whirlwind of drinking and fighting, and making up. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. One minute we were fighting boys from the Royal Navy over a discussion about which was the REAL Navy, the next minute, we had joined the boys from the Royal Navy, and were fighting Americans.

As the evening wore on, we staggered from bar to bar in a vain attempt to have one drink in each of the Gut’s establishments.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. For a price, ladies were lifting their skirts over the corner of a table, where a pile of pennies had been stacked. They positioned themselves over the pennies, picking them up, and carrying them over to another table at the other end of the bar. If they managed the portage without dropping any, they were thrown additional coins in appreciation of a good show. Other ladies sat on the floor with their legs wide open, and caught pennies being rolled along the floor by enthusiastic and merry sailors.  Their muscle control was amazing, and we even saw one woman managing to smoke a cigarette with that part of her anatomy.

My education was indeed being broadened!

The following night we were eager to go ashore, but rather skint from the previous evenings revelries. We pooled our money and only one person held it. We made our way to the gut, and went in search of a lone American Sailor. Soon enough we found one and after buying a round of drinks which all but took our entire pool, we had the sailor in conversation, asking him all about his ship etc. Before too long we said that we had to go back aboard ship, because we had run out of money. British sailors were poorly paid we said, and we just couldn’t cope with the exhorbitant prices. The American was so pleased to have found some friends that he had no problem about shouting us drinks all night, and we had a wonderful time.

After two nights ashore, the ship had completed loading, and we were on our way back to London to pay off. It was late December, and we had no sooner passed the Rock of Gibraltar, than the sun became weaker, and we curtailed the amount of time we spent outside. Going through the Bay of Biscay, the seas were a little lumpy, but no problem for this ‘hardened mariner.”

We arrived at the mouth of the Thames in the afternoon, and I could feel the excitement on board. We had only been away for six weeks, but no matter how long we’d been away, the feeling was always the same with only twenty-four hours to pay off.

After strapping up from dinner, I spent a few minutes out on deck, looking at life ashore drifting past, before deciding to go inside to pack my bag. Payoff was to be directly after breakfast and everybody was looking forward to getting home. I opted for an early night.

“C’mon Billy, the pubs open.”

I opened one eye and took a peep at the porthole. It was still dark outside. I assumed that we had just put the gangway ashore and the boys were off for a drink.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“About five thirty.” I was informed.

I was still partly asleep and my groggy brain wasn’t up to the mental gymnastics of trying to figure out why it was now earlier than when I went to bed.

“Are we paying off?” I asked.

“Not yet sunshine, but the pubs open and we have a ritual to perform.”

I was never one to fight the system so I dragged some clobber on and went ashore with the lads. I checked my watch; it was only about five forty five.

”If it’s five forty five in the morning, how come we’re going ashore to the pub?” I mumbled.

“Early opener Billy Boy, early opener.”

I coughed some phlegm out and stuffed my hands deeper into my pockets. There was a crisp coating of ice on the puddles, and I was cold as a corpses kiss.

We nodded good morning to the frozen copper at the gate, and about a hundred yards along the road, came to the Blue Post pub. Already, its lights were on and people were pouring beer down their throats.

We fronted the bar and Taffy, the boilerman, shouted. “Six hot rum toddies please.”

Although my father had insisted on throwing hot whisky toddies down my throat to cure everything from measles to chickenpox, I’d never tried a rum toddy, and was surprised to find it reasonably palatable. Perhaps it was the early hour that helped.

“So what time will we pay off then,” I asked.

“Oh, probably around nine thirty, ten O’clock someone ventured. Plenty of time to sink a few more yet.”

It eventually dawned on me that the blokes I was ashore with, were all now, unemployed, and the only reason they were hanging about was that they were waiting for their pay. I on the other hand, still had a job to do, at least until after breakfast. I figured that I’d better get back aboard sharply. I was already beginning to get a bit of a buzz from the rum, and I needed a clear head to negotiate the underground.

I said my goodbyes and wandered off back to the ship. The excitement of payoff was still with me, though more snug and warm after the rum.

When I reached the ship, it was to find both Laurie and Dennis ready to serve breakfast to the officers and passengers. The second steward looked relived to see me turn to. Breakfast was a fairly quick affair, as even the officers were keen for the off. Before I knew it, we had strapped down, had our showers and were ready in our cabins, with suitcases packed, and ready for Christmas at home.

The second steward came around to our cabins, “Righto lads, our turn.”

We took a shortcut through the galley and joined a short queue of assorted crew members outside the dining saloon, waiting their turn for pay off. While we waited, the lads were asking what we would be doing when we got home, and if we were coming back next trip.

“What about you Billy, you coming back.” Asked the second steward.

“Dunno sec, I haven’t been asked yet, but I’d like to.”

“Well, I think you can consider yourself asked eh. We’ll see you in six days time.

I would get Christmas at home, but was to rejoin on 28^th Dec.

“Hmm, looks like New Years Eve aboard ship then.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it Billy,” answered Dennis, “We’ll see you have a good time.”

I was pretty sure of that, and to be truthful, I think I’d seen my fill of Andy Stewart introducing the Scottish Dance Party, and Hogmanay on tele, I was looking forward to a seaman’s New Year, it had to be more exciting than what I was used to.

After six weeks away, I paid off with the grand total of twenty-four pounds, and four pence, with my allotment of three pounds per week being sent into my bank account, which gave me an additional eighteen pounds. My deductions, including income tax, National Insurance stamps, ships stores and cash advances, totaled forty-eight pounds, ten shillings and tuppence, of which eighteen pounds was my allotment. I was rich beyond my dreams.

Dennis, Laurie, John and I staggered down the gangway with our bags, and piled into our waiting cab.

“Nearest Underground station cabby,” called Dennis. “You sure you don’t want to come for a farewell drink Billy.” He asked.

“Nah, I’ve got a couple of hours travel to get home, and I’m bursting to see everybody, I’ll see ya on the 28^th.”

“Yeah right-ho mate,” he said, “ see ya then.”

The cab pulled up and I climbed out. The blokes helped find my gear from the jumble of bags on the luggage platform of the cab.

“Have a good Christmas fellas,” I called out as the cab pulled away.

“See ya next trip mate.”